NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH 
 OF TWEED 
 
 STORIES AND LEGENDS OF 
 THE BORDERS 
 
 BY 
 
 JEAN LANG 
 
 AUTHOR OP "A LAND OP ROMANCE 
 
 LONDON: T. C. & E. C. JACK 
 
 67 LONG ACRE, W.C, AND EDINBURGH 
 
 1913 
 
-^'O 
 
 \*--^\ 
 
 ■■-V.J? 
 
 \ "' 
 
PREFACE 
 
 Many years ago the writer took an old lady to 
 see an Ibsen play. The lady had, so it was re- 
 ported, been jilted in her youth by a famous poet- 
 artist, since when she had remained plunged in 
 gentle melancholy. It was, perhaps, the gloomiest 
 of Ibsen's plays, for mise en scene a place where 
 "the children are never known to laugh," and in 
 which suicide trips upon the heels of suicide. 
 Yet, at the conclusion of the piece, the old lady 
 gave a deep sigh of satisfied pleasure. ** A beautiful 
 play," she said, " a beautiful play. Not one gleam 
 of sunshine throughout." 
 
 Now in writing the legendary tales of the 
 Borders, one feels that it is almost impossible not 
 to produce a collection calculated to satisfy the 
 melancholy requirements of the aged spinster who 
 had loved a poet. The intense sadness of the Dowie 
 Dens of Yarrow may not pervade all Tweedside, 
 the whole region of the Cheviots and the Lammer- 
 
 muir uplands, yet, in all its legend and tradition, 
 
 v 
 
 374122 
 
vi NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 tragedy is emphatically the dominant note of those 
 shires through which the '* wan water " of the Border 
 rivers flows eastward to the sea. They are tales of 
 violence, of bloodshed, of dark tragedy that are 
 handed down through the centuries. In history 
 the shadows remain ; the " gleams of sunshine " fade 
 with the day. 
 
 In the historical stories in this volume facts have 
 been verified as much as it is possible to do so. 
 Tradition does not readily submit itself to verifica- 
 tion, but, as far as may be, this has also been done. 
 
 The story of ** Pearlin Jean " has many variants. 
 That which is given here is the one adhered to by 
 Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe, the Rev. John Marriott 
 (Sir Walter Scott's friend), and by Sir Thomas Dick 
 Lauder ; but I much regret that another, which seems 
 to me more likely to be the correct version, has 
 only reached me since this book went to press. 
 
 The sketches of "The False Alarm," "Supperstee- 
 
 tions," and " The Doctor " have already appeared in 
 
 Scotia, and I have to thank the publishers of The 
 
 Scotsman for their courtesy in allowing me to reprint 
 
 " By the North Sea." 
 
 JEAN LANG. 
 
 Edinburgh, March 1913. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 The Story the Jester told 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 The Lady with the White Cockades 
 
 
 
 
 23 
 
 The Tragedy of Mary Ann Dodd 
 
 
 
 
 37 
 
 The Reverend Nicol Edgar 
 
 
 
 
 
 64 
 
 The False Alarm of 1804 . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 73 
 
 The Minister of Spott 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 106 
 
 Midside Maggie .... 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 131 
 
 The Lover who rode on . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 141 
 
 Suppersteetions .... 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 151 
 
 The Cowie of Goranberry 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 156 
 
 By the North Sea 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 161 
 
 The Murder at Linthill . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 169 
 
 The Lady at Swinton 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 174 
 
 Murder, or Manslaughter ? 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 184 
 
 Madge and Jean Gordon . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 192 
 
 The Return .... 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 219 
 
 Treasure Trove .... 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 234 
 
 Bertha of Badlieu 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 249 
 
 Pearlin Jean 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 262 
 
 How Johnny went to the Fair 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 278 
 
 The Doctor 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 303 
 
 How the Plague was buried 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 310 
 
 A Border Saint . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 316 
 
 Bawtie's Grave . . . . , 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 337 
 
 St. Boswell's Fair — July 18th 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 344 
 
 V 
 
 ii 
 
 
 
 
 
 
* » » 
 i » t 
 
 NOETH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 THE STORY THE JESTER TOLD 
 
 I AM an old man now, and the jest no longer flies 
 from my lips like the flick of a whip-lash, or with 
 the swiftness and the sting of the spray that the 
 breaking seas below send flying up to wet our cheeks 
 as we sit here high above them. The old dog's teeth 
 are gone, yet the Lord of the Isles is kind to the 
 old dog that was first his grandsire's, and in this 
 island that lies so far away from the Forest where I 
 was born, I am promised kind words and food and 
 shelter till my day is done. On days when the sun 
 puts some life into my tired bones I like to come up 
 to this place where the loneroid grows thick and 
 smells fragrant. 
 
 It minds me of my boyhood in the Forest, but 
 there it was not loneroid that they called it, but bog 
 myrtle. Hollies and great beeches and oaks grew 
 tall above it ; the black swine that rooted amongst 
 the beech mast would squeal as they scampered into 
 it unawares and got bogged in the marshes, and 
 when we hunted by night its scent would make us 
 
 A 
 
• NbKTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 careful where we trod, else we had been the sufferers 
 and not the deer that flitted like pale ghosts amongst 
 the trees' dark shadows. Ah me, these were good 
 days when one was but a boy and the New Forest 
 was a land such as the good priest would have us 
 think is the fair land of Paradise. 
 
 He is a good priest is Father Angus, and many 
 times he will sit here by me, watching with me the 
 green waves that lie between us and my own land, 
 and the white wings of gulls in the sunshine, and 
 harking to the sighing of the waves, and the heart- 
 broken wailing of the grey skua and the curlew that 
 is crying, crying. We will sit silent many times 
 together and go home for Vespers with barely a 
 word, but at times remembrance comes to me so 
 clear and strong that I have to speak, and Father 
 Angus listens. And a tale that oftentimes I tell 
 him, but to which he always listens as it were for 
 the first time of all, is that of the poor wanderer who 
 was once a mighty King. 
 
 It was a day in June — methinks more than 
 seventy years agone — that I rode with my father to 
 London. I had made a great lord laugh when he 
 hunted in the Forest early that spring. My father 
 was verderer, and my elder brothers worked under 
 him, and I also, though but a puny lad for my age. 
 " A malapert knave," said my lord, yet he laughed 
 most merrily at my forward jest, and spared me the 
 trouncing my father's holly staff was more than ready 
 
 2 
 
THE STORY THE JESTER TOLD 
 
 to give. Thereafter many a time did I go out with 
 my lord and his friends, and when they sought the 
 Court again my father was bidden bring me to 
 London to learn at Court all the arts that might 
 teach me to become a jester fit for a King. My poor 
 mother wept, I mind me. Always the red eyes, and 
 the tears that wet my face as she said farewell are 
 what come back to me. And " OA," said she, " that 
 son o' mine should come to wear the cap and bells ! 
 Better a charcoal-burner in our own Forest" — and 
 her voice was full of bitter shame. But there were 
 ten of us, and my father, worthy man, though he 
 liked it but ill, bade her hold her peace, for better 
 men than I had worn cap and bells, and made japes 
 for kings and yet helped them to rule nations. So 
 off we went, in the June sunshine, and I was a weary 
 lad when our journey was ended and we rode one 
 bright morning into London town. It was not a 
 fortunate time of the year for our journey, for the 
 country was up in arms. The King and his council- 
 lors had taxed the people so heavily that the people 
 had rebelled. All along the way we saw black smoke 
 rising from burning manor houses, or from the great 
 trees in stately parks, and we heard loud talk and 
 boasting of the many that the mob had slain. In 
 London all was uproar. Ten thousand men from 
 Essex and from Kent were filling up the streets and 
 kindling the fire of rebellion tliat spread fast as flames 
 in the Forest. They destroyed the Savoy, the palace 
 
 3 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 of his Grace of Lancaster, burned Temple Bar, broke 
 up the King's prisons, broke into the Tower, and 
 struck off the head of the Archbishop, and of three 
 others, and these four heads they bore through 
 London, set on four long spears. 
 
 We sought the house of the lord who was to be 
 my protector, but we were told that he was with the 
 King. So, stabling our horses, we walked on with 
 the sturdy legs of the Forest men to Smithfield 
 where Bartlemy's fair was wont to be held, A 
 strange sight was it all for a country lad. Insurrec- 
 tion, murder, war — all new things to me. When we 
 reached the place where the Kentish men had col- 
 lected, the smell of the burning palace and of many 
 houses was in our noses, and in our ears the mutter- 
 ing grumble of a coming storm. All the rioters were 
 armed, though some had but bill-hooks or staves, 
 and their leaders were talking loud, shouting to them 
 until their voices grew hoarse, and like the screaming 
 of gulls, telling them what wrongs they were suffer- 
 ing, and how, to right them, they must murder and 
 plunder and burn. I am an old man, yet can I even 
 now see no sense in such counselling. They were 
 all inflamed with rage at their own injustices, yet, 
 meseems, they none of them could rightly tell what 
 wrongs they really had, only their leaders who had 
 dragged them away from their work in the meadows 
 and apple-orchards were able to speak with fury of 
 the cruel lives that the King was causing them to 
 
 4 
 
THE STORY THE JESTER TOLD 
 
 endure. So they shouted too, and the more they 
 shouted, the angrier they got. 
 
 Wat Tyler was their leader. 
 
 '* Methinks that boar should be ringed," said I to 
 my good father, ** I trust him not." 
 
 But as I spoke we saw a little band riding 
 towards the rioters, a very little company of horse- 
 men, and amongst them the lord who was to be my 
 master. Yet it was not at him that I gazed the 
 most, but at one who was a lad some two years older 
 than myself. He was but a slight lad, not tall, and 
 his face was rounder than my own, his hair yellow, 
 and his cheeks pink as apple blossom in the spring. 
 More like a maid than a man he seemed to me, 
 yet it was beside him that Wat Tyler reined up 
 his horse, and to him that he bawled what he had 
 to say. 
 
 " I' faith it is our King ! " said my father, and 
 doffed his hat, in face of them all. 
 
 The King's face grew red as he listened to 
 Tyler s words, nor were they good words for any 
 King to hear from a subject, or for any man to hear 
 from his enemy when with him was but a handful 
 of friends, and with Tjder more than threescore 
 thousand men. Evil hearing it was for King 
 Richard, but he had not to listen long. Walworth, 
 the Lord Mayor, had had terrible affronts put upon 
 him by the very presence of the rioters where only 
 merry-making was wont to be, and his temper 
 
 5 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 flashed out like a lightning bolt. I saw the sheen 
 of his sword, and Tyler's words ended in a bellow 
 of angry surprise as he fell heavily from his horse 
 on to the ground. 
 
 They lost no time, those men of the King. 
 Three were down from their horses swift as an arrow 
 from a bow, and before he could cry out again, 
 Wat Tyler lay dead. 
 
 Then there was riot if you like, and all the rebels 
 were for rushing forward and slaying the King and 
 his little band, while the King's own followers were 
 ready to fight to the death. But then we saw as 
 brave and gracious a deed as any man ever saw done 
 by a great king. With a wave from his hand he 
 bade his followers stay behind. Alone he cantered 
 forward to the great, disorderly army, and called 
 aloud to them in his clear, boy's voice. 
 
 *' Good people ! " he said, " What aileth you ? 
 Art angry that ye have lost your captain ? Ye shall 
 have no captain but me : I am your King : be all 
 in rest and peace ! " 
 
 Like a sea when the wind is changing, the people 
 shifted and moved, and their voices clamoured and 
 murmured like the restless waves and then were 
 still. Silently the little king sat erect on his horse 
 and watched them, fearless, and proud, and kind. 
 And then there came from the men of Kent and 
 from all the others a roar of gladness, and King 
 Richard blushed like a winsome maid as they cried 
 
 6 
 
THE STORY THE JESTER TOLD 
 
 in a very great voice — ^^ He shall be our captain! 
 He is our King! " 
 
 Many a time after that June day at Smithfield 
 did I see our King. He was pleased to take joy 
 in my wit, and so I was educated at his court and 
 saw the lad grow into a man. As many can testify, 
 there was never before any king of England that 
 spent so much in his house as he did, and he 
 was ever generous and ready to make good cheer. 
 Many a golden coin came to me from his open 
 hand, and many a jest we have had together, 
 gay lads both — Hob the Jester and Dickon the 
 King. 
 
 He was a stripling of nineteen when I went 
 in his train to Scotland, to conquer that proud 
 land. Seven thousand men-at-arms had we, sixty 
 thousand archers, and one hundred thousand horse. 
 
 " I go to enlarge my Kingdom, Hob," said he. 
 
 '* Then, sire, pray take my cap and bells," said I. 
 "Motley were more fit than armour for one with 
 such a whim. 
 
 "And why, then, good lad," said the King, for 
 he saw I did not jest. 
 
 " Methinks already thou'st swallowed too much 
 land for thy good digestion, sire," I said. " He is a 
 fool indeed whose shoulders are bowed low with a 
 heavy burden of state and power and plots and 
 kingly cares, and who will yet go hunt in the bleak 
 northland for somewhat more to carry." 
 
 7 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 His face grew red and he knitted his brows. 
 *' Thou speakest truth, good Hob," he said, as one 
 boy might speak to another. ** I' God's name, thou 
 speakest truth. But the Scots are insolent knaves, 
 and have defied my power on the Border. I am a 
 King and so must go trounce them." 
 
 And so we went, and from Berwick on to Edin- 
 burgh we left naught but smoking ruins behind. 
 But, as was their wont, the Scots lay hidden, and 
 hidden, too, were all their cattle and horses and booty 
 that men-at-arms hold dear, and we fought not at all, 
 and felt as though we chased a phantom host all 
 along the line of our marching. To Perth and to 
 Dundee we also went, and these we burned to ashes. 
 And then Dickon the King grew aweary of life in 
 camp and wished to return to the pleasures of the 
 Court. So we turned our faces to the south again, 
 burning all that came in our way. I was sick of 
 the smell of burnt wood and straw long ere that 
 campaign was ended. 
 
 It was at the peaceful close of day when we 
 rode into a valley adown which ran a great wide 
 river that was silver in the evening light. Rich 
 woods grew on either side, and to the south rose 
 three hills, not part of a range, but by themselves, 
 as if three giants had pitched their tents close to- 
 gether to watch over the little town that lay at 
 their feet. And well worth watching over it was, 
 for close by the river, under the shadow of the 
 
 8 
 
THE STORY THE JESTER TOLD 
 
 hills lay one of the fairest abbeys I have ever set 
 eyes upon. 
 
 King Richard laughed gleefully as we heard the 
 music of its Vesper bells, and saw it standing up so 
 fair and grand and gracious — a holy thing. 
 
 ** The night closes in," he said, '' and what is left 
 of Melrose Abbey when our lads have hammered it 
 will make a blaze fit to light a King of England 
 on his way to the south." 
 
 I liked it not, but the army was a hungry one 
 and an angry one, and gladly did they hear the 
 command to destroy the place. I was near the 
 King's side and the hills were black and the silver 
 river was red with the reflection of the flames that 
 leapt on high, when I heard great shouts and saw 
 some men-at-arms dragging forth an old man wearing 
 a monk's white robe. 
 
 "What make ye?" called the King, and they 
 gave answer that the old fox had struggled with 
 them as they were hammering down the High Altar 
 and had wounded grievously a valiant man-at-arms. 
 It might have been true : I know not. But the old 
 monk himself was nigh unto death. His white hair 
 was all bedabbled with blood, and his white habit 
 was rent and stained with great crimson stains. 
 When he saw the King, " Art thou then the king ? " 
 he cried in a terrible deep voice. " Art the King ? 
 and hast commanded this ? " 
 
 The King flushed red, but he shook back his 
 
 9 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 yellow hair with the bright movement that he had. 
 " I am the King," said he, " and thou art an old fool 
 to try to fight single-handed my army of two hundred 
 thousand men." 
 
 Then, of a sudden, the monk wrenched himself 
 free from the hands of the men who held him and 
 ran straight up to the king. 
 
 His face, with the blood trickling down it, was 
 very white, and his eyes stared as though they could 
 pierce the very veil that hangs between us and 
 Purgatory. 
 
 " Woe unto you, O King ! " he cried. " Woe, 
 woe, woe ! Ye have destroyed God's holy place — 
 I give you into God's hands 1 " 
 
 A man-at-arms had plunged a sword in his throat 
 even as he ceased to speak, and the blood-drops 
 sparked out on the King's young face. " Curse him," 
 he said, " and curse you, for a clumsy butcher. His 
 blood went in my eyes." 
 
 As we rode on through the night, through that 
 wild, lonely, Border land, it seemed to me the King's 
 face looked passing pale and weary, and in the dawn- 
 ing I could see a streak of the old monk's blood 
 still smeared across his brow. 
 
 It was nine years after that black night that I 
 left the service of Richard the King, and many times 
 have I praised the saints that I was gone before the 
 Court was a court of conspirators and the King a 
 judge — striking off heads here, banishing there. 
 
 lO 
 
THE STORY THE JESTER TOLD 
 
 " I am your King," he had said to the rebels the 
 day Wat Tyler died. Always it was / am your 
 King, and for those who dared dispute his absolute 
 monarchy it was death or exile. 
 
 In the year of our Lord one thousand three 
 hundred fourscore and fourteen, I was one of the 
 train that sailed with the King to Ireland to make 
 war against the Irishmen. Four Kings of that 
 country did he bring to their knees, and because 
 one of the Kings did like me well and Richard was 
 minded to be very gracious to him, he left me 
 behind him when he went away. It was the Irish 
 King's fair daughter who thereafter wed the brother 
 of Donald, Lord of the Isles, and so it was that 
 at length I came to be the jester of him who ruled 
 the lone isles that lie in the western sea. 
 
 Heavy at heart was I, and the jests that came 
 from my lips were like butterflies whose wings a 
 child has torn, on the day that tidings came to my 
 master that Richard the King was King no longer. 
 Another held the sceptre he had loved so well, and 
 he was now a prisoner, in a castle in his own land. 
 Later came tidings that he was dead, and thereat I 
 was minded to rejoice. For Richard was never one 
 to fear death, but to live behind prison bars, a shamed 
 man, was to break his proud heart. The messenger 
 who brought word of it to my lord told us in the 
 great hall where we sat at meat of how the dead 
 King in a car covered with black baudkin, and four 
 
 II 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 horses all black in the car, and two men in black 
 leading it, and four knights all in black following, 
 was brought along from the Tower to Cheapside, and 
 there rested for the space of two hours. Thither 
 thronged more than twenty thousand persons, men 
 and women, to see him where he lay, his head resting 
 on a black cushion, and some wept and some were 
 sorrowful, but many rejoiced and said he was well 
 away. 
 
 '' Didst see him?" asked my lord of his messenger. 
 
 " In truth I did," said he, " but the throng was 
 great, and not much did I see, for only the lower part 
 of his face was left uncovered by the linen bands." 
 
 There flashed into my head something as though 
 Richard himself had whispered in mine ear. 
 
 *' Then ! " said I, " good sir, how dost thou know 
 it was indeed the King and not just Mandelain ? " 
 
 And those who sat at meat were fain to hear who 
 was this Mandelain, and if I only made a foolish 
 jest. So I told them how Mandelain was King 
 Richard's private priest, and was so Uke him, with 
 his ruddy face and fair hair, that many a time he 
 and the King had, out of sport, exchanged their 
 garments, and deceived those w^ho did not know. 
 
 But my lord laughed aloud. " 'Twere passing 
 strange," he said, " that twenty thousand folk should 
 take a Hving priest for a dead king I—a merry jest 
 indeed." 
 
 *' But, my lord, Mandelain is dead," said the mes- 
 
 12 
 
THE STORY THE JESTER TOLD 
 
 senger. "He conspired against King Henry, 'twas 
 said, and so he was executed at the same time that 
 his master died in Pontefract." 
 
 " Was King Richard laid in the tomb he had pre- 
 pared for himself at Westminster ? " I asked. 
 
 But he said, Nay, but that when the crowds had 
 gazed their fill the black car was led away, and that 
 when it was outside London it was taken with great 
 haste and dispatch to King's Langley, thirty mile off, 
 and the body buried there in the Church of the 
 Preaching Friars. 
 
 " A fitting grave for Mandelain ! " said I, but my 
 lord frowned, and I saw thereafter that he pondered 
 much over the news the messenger had brought and 
 of what I had told him of Mandelain. 
 
 'Twas in the autumn of that year that the Lord 
 of the Isles had guests. His younger brother came 
 amongst them and brought with him the fair Irish 
 lady that he had wed. 
 
 There was much merry-making in those days, 
 and to the joyance of all they said Hob the Jester 
 added his full share. Yet although the jests may 
 have fallen merrily from my lips, my heart w^as not 
 at ease. It may have been that I had learned some- 
 what of the superstitious ways of the folk I lived 
 among, but it seemed to me there was a something 
 in the wind, and there was something more than just 
 the grey autumn sky and the dark tossing sea that 
 my soul misliked. Our castle had ever open doors. 
 
 13 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 No homeless wanderer was ever turned away by 
 Donald. Many times in the kitchen, where all was 
 busyness and the smell of savoury roasting venison 
 and game birds tickled one's nostrils, and the scullions 
 were like bees in a hive, would poor, broken men find 
 a place on the long bench by the wall, and take the 
 chill from their frozen blood in the red hght of the 
 great fire, and eat with gladness the broken meats 
 that the serving-men would toss to them. 
 
 I mind not why I sought the kitchen on that 
 grey, chill even, but seek it I did, and on the bench 
 I saw a wandering man sitting. He sat, stooped 
 forward, his head on his hands, and stared into the 
 flames. At once I was assured it was one I knew, 
 and my heart gave a bound like a hound on a leash 
 when a scullion threw on more logs, and golden and 
 red the flames sent up their blaze. For the beggar 
 man's hair was yellow, yellow was his beard, and 
 often had I seen that yellow head crowned with a 
 golden crown. I laid my hand on his shoulder, and 
 he looked up with a great start. 
 
 My heart had told me true. It was Dickon the 
 King. 
 
 '*Hob!" he said, "Hob my jester! Do I 
 dream ? or do I wake now from my weary dream ? 
 Art indeed Hob the Jester, and I Richard the 
 King?" 
 
 Alack, how my heart-strings pained me when I 
 looked on his weary face and heard his voice so eager 
 
 14 
 
THE STORY THE JESTER TOLD 
 
 and yet so piteous sad. With wary words I made 
 him hold his peace and follow me out into the 
 open night, where all was grey loneliness and the 
 voices of the waves and of the sea-birds and of the 
 sad birds of the moors were all the sounds that 
 there were. 
 
 We talked long, and the tears were near my eyes 
 when I saw him tremble and draw his rags around 
 him as the wind swept across the sea and proudly 
 smote him who had been a king. 
 
 'Twas as I had thought. King Richard's gaolers 
 at Pontefract, Sir Thomas Swinburn and Sir Robert 
 AVaterton, had felt compassion for him, spread the 
 report of his death, and had helped him to his freedom, 
 and Mandelain the priest was he wlio lay in state. 
 How he found his way to Scotland, and all that he 
 had to undergo ere he reached the place where we 
 met was, in truth, a woeful tale. I was minded of a 
 story one of his own jongleurs was wont to tell of a 
 king who lived in Greece once on a time, and who 
 suffered many things on his way from Troyland 
 before he reached his own land at last. It was hard 
 to know in what way I could help. Gold I could 
 give him, indeed, and clothing more fit for his use 
 than the rags he bore ; but none must know he was 
 the King, save the faithful few in England .who 
 would be proud to welcome him back to his own 
 again, and yet how to bring tidings to them, i' faith 
 I could not tell. 
 
 15 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 " I have grown old, good Hob," he said. " None 
 who had not your keen, faithful eyes, could know 
 me now." 
 
 And he spoke truth, for his yellow hair was all 
 streaked with grey, and grey and haggard, too, was 
 his face that had once been pink and comely as any 
 maid's. Yet I told him that he must not be over- 
 sure, and that amongst our guests was the lady that 
 once he had known in Ireland, and to whom, in token 
 of the homage he paid to every fair face, he had 
 given many a costly jewel. " So she is here ! " he 
 said — and 'twas the first of the two times I saw him 
 smile. " Better far, wxre it not, that she had come to 
 Court in London than wedded with a savage Scot 1 " 
 
 That night there were great feastings in the castle, 
 and naught would please my noble lord but that all 
 the poor beggar folk who watched like starving dogs 
 at his door would come into the great hall and there 
 have good food and wine given them to make them 
 forget even the cruel bitterness of that autumn night. 
 By evil chance there were that night but few, and my 
 King had to obey the command of him whose roof gave 
 him shelter, and come as a beggar to the dining-hall. 
 
 The beautiful Irish lady sat by the side of her 
 lord's brother, Donald, Lord of the Isles, and on her 
 white neck sparkled the great green stones she got 
 from Richard the King. Dragging weary feet, and 
 with downcast head, my King came last of the 
 shabby band. But when her laugh rang out clear 
 
 l6 
 
THE STORY THE JESTER TOLD 
 
 as a bell, he sudden raised his head, looked straight 
 at her, dwelt his eyes for a moment on the shining 
 stones, then, his head thrown back, looked her full in 
 the face, and smiled. She gave a sharp cry, and her 
 face grew pale, and she seized my lord by his arm. 
 
 " 'Tis the King ! " she cried. " 'Tis Richard the 
 King 1 " 
 
 Then, because her voice carried truth with it, 
 at once all was uproar. My lord and his brother, 
 and my Lord Montgomery and many of the other 
 guests sprang to their feet, and because they wot 
 not what ailed the lady, but only saw her white face 
 and pointing finger, two serving men laid hold of 
 the King as of a culprit who might escape. With an 
 angry sign Donald, Lord of the Isles, bade them 
 take off their hands and came to where my king 
 stood, still and white and proud. 
 
 *' Is this the truth ? " he asked, looking straight 
 into his eyes. " Art indeed King Richard ? " 
 
 And my King gave him look for look and said in 
 his hard, cold voice : " The lady is pleased to jest, 
 my lord. I am but a beggar man, as any eye may 
 see. An Englishman truly, am I, and a true lover 
 of mine own dear land, but King only of my trusty 
 staff and empty wallet." 
 
 My lord gave a strange, short laugh. 
 
 " A gallant beggar indeed," said he. " Once and 
 for all, art Richard the King ? " 
 
 And King Richard said once more : " I am no 
 
 17 B 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 king. The beauteous lady jests with her slave. A 
 beggar am I." 
 
 Never another word said the lady, but as she 
 left the hall with her proud white neck held high 
 and the green stones gleaming on it, I saw her face 
 still white as snow and her grey eyes looked black 
 as the sea when a chill storm-cloud hangs over it. 
 
 I had no chance that night to speak another 
 word with the King, but ere it was dawn I sought 
 him, and gave him gold to carry him safe across the 
 seas. 
 
 "Fare thee well, friend Hob," he said at last. 
 "My kingship is done, and now I am in God's 
 hands — where the old monk at Melrose placed me. 
 Mayhap His hands may be gentler than the hands 
 of man." 
 
 So I watched him take his way across the moor, 
 down to the sea. And when he came to this spot 
 where the loneroid grows so high, I saw him turn 
 round, in the grey morning light, and he waved his 
 hand to me, and I, who had well-nigh forgotten how 
 to pray, knelt down, and said no words, but begged 
 for mercy. I was taking my way homeward when 
 I heard a clatter of hoofs, and drew aside behind 
 that clump of grey rocks, and watched ride past 
 me six horsemen, and one of them my Lord Mont- 
 gomery. 
 
 Six horsemen it took to take one beggarman, but 
 that beggarman was a king. 
 
 i8 
 
THE STORY THE JESTER TOLD 
 
 They laid hold on him ere he reached the sea, 
 and they took him to Scotland and gave him, a 
 captive, to King Robert. He was a gentle king, 
 was Robert the Third, and with my master he dealt 
 as befitted his rank, yet ever as a captive — a golden 
 eagle in a cage whose bars no beating wings could 
 break. Then, when King Robert died, his stern 
 brother, Albany, became gaoler. Ever and again 
 tidings came to the Isles of the captive King. 
 From England there came to have word with him 
 Henry Percy the elder, Henry Percy the younger, 
 and the Bishops of St. Asaph and of Bangor, the 
 Abbot of Welbeck, Lord Bardolph, and other 
 honourable persons. But none could persuade him 
 to see one of them, though all of them longed to 
 set him once more on his throne. One only would 
 he ever see — Serle, one of the gentlemen of his bed- 
 chamber, and truly had he always loved the King 
 whom he and I had served. 
 
 To him King Richard gave letters under his 
 privy seal to his friends in England, and for some 
 while there was noise of plots for bringing back the 
 King. A priest of Ware was drawn and quartered 
 for telling the people that King Richard still lived ; 
 eight Franciscan friars were hanged for spreading 
 the same report, as was also the Prior of Launde in 
 Leicestershire. Sir Roger de Clarendon, natural son 
 of the Black Prince and half-brother to our King, 
 was also executed for plotting for his sake, and block 
 
 19 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 and gibbet claimed others who dared proclaim aloud 
 that he was not dead and buried at King's Langley. 
 The old Countess of Oxford, who had always been 
 one of his lovers, formed a plot for bringing him 
 back to his own again. She caused to be made 
 many of the little stags of silver and gold such as 
 the King used to give to those whom he held most 
 dear, and those who were ready to die for him bore 
 them as warrant of their good faith. But they 
 died mostly — alack that such cruel things should be 
 — ^not on the field of battle, but on the shameful 
 gallows. 
 
 And as each year went by, the tidings of the 
 King that my lord's friends and messengers brought 
 were ever a heavier burden to be borne on the heart 
 of me who loved him. They said he had grown 
 fierce, and sullen, and wicked, like a misused wild 
 animal that doth hate its cage. He was little 
 inclined to devotion, nor would he hear Mass, and 
 often he would rage like a wild thing, and often be 
 no better than a foolish, whimpering child that fears 
 the dark. 
 
 Ah, my King, my King, whom first I saw at 
 Smithfield on that June day all these years agone, a 
 boy, and yet a King 1 JNIy King whom I saw that 
 night when the old white monk lay a-dying, and 
 rode with across the lonely Border moors when the 
 splash of blood was across his brow — my King, my 
 King ! . . . 
 
 20 
 
THE STORY THE JESTER TOLD 
 
 'Twas on the Feast of St. Luke that he died in the 
 castle of StirHng, and they buried him on the Feast 
 of St. Lucie the Virgin. I know not how he died. 
 Would that I did, or that I might have been nigh at 
 hand when he started forth on his dark journey 
 alone. He was but young — only thirty and four 
 years — when Death took him, and I have seen over 
 fifty summers and winters since then, and yet the 
 wound in my heart still bleeds for him whom I loved, 
 and who was my King. 
 
 They buried him at Stirling in the Church of 
 the Preaching Friars, on the north side of the altar, 
 and above his royal image that they painted there, 
 they placed the words that the good Father Angus 
 wrote out and gave to me. I have but little book- 
 learning, and so he turned them from the Latin 
 tongue into good plain English. 
 
 " Here lies Richard, King of England, himself 
 buried, whom the Duke of Lancaster thrust down 
 by evil guile. By treason prevailing he gains a 
 throne of unrighteousness. All his own seed pays 
 satisfaction. This Richard, Scotland bore from his 
 years to the shades. Who in the fort at Stirling 
 finished the journey of life. In the year of Christ 
 the King one thousand four hundred and nineteen 
 this before you was the end." 
 
 There are times when I sit here at nightfall, and 
 the pewit wails very bitterly across the dark moors, 
 or the terns scream harsh and wild down in the 
 
 21 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 waves before a coming storm, that I can hear again 
 the voice of a dying monk, and I know full well that 
 it is him whom I saw with his white hair bedabbled 
 with blood. 
 
 " In God's hands I leave you," he said to my 
 King. 
 
 And Father Angus, who listens so patiently, will 
 ever say as I reach the end of my tale, " Truly, yes, 
 in God's hands he left him, and God does not forget 
 — Yet our God is merciful — May God rest the soul 
 of Richard the King." And after him I say, " God 
 rest his soul." 
 
 And so we slowly take our homeward way, with 
 the Vesper bells a-ringing, and the scent of the 
 loneroid and the sharp, sweet scent of the sea 
 mingling together, and the golden sun sinking 
 behind the blue hills, and all things murmuring in 
 my old ears of a day that is done, and of a rest that 
 cometh with the night. 
 
 22 
 
THE LADY WITH THE WHITE 
 COCKADES 
 
 A CLEAR, bright, September afternoon in the year 
 seventeen hundred and forty-five. In the sunshine 
 the Firth shows blue as the Adriatic, and from the 
 Castle Hill the Links of Forth and the Fife 
 hills are seen plain as through a glass. Arthur's 
 Seat, that great, silent, couching lion that keeps 
 watch and ward over the city of Edinburgh from 
 generation to generation, looks grimly down on 
 streets as busy as though Edinburgh were an ant-hill 
 into which some mischievous lad has just thrown a 
 stone. Armed horsemen clatter through the town ; 
 kilted caterans jostle respectable citizens on the 
 causeway. Honest tradesmen know not whether to 
 shelter in shops which they momentarily fear may be 
 raided, or to press their wares upon the notice of 
 gallant officers who swagger along with an air of hav- 
 ing the whole kingdom lying, a football, at their feet. 
 Ears are assailed from all directions by the skirl of 
 the pipes, and ever and anon a shot is heard, making 
 the hearts of all law-abiding subjects of King George 
 quake within them. 
 
 At the Market Cross in the High Street, with all 
 
 23 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OP TWEED 
 
 the pomp of heralds and men-at-arms, James VIII 
 has this day been proclaimed King, and his son, 
 Prince Charles Edward, a gallant young figure in 
 tartan coat and blue bonnet, has been appointed 
 Regent. The Jacobite army has cheered itself 
 hoarse; the Highlanders have recklessly fired their 
 pieces into the air (wounding one fair Jacobite in the 
 doing of it) and the bagpipes have rung echoes from 
 every close and "land," as they triumphantly 
 welcome back a Stuart King and acclaim the rule of 
 Bonnie Prince Charlie. 
 
 The proclamation is over, yet the crowd grows 
 little less, for, seated on horseback beside the Cross, 
 is a figure that claims the eyes of both old and 
 young. From the Court of London to the far-off 
 northern isles it would be hard to find a fairer 
 woman than the one who sits there, proudly erect, 
 white cockade in her hat, drawn sword in her hand. 
 
 "Who is she?" ask the crowds, and the word 
 passes from one to another that she is the beautiful 
 Mrs. Murray, wife of John Murray of Broughton — 
 a Peeblesshire barony — one of those who have worked 
 hardest to bring back the Stuart kings to their own. 
 Soon the excited, jostling mob see that Mrs. Murray 
 is there not only to be stared at as a part of the 
 great show which they have just seen. She waits 
 to enlist soldiers for her Prince, the gallant, hand- 
 some, conquering prince of fairy tale, who is so soon 
 to evict "German Geordie" and to restore the 
 
 24 
 
LADY WITH THE WHITE COCKADES 
 
 fortunes of a fallen House. To the exciting accom- 
 paniment of the Highland music, the sound of shots, 
 and of loud huzzas, the recruits press forward. 
 Many a good lad this day renounces his half- 
 hearted allegiance to the House of Hanover, as he 
 bows low over a little hand that gives him the 
 Stuarts' white cockade, and blushes with pleasure as 
 the lovely recruiting sergeant welcomes him to the 
 ranks of the loyal subjects of King James the Eighth. 
 
 That night many a maid of Edinburgh must 
 surely have dreamed of the noble " Young Cheva- 
 lier," but surely there must have ridden through the 
 dreams of half the lads in the city a lady like the 
 Queen who took True Thomas with her to Fairy- 
 land, drawn sword in her hand, and in whose path 
 white cockades blossomed like flowers in the spring. 
 
 John Murray, husband of the lady who set many 
 a young heart aflame in that year of the '45, was 
 what one might call a Jacobite by birth. His 
 father. Sir David Murray of Stanhope, was " out " 
 in the '15 when John Murray, his second son, was 
 born. In Edinburgh and at Leyden young Murray 
 was educated, and from Leyden he went to Rome, 
 where his Jacobite affections were given every 
 chance of coming to maturity. For there the 
 Chevalier held ii little Court, and Prince Charles 
 Edward had already begun to win the hearts of 
 the men he lived beside. In 1738 Murray returned 
 to Scotland, and from then until 1745, when Prince 
 
 25 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 Charlie landed at Eriska, John Murray of Broughton 
 was ceaselessly active in the cause of the exiled House. 
 Margaret Ferguson, niece of William Ferguson 
 of Cailloch, in Nithsdale, was the beautiful bride 
 that the active young Jacobite agent brought 
 home to Broughton, and however lukewarm may 
 have been her principles before marriage, she had 
 no choice but to be an ardent supporter of the 
 Jacobite cause, once she was the wife of him who 
 was to be Mr. Secretary Murray. His later name 
 of ''Mr. Evidence Murray" was a coming shame, 
 as yet mercifully hidden in the lap of the gods. 
 In the year 1744 Edinburgh had already begun to 
 be a rather sultry place of residence for Murray of 
 Broughton, and in the spring of that year he had 
 to send by express a letter to ]Mr. Scott of Hundles- 
 hope near Peebles, enclosing the key of his private 
 closet in Broughton House, and begging him to 
 carry away and hide a strong box that lay hid in 
 the closet. The contents of that box might seem 
 to be merely papers, but, in truth, they represented 
 the heads of men. Mr. Scott acted promptly. 
 The box was removed and buried in the garden of 
 Hundleshope, cabbages were planted over its resting- 
 place, and Murray was able to join his Prince at 
 Eriska, when he landed there in July of 1745. How 
 affairs marched thereafter is common property. 
 The occupation of Edinburgh — the victory at 
 Prestonpans — the fruitless march to Derby — the 
 
 26 
 
LADY WITH THE WHITE COCKADES 
 
 crushing defeat on Drummossie Moor — the wan- 
 derings of Prince CharHe — ^with all the details of 
 that most pitiful tragedy Mr. Secretary Murray 
 had much to do. On the day that CuUoden was 
 fought, he lay sick at Elgin. Next morning he 
 was carried on a litter to the house of Mrs. Grant 
 of Glenmorriston, and when he had rested there for 
 a little, there was broken to him the direful news 
 that the Jacobite army was cut to pieces, and that 
 his Prince was a homeless fugitive. For the weeks 
 that followed, Murray lurked about in the High- 
 lands, still trying his best to arouse and unite the 
 scattered clans, and to persuade them to await with 
 hope the arrival of the ships which even then were 
 on their way from France, bearing with them a 
 golden cargo of casks of louis d'ors. But Murray's 
 efforts were all in vain. When the casks of gold 
 arrived they only spread suspicion, jealousy, and ill- 
 feeling amongst the followers of the Prince who already 
 doubted each other, and Mr. Secretary Murray was 
 by no means immune from the general suspicion. 
 
 Meantime his wife was amongst the fugitives 
 who had followed Prince Charlie's fortunes and lost 
 when he lost all. In the wild highland country of 
 Strontian, Murray met with his wife, and did what 
 he could to arrange for her to be sent by boat to 
 Ireland. On then he went, a weary journey south 
 by moors and by-ways, constantly ill and utterly 
 worn out, no longer the dapper little Mr. Secretary 
 
 27 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OP TWEED 
 
 Murray, but a haggard fugitive, clad in old coat 
 and breeches and blue bonnet that he would fain 
 have had proclaim him the drover that he posed 
 to be. More than once he lost his way, more than 
 once his overridden horse could scarcely drag one 
 leg behind the other, and forced him to stop when 
 all his own desires and inclinations were madly 
 spurring him on his way to the south, where safety 
 lay. In upper Tweeddale, the poor beast was nearly 
 done, but he durst not risk a more than uncertain 
 welcome at his brother's house at Stobo, and pushed 
 on. Not much farther on, however, near Kilbucho, 
 his horse failed him utterly, and he was forced to 
 try his luck at Kilbucho House. His aunt Margaret 
 was the wife of William Dickson the proprietor, and 
 to his regret he found only her and her daughters 
 at home, and not one of them with any of the 
 intriguing instincts that were so necessary for the 
 insurance of his safety. There could be no doiibt as 
 to the sincerity of the good old lady's welcome. 
 Disguised fugitive, a rebel " wanted " by Government, 
 and with possibly prison or the gallows in front of 
 him, was not John Murray all the same her own 
 brother's son, who must be treated with all the 
 respect and hospitality that she had ever been wont 
 to give to her own kith and kin ? 
 
 Na, na, — no whisky for him — a servant must 
 needs bring him a glass o' the best claret wine in 
 Kilbucho's cellar. 
 
 28 
 
LADY WITH THE WHITE COCKADES 
 
 And, staring curiously at the unshaven drover in 
 shabby clothing who was so favoured by his mistress, 
 the fellow presented the wine and drew his own 
 conclusions. In vain Murray appealed to his cousin 
 Miss Dickson that no ceremony should be used with 
 him, nothing said nor done that might rouse the 
 suspicion of the servants. He and his horse only 
 wanted to be fed and rested, and to take their way 
 south again. 
 
 " Na, na, — ye maun dine wi' the leddies. Ye're 
 no' gaun to be affronted wi' a bit piece, gin ye 
 were a ganging body. Ye'll just hae your broth, 
 an' your bit saumon, an' your saiddle o' mutton, an' 
 your jeelies, an' your glass o' wine as ye've aye 
 had them. I'm no' gaun to mak' a difference noo, 
 my puir lad." 
 
 So dine with the ladies he did, and at each thing 
 they said and did the chances of their guest's escape 
 grew fewer. Mrs. Dickson herself, delightfully con- 
 scious of a mysterious and secretive manner, severely 
 rebuked her daughter for calling Broughton by his 
 rightful name before the servant. 
 
 "Daft lassie! have ye no' sense? William's a 
 decent lad — I've kent him a* his days — he was bred 
 at Stobo — but in maitters o' poalitics servants are no' 
 to lippen to." 
 
 Thankfully the guest of the good lady of Kilbucho 
 arrived at the end of that meal, remounted his re- 
 freshed horse, and rode on across the moors to his 
 
 29 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 sister's house at Polmood. His own house at 
 Broughton, only one mile from Kilbucho, was occu- 
 pied by dragoons, but at Polmood he would be safe 
 for a night at least. Kind Miss Dickson had sent a 
 messenger before him to tell his sister Veronica — 
 Mrs. Hunter of Polmood — to expect him, and when 
 he reached the house, long after nightfall, he had a 
 welcome most soothing to the heart of a weary, 
 outlawed man. For a long time he and his sister 
 talked together, and when, at two in the morning, 
 he went to bed, it was with the happy knowledge 
 that the first steps towards his escape to France were 
 to be taken next day, and had been wisely and safely 
 arranged. For three hours Mr. Secretary Murray 
 must have slept soundly indeed, and then came a rude 
 awakening. The clatter of horses' hoofs and jingle of 
 accoutrements, knockings and shouts, " Open in the 
 King's name ! " Then, still only half awake and only 
 half attired, off to Edinburgh with a strong escort of 
 dragoons, who roughly mocked and rallied him over 
 his dinner of the previous day, and volunteered the 
 information that the servant at Kilbucho had run 
 over to Broughton the minute after he had ridden 
 away, and told the soldiers where to capture him, 
 
 "Mr. Secretary Murray" he was when he rode 
 away from Tweedside that dark night into captivity 
 — an honest man, as far as one can tell, and a true 
 friend to the House of Stuart. 
 
 " Mr. Evidence Murray " was the shameful title 
 
 30 
 
LADY WITH THE WHITE COCKADES 
 
 he had gained for himself when he returned. What 
 strange processes John Murray's mind passed through 
 during the term of his imprisonment, who can say ? 
 But that they resulted in his taking to himself 
 the shameful role of informer is undeniable. 
 
 By his agency Lord Lovat had been brought to 
 the block when, in June 1748, Murray received the 
 pardon that was the price of his information. 
 Happier far had he died for a hopeless cause than 
 lived on as he did, a pariah amongst both Jacobites 
 and Hanoverians. 
 
 Lockhart tells the story of how Sir Walter Scott's 
 father threw out of the window the cup out of which 
 Murray had drunk tea : ** Neither lip of me nor of 
 mine comes after Mr. Murray of Broughton's." The 
 Prince who had trusted him wrote in April 1747 to 
 the Chevalier : " Poor Ld. Lovat is executed by ye 
 Rascality of Jn. Murray, and it is much fierd many 
 others will suffer in ye same manner." 
 
 And yet, nearly twenty years after Prince Charlie 
 wrote that letter to his father, Murray's own son, 
 a child of nine, one day was present at an interview 
 that a stately, red-faced gentleman had with his 
 father. Unfortunately there exists no record of what 
 passed at that strange interview, but when the red- 
 faced gentleman was gone, Murray said to his boy — 
 an actor in days to come, son of a Quaker heiress 
 with whom he had eloped — " Charles, you have 
 seen your King." 
 
 3? 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 Such was the career of the husband of the lady 
 with the white cockades, and to him we owe what 
 little we know of her doings after they parted in 
 the autumn of 1745. 
 
 The Odyssey of the adventures of the fragile, 
 beautiful woman as she found her way from Inverness- 
 shire to Edinburgh is one of the stories over which 
 history is dumb. But towards the end of June 1746 
 she came to the house of her mother, Mrs. Ferguson, 
 in Cant's Close, Edinburgh, and for three days 
 remained in hiding there. 
 
 A weary woman was she, and one soon to become 
 a mother. The sorrows and privations of the friends 
 with whom she had been sharing hardships all 
 through the winter haunted her. *' Hunted from 
 hill to hill," she said they were, " with difficulty able 
 to procure the common necessaries of life." From 
 her mother's house she was taken to the house of 
 a Lady Wallace at Abbey Hill, but she was then 
 so weak and ill — the beautiful recruiting sergeant 
 of the Market Cross — that no one durst tell her that 
 her husband was a prisoner, in danger of his life. 
 From Abbey Hill she had to be hurried, as rumour 
 had got about of her hiding-place, and, on Sunday, 
 the 6th of July, she was taken to a house in one of 
 the suburbs of Edinburgh, near Bruntsfield Links, 
 where she was concealed for many a week to come 
 in a garret closet. The owner of the house, a Mr. 
 Hamilton, was quite unaware of the presence of 
 
 32 
 
LADY WITH THE WHITE COCKADES 
 
 his guest, but of course her hostess was a Jacobite, 
 and equally, of course, so were the three Hamilton 
 children. They may have seen the lady with the 
 drawn sword and the white cockades as she sat at 
 the Market Cross on that September day, and 
 what greater joy could come to them than to serve 
 her, plot and plan for her, for her sake have a magni- 
 ficent secret even from their own father. It was 
 while she hid at the Hamiltons' house that the news 
 of the taking of her husband was broken to her, and 
 the poor soul heard it with terror and surprise. Her 
 friends saw that the sooner they got her off to Holland 
 the better, but when her passage had been secured 
 in a boat sailing from Leith on the 3rd of August, 
 and all her little preparations were made, a message 
 came from the captain six hours before he sailed, 
 saying that he " would have carried her with great 
 pleasure, but was advised against it by some of her 
 own friends." Who the '* friends" were, she knew 
 only too well, for Murray's brother-in-law, and former 
 agent, M'Dougal, had already refused her money be- 
 longing to her husband to enable her to pay her 
 way. Boat after boat was then tried for, by those 
 who were truly her friends, but either the character 
 of their masters was such that the poor fugitive durst 
 not be trusted to their keeping, or there were some 
 other good reasons why it was inexpedient for her 
 to go. Sick with hope deferred, torn by anxiety, 
 with pain and illness her constant companions, Mrs. 
 
 33 c 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 Murray's state in that chilly little garret-room at 
 Bruntsfield was a sorrowful one indeed. Her friends 
 saw that a move must be made, and late one August 
 night she was taken to a house in the Land Market 
 where, on the 25th of September, a son was born 
 to her. A non-jurant clergyman christened him the 
 same day, but baby Charles had less life in him than 
 the cause of the Prince whose name he bore, and 
 went out of the world a few days after his piteous 
 entry into it. Mrs. Murray was then very seriously 
 ill and so continued until the end of October, when 
 she was taken to her mother's house to be nursed 
 and coaxed back into health. She saw few people 
 there, and save with her true friends, the three 
 Rachaels — Miss Rachael Erskine, Miss Rachael 
 Hamilton, and Miss Rachael Maule — whose loyalty 
 and devotion to her had never once wavered through 
 all those trying months, and with one or two other 
 good women who proved themselves more than 
 worthy of the trust she put in them, she played a 
 little comedy with regard to her lodging. To the 
 few Jacobite gentlemen who were admitted to see 
 her, she always appeared in a plaid, and pretended 
 that she had been sent for by her mother, and had 
 come from the place where she lodged. 
 
 To get to Holland was her constant desire, but 
 her health was completely broken down, and she was 
 obviously unfit for the voyage, and so the dreary winter 
 and early spring were dragged through, and in May 
 of the next year she followed her husband's counsel 
 
 34 
 
LADY WITH THE WHITE COCKADES 
 
 and went to London. There, under a borrowed 
 name, she lodged at a milliner's in Newport Street, 
 Lambeth, seeing none who knew her but her mother- 
 in-law. Lady Murray, her physician, and three 
 Jacobite gentlemen, two of them prisoners of war. 
 Gloomy indeed had been all those long months that 
 followed the day that Mrs. Murray sat at the Market 
 Cross of Edinburgh, beautiful, radiant, Victory in- 
 carnate. Gloomiest of all surely must have been 
 those months when day by day she realised that the 
 loyal, fearless, Jacobite gentleman, her husband, had 
 evolved into a craven, ^vho, to save his neck, sold 
 the secrets of his Cause. Mr. " Evidence" Murray, 
 the prisoner in the Tower, who was scorned alike by 
 Jacobite and Hanoverian, was he truly John Murray 
 of Broughton ? 
 
 '* Do you know this witness ? " Douglas of 
 Kelhead was asked, when confronted with his be- 
 trayer before the Privy Council. " Not I," answered 
 Douglas ; " I once knew a person who bore the 
 designation of INIurray of Broughton — but that was 
 a gentleman and a man of honour, and one that 
 could hold up his head." 
 
 In the days that seemed now a thousand years 
 gone by, when the Tweed made silver music as it 
 ran past Broughton, and the white roses in the old 
 garden whispered of the Stuart Cause, how his eyes 
 sparkled when he spoke of the coming of his Prince, 
 — of his unalterable devotion that no cruel death 
 could ever shake ! How good it had been, when 
 
 35 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 she sat in her little panelled chamber in the long 
 winter evenings, stitching, stitching at those never- 
 ending white cockades, to listen to her husband's 
 brave words, to feel that even she was doing some- 
 thing to help the King across the water, and to look 
 forward to the day when all the world should know 
 how nobly and loyally John Murray had toiled ere 
 he put that King upon his throne ! 
 
 All that was past ; all gone. Little wonder if her 
 love died then. Love was for Broughton the trusty 
 Jacobite ; hatred and scorn for " Evidence " Murray. 
 
 Murray was still in the Tower when she left 
 London and went to Holland, and, with her going, 
 blotted her existence completely out of every record 
 at present known. 
 
 Some years later, Murray eloped with a young — 
 surely a very young — Quaker lady from a boarding- 
 school, and as he married her and she passed as Lady 
 Murray, it was naturally supposed that his beautiful 
 wife was dead. Perhaps she was, although the date 
 of her death has never been ascertained. Rumour ac- 
 cused her of infidelity to her husband ; baseless slander 
 coupled her name with that of the Prince her husband 
 betrayed. But that so radiant, so beautiful a person- 
 ality should have been so completely lost in oblivion 
 in the days that followed her flight to a foreign land, 
 must surely suggest that the gaunt recruiting sergeant, 
 Death, was not long in coming to claim a woman with 
 a broken heart — ^the lady with the white cockades. 
 
 36 
 
THE TRAGEDY OF MARY ANN DODD 
 
 " She did not seem to serve a useful end, 
 And certainly she was not beautiful." 
 
 J. K. Stephen. 
 
 She walked down the village street in the swiftly 
 gathering dusk, a dowdy little figure. Two women, 
 leaning over the gates of their gardens, where 
 ** southern wood " and mint and sweet peas and 
 roses fought for ascendancy as they scented the 
 evening air, watched her approach with interest. 
 She was short and stout and red of face. Her dress 
 of black and white print was held up at the wrong 
 places. Her black mushroom hat was worn, with 
 unconscious rakishness, much too much on one side. 
 Hers was not a dignified gait. She planted her feet 
 down flatly and heavily with a waddling motion. It 
 bore an appearance of aimless haste, and her face, 
 whose features were those described by the journalist 
 as *' homely," also wore an expression of aimless, 
 objectless excitement. 
 
 The two women exchanged meaning smiles, and 
 the younger, to conceal a laugh, stooped and up- 
 rooted a weed, as the little woman came tacking 
 uncertainly across the road. Like a ponderous and 
 
 37 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 unseaworthy craft in a strong and variable breeze 
 she tacked, and hove to, half uncertain whether her 
 presence was welcome, yet impelled to stop by an 
 intense desire for conversation, and stood with a 
 flickering, conciliatory smile, in front of the first 
 little green gate. 
 
 '' Good evenin'," she said, " a fine nicht, Mistress 
 Readman. Your gairden's looking beautiful. It 
 never lookit better, I think. And yours is braw 
 too, Mistress Broon. That's a rael fine rose o* 
 yours." 
 
 The women acknowledged her compliments with 
 a somewhat grudging courtesy. The younger, a 
 pale-faced, long-nosed girl of unamiable expression, 
 gave a wink to her friend and took the conversation 
 in hand. 
 
 "Ye'll be afF the morn. Miss Dodd," she said. 
 " Ye'U be unco throng wi' the packin', I'm thinkin'. 
 Megsty me, wumman, ye're fair like thae fine leddies 
 in the papers, gaun off to the sea for your summer 
 holiday." 
 
 Mary Ann Dodd's face flushed a deeper red, and 
 she beamed widely in recognition of her neighbour's 
 civility. 
 
 ** Ma packin's dune, ah thank ye," she said, re- 
 lapsing into a broader Scotch as the atmosphere 
 seemed to thaw from formality into friendliness. 
 " Eh, wumman, it's an unco job when cadgers ride." 
 And she laughed deprecatingly. 
 
 38 
 
THE TRAGEDY OF MARY ANN DODD 
 
 " Is your brother and his wife away yet ? " asked 
 the elder woman. 
 
 Mary Ann came nearer the gate and leaned both 
 thick, red, nervous hands upon it. 
 
 '' Ye see," she said, " mebbes yeVe heard us tell 
 a' aboot it afore" (her hearers exchanged looks of 
 half-pitying, half-scornful amusement) " but this is 
 how it was. Ma brother Jems an' me, we've scarcely 
 seen yin another sin' he was mairret, only at Mother's 
 feunerl. An' of coorse, wi' Mother being that ill 
 wi' the pains, an' me that occupeed wi' the dress- 
 makin', I never could gang an' see him an' his faimly. 
 So, as ye ken, I was that ta'en aback when I got 
 a letter frae him askin' iz to bide wi' his bairns when 
 him and Euphy — that's my gude-sister — was at New- 
 castle, that I very near wrate till him to say I 
 couldnae gang. But it's few that can get a summer 
 holiday at the sea, as ye ken, Mistress Readman, an' 
 so, as ye ken, I'm gaun. It's an unco peety ye 
 cannae tak' your ticket the day afore, for it's siccan 
 a strow gettin' your things thegither. But of coorse 
 I was yince at Edinbury, so I'm no' like them that's 
 never traivelled." 
 
 ** An' is Jems Dodd and his wife gane tae New- 
 castle ?" asked the woman once more. 
 
 "Aweel," said Mary Ann, "they're gaun the 
 morn. But a' the bairns'll be at hame. It'll be rael 
 nice an' cheery for iz wi' the bairns. I wonder, noo, 
 Mistress Readman, is there naething ye wad like iz 
 
 39 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 to bring back for ye ? — a wheen shells for the gairden, 
 or the wundy-sill ? They're rael bonny. Or mebbes 
 a pickle sand for the bird ? or I daursay I micht 
 bring ye some hern — they're rael tasty, an' ye can 
 scarcely get them fresh here. Or mebbes a cod? 
 Div ye mind yon fish Jems sent Mother when she 
 was deein' ? It was a kinda big haddie ; ye could 
 scarcely ca' it a cod." 
 
 These were not gracious neighbours of Mary Ann's. 
 They received her overtures with no cordiality. They 
 merely looked at one another as who should say, 
 ** Hearken to the folly of this fool." 
 
 " Ah thank ye," said Mrs. Readman stiffly, " ah 
 have no need for nane o' them." 
 
 Mary Ann looked wistful. 
 
 " It seems an unco peety," she said, ** for me tae 
 have sic a grand change, an' for nane o' the rest o' 
 the folk here tae be gettin' away ! " 
 
 "Ah'm pairfeckly content where ah am," said 
 Mrs. Readman shortly. 
 
 " Daursay Jems an' his wife kens fine they'd hae 
 to pay a wumman to mind the bairns if they hadna 
 gotten you, Mary Ann," said the younger woman. 
 " Ye'U hae your hands full wi' five bairns, an' the 
 youngest but three year auld." 
 
 Mary Ann looked abashed, but no amount of 
 neighbourly effort could scrape the gilt from off her 
 gingerbread. 
 
 ** Aweel," she said, " I was aye an awfy yin for 
 
 40 
 
THE TRAGEDY OF MARY ANN DODD 
 
 bairns. Jems kent that fine. Ah take it rael kind 
 of Euphy trustin' them till iz. An' wee Betsy's 
 twelve. She'll be rael compainionable. It'll be a 
 great treat bein' near the sea — wakening up i' the 
 morning an' seein' the ships, an' hearin' the waves. 
 When ah was a wee lassie, ah aye likit to baud that 
 muckle shell on oor chimley piece to ma ear and hear 
 the sea boomin'. It's queer boo the sea booms in 
 shells." 
 
 " The sea is fearfully and wonderfully made," said 
 Mrs. Readman, with condescending sententiousness. 
 
 '' It is that," said Mary Ann. '* It says that in 
 the Bible, dis't no'? — in the Revelations. There's 
 some gey queer things in the Revelations." 
 
 " Mary Ann," said the young woman, breaking 
 in, "what aboot that fuschy o' yours when you're 
 away? There's a lot o' flowers on it. It seems a 
 pity for it to be wasted. I've an awfy fancy for yon." 
 
 Mary Ann was silent for a moment. It was 
 evident that the fuschia was amongst the chiefest 
 of her Lares and Penates, for there were signs of a 
 struggle in her face. But it was a brief struggle. 
 
 "Jean Tamson was to water it every day wi' 
 the geraniums," she said, "but ah'll tell ye, Mary 
 Broon, if ye've a fancy for the flooer, ah dinna grudge 
 it. Ah'll bring it, this very meenit." 
 
 And she went off down the village street, like an 
 elderly duck in full cry for its pond. 
 
 "I wonder at ye, Mary Broon," said the elder 
 
 41 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 woman reproachfully. "It's a fair imposeetion. 
 That wumman wad gie her held to onybody that 
 asket her for't, an' she's clean daft at gaim tae the 
 sea, so that she disna weel ken what she's daen. 
 Think shame o' yersel'. Here she comes, puir 
 crater." 
 
 Hot, breathless, and redder in face than before, 
 with a large pot containing a fuschia in full bloom 
 clasped against her chest, came Mary Ann Dodd. 
 Her expression was, rightfully, that of one who had 
 done generously a generous deed. She thrust the 
 plant over the gate into Mrs. Brown's ready hands. 
 
 "Here 'tis," she said, "good-bye to ye baith. 
 Ye'U likely see iz gaun tae the train the morn's 
 mornin'." 
 
 She took a step or two away, and then paused 
 and looked back. 
 
 " It's a graund summer holiday ah'm gaun tae 
 have, is't no' ? " she asked, witli a wistful desire for 
 some neighbourly enthusiasm showing itself in her 
 voice. 
 
 " It is that, Mary Ann," said Mrs. Brown, feeling 
 the necessity for some wordy payment for her plant. 
 " I'm obleeged to ye for the fuschy." 
 
 And Mary Ann, cheered and satisfied, hurried 
 homeward in the dusk. 
 
 It had not been a primrose path that Mary Ann 
 up till now had trod. Her mother was a strong- 
 minded, exacting, stern woman, and something like 
 
 42 
 
THE TRAGEDY OF MARY ANN DODD 
 
 forty years had been spent in tending her. Nor had 
 the dressmaking business ever been a success. An 
 indignant lady in the neighbourhood who had rashly 
 entrusted her with the manufacture of some simple 
 garments, angrily said that horse cloths for elephants 
 were all that Miss Dodd was competent to make, 
 and even they wouldn't fit. And now Mary Ann 
 felt like the sleeping Princess awakened. 
 
 Three brown paper parcels, and one of newspaper, 
 a yellow-painted tin box tied up with rope, a wooden 
 box with wall paper of a blue and white pattern 
 inside and out, a bandbox, a small and shabby 
 leather reticule, and an umbrella, had Mary Ann 
 Dodd in her possession when the postman's gig 
 that drove her from the village to the station de- 
 posited her at the platform next morning. More- 
 over, clasped tightly in her left hand, was a large 
 bunch of flowers — roses, tiger-lilies, mint, southern- 
 wood, and honeysuckles — firmly compressed to 
 begin with, but growing more and more cumbrous 
 and uncomfortable to carry owing to the slack 
 knot of the many times enfolding string. It was 
 "roses, roses, all the way," and mint and honey- 
 suckle and an occasional lily dropping on her path 
 as Mary Ann walked. They incommoded her 
 greatly, but yet she clung to them. By the sea, 
 she had heard, flowers were few and far between, 
 and the children of her brother were sure to ap- 
 preciate them. 
 
 43 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 The postman was ruffled at the outset by three 
 false starts. First it was the smallest brown paper 
 parcel that was erroneously supposed to have been 
 left behind, and then it was the umbrella. Thirdly 
 and lastly it was a nervous dread lest Tommy the 
 eat had been shut up in the big chest in the parlour 
 and left to perish there, a second Ginevra, before 
 Mary Ann's return, that took them back to her 
 cottage, driving furiously. The whole village was 
 standing at its door in delighted expectancy by 
 the time this third return was accomphshed. When 
 they were for the fourth time leaving the outskirts 
 of the village, and the postman's arm was clutched 
 again, while his passenger frenziedly exclaimed that 
 she feared that her purse wi' a' her siller was left 
 lying on the chimley piece, the Government official 
 grew stern, pulled his pony up short, and commanded 
 her to search her pockets before he turned back 
 "to be made a fule o' owre again." 
 
 Search was rewarded by discovering the purse 
 on the floor of the cart, and Mary Ann jogged on 
 in comparative peace of mind for the rest of the 
 four miles, chilled by the severe silence of her 
 still huffed companion. She mopped her flushed 
 face with one of her new visiting handkerchiefs, 
 still with a glazed and stiff* surface, unfriendly to 
 the skin, and drew on and off* three times her black 
 cotton, kid tipped gloves. The bead-fringed dolman 
 that had been her mother's — and her mother was 
 
 44 
 
THE TRAGEDY OF MARY ANN DODD 
 
 an old woman of spare and angular figure — she 
 tried to tug into some semblance of fit, and the 
 bonnet she herself had trimmed with black ribbon 
 and purple chrysanthemums she tilted from its 
 lodgment over the left ear to a corresponding 
 angle over the right. She was then about to count 
 her money into her lap when a stern nudge from 
 her companion and a " Gie owre, wumman," bade 
 her desist. 
 
 " We're no' owre late, er we ? " she feverishly 
 asked as they drew near the station and heard the 
 snort of the trains and saw the pufT of smoke. 
 
 " It's no' your fault if we're no'," said the post- 
 man stringently. The recollection of a joyous hoot 
 of " Megsty me ! here they er back again ! " and of 
 the sight of Tommy the cat peacefully slumbering 
 on a garden wall, still rankled. But his stringency 
 relaxed as she paid him for the lift. Two shillings 
 was the most he had dreamed of asking, but three 
 and fourpence halfpenny (one and fourpence half- 
 penny of which, being in coppers and threepenny 
 bits, was, not unnaturally, scattered on the floor of 
 the cart and on the road in its transit from her purse 
 to his hand) was what she gave him. 
 
 ** Gude-bye tae ye ! I'm muckle obleeged to 
 ye," she called as she ran back to see whether the 
 yellow box had, through mischance, been left in the 
 cart. *' I wish ye were gaun tae have a graund 
 summer holiday like me.'* 
 
 45 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 The porters, the ticket clerk, and the station- 
 master of that station all had reason to remember 
 that Mary Ann Dodd travelled that morning. 
 When she took her ticket she felt it necessary to 
 make full enquiries on the subject of trains, their 
 speed, and their destinations, and to confide in the 
 ticket clerk the details of her holiday. Finally she 
 took her ticket with her, and left her change, and on 
 being hunted back by a porter to receive the change, 
 left the ticket behind her. She lost and found each 
 separate article of luggage before the train started, 
 and was at last dragged from out an empty excur- 
 sion train in a siding by an exasperated stationmaster 
 and two indignant porters, just in time to be thrust 
 into the train that was to convey her to the sea. 
 
 At Berwick-on-Tweed, where she changed trains, 
 further mental anguish awaited Mary Ann. When 
 she had begrimed her person and made herself hot 
 and excited beyond all bearing in the search for 
 her purse on the floor and under the seats and 
 amongst the legs and skirts of a crowded third- 
 class, and it had finally been found by a fellow- 
 passenger in the hat-rack, underneath the newspaper 
 parcel (containing food which she had no desire to 
 eat), she had not only exhausted herself but also all 
 the patience of those she travelled with. They all 
 knew her family history, the object of her journey, 
 the trials that had from the start beset her path. 
 But it was a warm day and the compartment was 
 
 46 
 
THE TRAGEDY OF MARY ANN DODD 
 
 overcrowded. The camaraderie of the third-class 
 passenger, of which we hear so much, had wilted in 
 the sun. They were glad when, having been thrown 
 from the lap of the third-class mother, which already- 
 contained the third-class sustenance-imbibing young 
 child, on to the knee of the perspiring artisan, by 
 the jolt of the stopping train, and having caused a 
 blinding hail of packages from the hat-rack to fall 
 on the heads of her companions by the removal of 
 her luggage, Mary Ann got out at her destination. 
 The newspaper package was thrown out of the window 
 after the train had started by an angry young man 
 whose head had been bumped by the heaviest parcel, 
 and the paper-covered box was discovered to have 
 burst its hinges and to have scattered garments, 
 foods, and gifts for her nephews and nieces over the 
 platform and amongst the other luggage. 
 
 But an angel appeared then, in the guise of a 
 fat man with a gig — an angel specially chartered 
 by her brother James — and when ten minutes had 
 been spent in hunting for her ticket, which w^as 
 found, eventually, limp and humid, in the palm of 
 her left-hand glove, and ten more in searching for a 
 fourth parcel, the creation of an overheated imagina- 
 tion, Mary Ann was able to clamber into the gig 
 and drive away. 
 
 For some time she was too much upset to speak, 
 but when the new handkerchief (no longer white, 
 but stiff and unyielding to the last) had been brought 
 
 47 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 into requisition, she was able to gaze at the landscape 
 and to cast an eager eye around for the sea. There 
 were hedges on either hand, cornfields, trees, farm 
 buildings dotted here and there, an occasional stream, 
 a duck-pond or two, but no sea. 
 
 " I expect we'll soon be at the sea now," she 
 ventured at last to her companion, a silent man who 
 breathed loud. 
 
 " The sea ! we're no' going nearr the sea," he said, 
 giving the Northumbrian roll to his R's. 
 
 Mary Ann's heart sank within her. 
 
 " Stop ; stop ! " she said, clutching his arm with 
 wild apprehension — '' there maun be a mistake. I'm 
 gaun to my brither's hoose — Jems Dodd's — near the 
 sea I Ye maun stop and let iz oot ! " 
 
 The man remained calm. 
 
 ** Dinna fash yersel', wumman," he said, " it was 
 your brither himsel' that tellt me to fetch you to his 
 hoose in this verry gig. Sit still. If you care to foot 
 it four mile from his hoose, ye'U see the sea right 
 enough. Ye're four mile frae Beal, and Beal is just 
 opposite Holy Island, and iliafs in the North Sea, as 
 a'body kens." 
 
 ** Four mile ! " said Mary Ann faintly. 
 
 ''Fourr mile," said the man, and relapsed into 
 silence. 
 
 When the pony stopped with a sudden jerk that 
 threw Mary Ann almost on to its back, and made her 
 weariedly murmur '' Megsty me," as she clutched her 
 
 48 
 
THE TRAGEDY OF MARY ANN DODD 
 
 companion's knees for safety, the glories of her 
 summer holiday were somewhat dimmed. The man 
 had not congratulated her on the care of James Dodd's 
 five obstreperous children. He had indicated in a 
 few words that in the opinion of the Dodds' neigh- 
 bours Mary Ann had been put upon. He had dwelt 
 at some length on the flightiness of Betsy, the eldest 
 girl, and on the labours entailed in the care of a cow, 
 a pig, a garden, a house, and a family of five 
 children. 
 
 " Three weeks ye've come for ! " he said with 
 withering emphasis. " I thocht better of Jems 
 Dodd. It's that wife of his. A self-seekin' 
 wumman." 
 
 It was a small house, standing a little back from 
 the road, at which the gig stopped. There was a 
 garden in front, and Mary Ann, still tightly clutching 
 the faded remains of what had once been honey- 
 suckles and roses, felt chilly at heart as she noted the 
 profusion of hollyhocks, sunflowers, roses, stocks, and 
 pansies that served as a border to the cabbages and 
 peas. Some hens arose from wallowing in the dust 
 and clucked across the road under the pony's nose. 
 A woman from a cottage farther along came out to 
 gaze. The bees round the row of beehives in the 
 garden hummed loudly, and the voice of a pig could 
 be heard hungrily announcing itself from somewhere 
 in the back premises. But, otherwise, all was still 
 and silent. The family of James Dodd might have 
 
 49 D 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 been dead and buried for weeks, for all the stir they 
 made. INIary Ann clambered down from the gig, 
 catching her skirt on the step and tearing the gathers, 
 and the man lifted up his voice and shouted for 
 Betsy. Other names, not baptismal, he also tried, 
 without avail, and then the woman from the cottage 
 strolled up. 
 
 *' They're all out,'* she said, "the hempies. 
 They've been away nearly ever since their faither and 
 mother left in the morning. They've taken my little 
 Agnes Ellen with them. They'll hearr of it when 
 they come back." 
 
 One housekeeping precaution only had Betsy 
 taken before going forth to the wilderness leading her 
 tribe. She had locked the door. The cow was un- 
 milked, the pig unfed. The fire, said the neighbour, 
 who had kept an indignant eye on the chimney, was 
 out. Of the enormities of Betsy and her brethren 
 Mary Ann heard volumes during that first hour of 
 her summer holiday. Her luggage, when dragged 
 up the garden path and left outside the door, had 
 the appearance of having been swept up there by 
 an unfriendly sea. She could do nothing. She was 
 unable even to go to the aid of the pig and the cow, 
 for the pig's meat and milking pails were alike 
 locked up inside that deserted dwelling. 
 
 A terrible thought entered her mind. She sug- 
 gested it to the neighbour. What if the children had 
 strayed to the sea and therein been drowned ? But 
 
 50 
 
THE TRAGEDY OF MARY ANN DODD 
 
 in this the woman laughed her to scorn. Blackberry- 
 ing, she declared, was their pursuit. It was a pursuit 
 forbidden by Mrs. James Dodd, and therefore they 
 pursued it joyfully the minute her back was turned. 
 She proved to be right. Just when the unhappy 
 lowing of the neglected cow had made the neighbour 
 suggest the desperate expedient of milking it into a 
 series of basins — for pail she had none — there 
 straggled into sight a little band of six. Johnnie, 
 the youngest, heralded his approach with wailings, 
 and Agnes Ellen, the Dodds' guest, was engaged in 
 such recriminations with Jane Dodd, her bosom 
 friend, that they alternately chased each other and 
 exchanged breathless and furious slaps when proxi- 
 mity rendered this possible. Betsy, hauling Johnnie 
 by the hand, serenely led the van. A large, plain 
 girl was Betsy — a snub-nosed girl of complacent 
 manner. No products did they bring with them of 
 their lawless day — only much-stained faces, hands, 
 and pinafores, many scratches, and garments torn 
 and ragged. On seeing their Aunt Mary Ann they 
 evinced no surprise, nor any compunction. Indeed 
 all their attention was given for the time being 
 to the entrancing spectacle of Agnes Ellen Embleton 
 being publicly whipped by her mother. 
 
 That was a busy evening for Mary Ann. By the 
 time her family was fed and her numerous domestic 
 duties performed, the gnawing hunger she had felt 
 as she awaited their return had passed off. The 
 
 SI 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 Dodds were a plain family, but sleep is a wonderful 
 beautifier even to the plainest baby face, and as 
 Mary Ann put her dead flowers in water, (" What's 
 thae for ? " little Jane had asked with contemptuous 
 wonder,) and ate some fragments left from the 
 children's supper, her motherly heart warmed within 
 her and all her tiredness was forgotten. For, lying 
 on the pillow in the middle of her bed, whereupon 
 by rights her own should have been, lay wee Johnnie's 
 touzled yellow head. 
 
 The Dodd children were not brilliant, but they 
 were not long in grasping the character of their aunt. 
 Mary Ann had the most elementary ideas of discip- 
 line, the most rudimentary notions of managing a 
 household consisting of more than one, and although 
 her intentions regarding order and cleanliness were 
 excellent, circumstances usually proved too strong 
 for her, and she had to succumb to them. The 
 mother of Agnes Ellen Embleton watched her with 
 the eye of a paid detective, and stored up with scorn- 
 ful disgust such tales of the doings of that uncon- 
 trolled household as should brindle the hair of 
 Euphemia Dodd on her return. The children never 
 even simulated a shadow of respect for their aunt. 
 They treated her with somewhat less consideration 
 than they gave to the cow, and with rather more 
 affection than they gave the pig. She was useful to 
 them as their general servant, and yet more useful 
 as a penny bank from which they could continually 
 
 52 
 
THE TRAGEDY OF MARY ANN DODD 
 
 draw without fear of an overdraft. She bound up 
 their wounds, she washed their clothes, she fed them 
 with an amplitude and richness that upset little 
 Johnnie's digestion for days and made the elder ones 
 reproach her for their sickness. It was a bitter blow 
 to Mary Ann when the cake she essayed to bake at 
 the request of Robert, her eldest nephew, was re- 
 ceived with derision by Betsy and shouts of laughter 
 from the others. She herself had to own that it was 
 a very moist cake, and burned in parts, but it hurt 
 her when Robert announced that he was going to 
 save up a piece to show to his mother. 
 
 A week of her holiday reduced Mary Ann's weight 
 by several pounds. She rose early and went to bed 
 late. Her face grew lined and old, and she looked, 
 as she felt, chronically tired. But her day was yet 
 to come. It was near the end of the second week of 
 her visit that the suggestion came from the mother 
 of Agnes Ellen Embleton. 
 
 *' You've never seen the sea yet. Miss Dodd," she 
 remarked one afternoon in her plaintive, rolling R-ed 
 Northumbrian drawl. *' YouVe been here near two 
 weeks and never seen't. Not but what it's fower 
 year sin I saw it mysel'." 
 
 '' It's four mile to Beal," said Mary Ann wistfully. 
 And then Mrs. Embleton took Mary Ann in hand 
 and made plans for her. The walk of four miles 
 was a mere nothing if you took it quietly. And at 
 Beal you not only saw the sea, but you could walk 
 
 S3 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 across the sands to Holy Island at low tide and 
 there see the ruins of a church and purchase 
 crabs. It was an excursion that could be accom- 
 plished with the greatest ease. Mrs. Embleton 
 could milk the cow and give the children tea during 
 their aunt's absence, and Mary Ann would be back 
 in plenty of time to give them supper and put them 
 to bed. Nothing could be simpler. To Mary Ann 
 it seemed an almost incredible thing that such joy 
 should come her way. The airy castles of her 
 summer holiday had seemed to have belonged to 
 someone else and to have crumbled into ruins some 
 time in a past existence. Now they reared them- 
 selves before her again, gay as ever. She confided 
 her plan to the children as she gave them their 
 evening meal, and they received it graciously. Jane 
 requested that her aunt should bring her home some 
 St. Cuthbert's beads — *' Thae queer wee stones that 
 belonged to the auld man that once lived at Holy 
 Island." Agnes Ellen Embleton owned many, 
 found by her uncle, but Agnes Ellen was a cat, and 
 would not part with them. Mary Ann promised 
 beads by the dozen all round, rashly, and with 
 gladness. "Fossils," Embleton himself explained 
 to her between puffs of his pipe, and he showed 
 her one or two from out his waistcoat pocket, and 
 told her with some scorn that the Roman Catholics 
 regarded them as charms. **Ye'll get home safe 
 enough if ye find ony o' them I " he laughed. 
 
 54 
 
THE TRAGEDY OF MARY ANN DODD 
 
 It was a hot, tired, triumphant Mary Ann Dodd 
 who jogged along the dusty highroad next afternoon, 
 wearing her holiday trappings of ancestral dolman 
 and home-trimmed bonnet with purple chrysanthe- 
 mums. Her arm ached with the basket entrusted to 
 her at the last minute by Mrs. Embleton, containing 
 one dozen eggs, a present for a friend in Holy Island 
 who was expected to fill it on its return with some- 
 thing fishy, and, it was hoped, crustaceous. Her 
 elastic-sided boots pinched her feet. The sun beat 
 fiercely upon her. But she had a heart far above 
 such minor discomforts. She had so feared, with a 
 dull, despairing, ashamed fear, that she might have 
 to go home at the end of her holiday and own to 
 her neighbours that she had never seen the sea. 
 But now her fear was groundless. She even tried 
 to sing to herself as she went on, but she gave up 
 the effort, for Mary Ann was what is known in 
 Scotland as '*timmer," and the sounds that pro- 
 ceeded in gusty tunelessness from her unaccustomed 
 throat were no pleasure even to herself. 
 
 Beal was reached at length, and there she found 
 Fortune still smiling on her venture. They told 
 her at the scattered hamlets that compose the village 
 that the tide was out, and that to wade across the 
 three miles of wet sand between the island and the 
 mainland was the simplest task possible. 
 
 And then, in all its glory, there burst on the 
 eyes of Mary Ann Dodd the sight for which, since 
 
 55 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 those childish days when, in her own inland village, 
 she had listened to the booming of a shell, she had 
 longed with an eager longing. That long, straight, 
 grey-green line that met the sky, far, far away — 
 white-fringed where it touched the yellow sand — 
 that was the sea. Her heart beat loud and fast. 
 She ran that last half-mile down to the shore. 
 Arrived at the edge of the long wet sands she sat 
 down, and, as instructed by Mrs. Embleton, removed 
 her boots and stockings and '* kilted her tails up." 
 Her striped woollen petticoat dipped in the water as 
 she followed the track by the posts across the island, 
 but the wet sand was delicious to her hot tired feet, 
 and she enjoyed splashing through the shallows as 
 any child might. " If only Mistress Broon and 
 Mistress Readman could see me now," she thought 
 to herself with jubilant triumph. The island lay 
 direct in front of her, and there was no mistaking 
 her way, for the posts marked it clearly. She 
 reached the shore at last, and donned her boots 
 and stockings, and, still full of excited enjoyment, 
 sought out the house of Mrs. Embleton's friend 
 and gave her the basket of eggs. The friend's 
 conduct was all that Mrs. Embleton had hoped, 
 and the basket was heavier than it had been when 
 she left home when it was returned to her with 
 a damp exterior and a powerful odour of fish. 
 Moreover, Mary Ann was invited to stop to tea, 
 but she hurriedly explained that she must see the 
 
 56 
 
THE TRAGEDY OF MARY ANN DODD 
 
 ruins and go down to the shore to hunt for St. 
 Cuthbert's beads. 
 
 The waves were thundering on the rocks when 
 she reached the further side of the island, and 
 she shrank, half-frightened, from them and their 
 noise as they crashed upon the stones and sprinkled 
 her with spray. And then her hunt began. No one, 
 not even her own mother, had ever fancied that Mary 
 Ann was gifted with much intelligence. She knew 
 naught of the nature of fossils. She had already 
 almost forgotten their appearance, but she pursued 
 the search with all the conscientious zeal of which 
 she was capable, and loaded her pocket with a strange 
 assortment of pebbles, flints, and stones of various 
 sizes. Not until the pocket was full — so full that 
 as she walked it swung like a ponderous pendulum 
 against her right leg, bruising it — did she desist 
 from her pursuit and return to the village. The 
 thought of tea seemed pleasant to her then — tea, 
 but, first of all, the purchase of some sweets for 
 the children. She went to a tiny shop and asked 
 for strong white peppermints, and bulls' eyes, a 
 handsome supply. Tenpence was the total, and 
 Mary Ann put her hand in the pocket of her 
 dolman to get out her purse. Not to everyone, 
 mercifully, is it granted to know that feeling of 
 numbing, chill despair that came to Mary Ann 
 Dodd when she found her pocket empty. The 
 purse was gone. It was too great a catastrophe 
 
 57 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 to be believable, and then she had so often lost 
 her purse before on that adventurous foreign tour. 
 That fat, shabby leather purse, with its strap of 
 worn elastic bore a charmed existence. It must 
 turn up again. It was quite impossible that it 
 should be gone for ever. In this belief she turned 
 all the stones out of her pocket on to the floor 
 of the shop and sought for it there. She shook 
 her skirts. She felt, nervously laughing the while, 
 all round the flounces of her gown. She positively 
 apologised to the Fates for allowing herself to 
 imagine for one moment that her purse should be 
 lost — that they could play her such a scurvy 
 trick as to lose it for good. She tried to smile, 
 and looked bewilderedly round in impossible places, 
 thinking to find it, perhaps among the glass jars 
 of sweets in the shop window, or staring at her 
 from the fender of the little fireplace behind the 
 counter, with its fat, plain, familiar face. The 
 woman of the shop was most sympathetic, and 
 did all she could to aid the search. She helped 
 to restore the stones to the pocket when it was 
 evident that the purse was not among them. 
 Subsequently she said that she thought that Mary 
 Ann was mad or drunk. 
 
 And then Mary Ann's search commenced in 
 earnest. Back to the shore she went, her eyes fixed 
 on the ground, that heavy, heavy basket still on her 
 left arm and the stones bumping and buffeting her 
 
 58 
 
THE TRAGEDY OF MARY ANN DODD 
 
 right leg at every step. In vain she looked ; in vain 
 she made eager dashes forward, with her hopes rising 
 high, to pick up some dark object on the road or 
 among the shingle on the shore. A wet stone, or a 
 bit of wood was the most she ever found. Meantime 
 the hours crept on, and Mary Ann knew she must 
 go home. Slowly she retraced her steps to the 
 little shop. A malicious demon whispered to her 
 the encouraging delusion that the shop woman 
 would greet her, smiling and delighted, with the 
 purse held out in her hand. But no, the woman 
 was sympathetic as ever, and kindly took down 
 her name and address, and promised that every 
 search and enquiry should be made, but the purse 
 was still unfound. 
 
 As Mary Ann wearily sat down on the coarse 
 grass on the last piece of dry land, to take off her 
 boots and stockings, she tried to count up the sum 
 of money her purse contained — two pounds — two 
 substantial, greasy bank notes — fifteen shillings or 
 thereabouts in silver and copper, and her return 
 ticket. It was the thought of the return ticket that 
 somehow smote her heart with the greatest sense of 
 loss and desolation. 
 
 The woman in the shop had suggested that the 
 purse might have dropped out on the sands in 
 crossing. That was a good idea. She plashed on 
 across the wet sand, and through the pools of water, 
 her eyes fixed on the ground in eager search. 
 
 59 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 The sun was going down, and the sand and water 
 were chilly. Far as eye could reach, east and west, 
 was cold, grey sea. The sands still lay stretched out, 
 cold and bare, between the island and the shore. 
 The guiding posts stood up like long black sentinels, 
 and behind them, to the left, the patches of brown 
 and black seaweed that had lain still as she crossed in 
 the afternoon, had begun to surge gently up and down 
 with the flow of the tide. The sun's last warning 
 touches of gold and green and red faded away on the 
 western sea, and only the fields on the mainland were 
 still bathed in warm light. They seemed very near, 
 those yellow corn-fields with their dividing hedges 
 and dotting green trees. It comforted Mary Ann's 
 sad heart to look at them. They meant home and 
 rest to her. 
 
 She had walked half a mile, maybe, or rather more, 
 when she discovered by an ache in her left arm, un- 
 accompanied by its attendant burden, that she had 
 left that precious basket of Mrs. Embleton's standing 
 on the shore where she took off her boots and stock- 
 ings. She turned and ran back all the way. It 
 seemed as if some malicious sprite had laid itself out 
 to hinder her return. 
 
 ** Oh if I've lost the basket too— oh if I've lost 
 Mistress Embleton's basket wi' a' thae crabs and 
 things ! " she moaned over and over again to herself 
 as she breathlessly splashed through the pools on her 
 way. But the basket was there, safely and solidly 
 
 60 
 
THE TRAGEDY OF MARY ANN DODD 
 
 planked down just where she left it. She could 
 have wept for thankfulness as she took it on her 
 arm again. 
 
 The sun had sunk lower as she faced the shore 
 once more. The grey sea looked very chilly and 
 cold, but the distant fields still looked warm and 
 homelike. The moan of the sea struck on her ear 
 as it had not done earlier in the day — its moan, and 
 the crash and roar of its waves. It seemed to her 
 that there was less sand. There was no longer a 
 dull plash as she put down her bare feet, but the 
 splash of running water. And then, in front of her, 
 a dismal sight appeared. She had not strayed from 
 the track ; she was still close to the posts, but in front 
 of her, instead of a long stretch of sand, lay a lake of 
 cold, grey water. It terrified her. She felt as when 
 at night, in an evil dream, she saw a horror coming 
 upon her and dared not shriek or cry aloud for help. 
 When a sea-gull, wheeling above her, gave its shrill 
 scream, she started with nervous dread. It seemed 
 to her impossible to ford the lake. It would take 
 her past her knees. So she w^alked steadily out to 
 the west, trying to skirt round it. " It will make 
 me so late," she thought, " and, oh dear, I'll no' 
 be there to give the bairns their suppers." 
 
 She tried to get round it, but when she had 
 walked many and many a yard out of her way, she 
 found that her attempt was vain. The water was 
 deeper still out there, and she had to retrace her 
 
 6i 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 footsteps. She would wade it, deep or shallow, she 
 bravely resolved, and held her skirts up the higher. 
 And so she reached the point at which she had 
 diverged. 
 
 But the sea had not awaited her return. The 
 lake was stirred by a rushing stream ; a gushing, 
 ever-widening, ever-deepening stream. The broAvn 
 sea-weed bobbed and floated, and streamed like the 
 hair of a drowned woman. She looked back to the 
 island, but between her and it was the sea — the 
 rushing, hungry sea. She looked in front, and there, 
 too, was water, surging, dark water. And from the 
 east and from the west came the sea, steadily, steadily, 
 swiftly, swiftly coming to devour her. Like a 
 hunted animal she looked from right to left, and 
 then desperately ran, ran, splashing, stumbling 
 through the rushing water that every moment grew 
 stronger and more fierce. And then there was a 
 worse stumble than those that had gone before — a 
 more powerful wave. 
 
 The tide still flowed in, lapping the shore, and 
 the guiding posts stood up, gaunt and black, from 
 the water; the sun had faded from those distant 
 fields that had seemed to her so close at hand ; the 
 sea-gulls still wheeled and screamed. 
 
 Only that black, stumbling, terror- blinded figure 
 was gone. And amongst the long brown, tangled 
 sea-weed that rose and fell with the waves, there 
 floated something. . . . 
 
 62 
 
THE TRAGEDY OF MARY ANN DODD 
 
 A bumping little spring cart brought her home 
 to her brother's house next day. The basket, 
 robbed by the waves, was still on her arm, and 
 they wondered why her pocket was full of stones. 
 "They're not even St. Cuthbert's beads," Mrs. 
 Embleton said pityingly, as she emptied it. 
 
 James Dodd and his wife were telegraphed for, 
 and on the evening of his return, in the public-house 
 at Beal, where he was received with all the respect- 
 ful and admiring sympathy due to the occasion, her 
 brother grew maudlinly sentimental and talked 
 much of his sister. It was then that he gave voice 
 to the popular feeling, and spoke Mary Ann Dodd's 
 epitaph. 
 
 " Mary Ann wasna fit to take care o' hersel'," he 
 said, **she meant weel — no wumman ever meant 
 better. But she was unco senseless, puir body." 
 
 63 
 
THE REVEREND NICOL EDGAR 
 
 When, in the year 1688, the roof of the old parish 
 Church of Southdean fell in with a crash very 
 shortly after the kirk had skailed, the good church- 
 goers in many another Border parish began to have 
 grave qualms as to the safety of their own places 
 of worship. The people of Hobkirk looked with 
 fresh eyes at their kirk, and realised with dismay 
 that the walls and roof were quite ripe for accident, 
 and that on any Sabbath day the entire congregation 
 might be buried where they sat. 
 
 For two years they ran the risk of entombment 
 and discussed the situation, but in 1690 the work of 
 building a new church was begun, and in 1692 there 
 stood completed an ugly little new building, of the 
 barn type so common in Scotland, with low roof, 
 clay floor, and thatched with heather. It had neither 
 belfry nor bell, and that Hobkirk was not a wealthy 
 parish is obvious from the fact that on Sacrament 
 Sabbaths the communion cups had to be hired from 
 a neighbouring parish, while one of the principal 
 heritors, Dame Magdalen Eliott, widow of the first 
 baronet of Stobs, notes in her account-book that 
 she borrowed '* 40 punds Scots " for her share in 
 the expenses of ** Hobkirk bigin.'* 
 
 64 
 
THE REVEREND NICOL EDGAR 
 
 A kirk grudgingly built by unwilling heritors — 
 and that they grudged every penny spent on the 
 church, the heritors' books testify — was scarcely likely 
 to be a first-rate piece of work, and very soon it 
 was almost as much out of repair as had been the 
 building it succeeded. 
 
 In 1694 a new minister came to the new kirk, 
 the Rev. Nicol Edgar, a son of the Laird of 
 Wedderlie. It must have been a heartless busi- 
 ness for him to labour in a parish where the church 
 was looked on as a bothersome expense, but Mr. 
 Edgar was a man whose heart was not easily 
 daunted, and he was quite ready to cope with 
 his reiving parishioners and to meet any difficulty 
 that might cross his path. He was sixty-three 
 years of age and had for twenty-six years ministered 
 to the spiritual needs of the people of Hobkirk 
 parish when he felt called upon, for the sake o£ his 
 little flock, to wrestle with a power more fearful 
 than that of any godless reiver or hard-fisted heritor. 
 
 We do not know in which year it was that one 
 who passed Hobkirk graveyard in the gloaming first 
 saw a tall man with a blue bonnet prowling amongst 
 the tombs, but for years on end that man in the 
 blue bonnet was a terror to the people of the 
 district. The bedral would see him peering down 
 at him as he dug a grave. Children making daisy- 
 chains on the big grassy mounds of God's acre 
 would run home, white-faced and sobbing, because 
 
 65 E 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 of the grim-faced man who had suddenly stood 
 before them and had as suddenly vanished away. 
 Even the kirk itself was not holy enough to prevent 
 the gaunt apparition from showing himself seated 
 in a pew and scaring nervous women into hysterics 
 or fainting fits. The whole neighbourhood lay in 
 terror because of him, and Hobkirk Church came to 
 lie under a ban because of the ghost that haunted it. 
 The Rev. Nicol Edgar bore with rumour for 
 many a day, but when the hauntings grew so 
 frequent that his two daughters, Susanna and Eliza- 
 beth, could not go to see a sick woman without 
 bringing back a fresh tale of the bogle, and even 
 began to have a horror of crossing the kirkyard, 
 the minister felt that the time of dalliance was past. 
 Prayer he had tried, and apparently in this case 
 faith without works was a fushionless thing. The 
 ghost must be laid, and who but the minister was 
 likely to be able to do it? That was a woeful 
 night in the manse of Hobkirk when Mr, Edgar 
 — then a widower — imparted his decision to his 
 weeping daughters. Fain would they have begged 
 him to remain at home, in the warmth and light 
 and sanctuary of the manse. But the minister 
 had not taken his resolve without many a day 
 and night of prayerful and earnest consideration. 
 What was clearly his duty must be performed 
 without fail. A second Greatheart, armed with 
 the big kirk Bible and with an old claymore that 
 
 66 
 
THE REVEREND NICOL EDGAR 
 
 had long been in the possession of the Edgar family, 
 he left his terrified womenfolk shortly before mid- 
 night and strode off alone to the kirk. No terrors 
 greeted him as he passed through the graveyard. 
 The dead slept in peace, and only their headstones 
 loomed black in the darkness. The key creaked 
 in the lock as he opened the church door, and his 
 footfall on the rough clay floor echoed loudly as he 
 slowly walked up the aisle and ascended the pulpit. 
 With the point of the claymore — that had laid low 
 many a living man, but surely never before had 
 been called upon to lay low the dead — he carefully 
 drew a circle around himself, and then, committing 
 his soul and himself to the safe keeping of his 
 Maker, he awaited developments. An owl hooted 
 in the trees outside, and, as if in answer, from some- 
 where near a cock "crowed a merry midnight." 
 The church was dark, black dark were the shadows, 
 each wooden pew had its separate creak, but the 
 minister quietly waited. Then gradually, gradually, 
 like a strange grey dawn, the church grew lighter, 
 until its darkest niche was lighted up. In its eastern 
 corner a strange noise was heard, and on the spot 
 from whence the eerie sound came, the minister 
 saw a hillock like a large molehill appear on the 
 earthen floor. Up and up heaved the hillock, 
 with each heave growing larger, until from out the 
 brown earth there stepped a tall man, wearing 
 the knee-breeches of the period, a blue bonnet 
 
 67 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 on his head, and on his legs a long pair of blue 
 stockings. 
 
 The description given by those who had seen the 
 man in the blue bonnet was a true one. His face 
 was white and gash, like one who has looked on an 
 evil sight and cannot forget it, and his great eyes 
 stared up at the minister like two fathomless pools 
 in a mountain burn with a white moon lighting them. 
 He walked steadily forward up to the pulpit, his 
 gaze never wavering from the minister's face, but 
 Mr. Edgar, firm and strong in the grace of God, 
 gave him stare for stare. The big kirk Bible lay 
 on its rightful place on the musty red cushion in 
 front of him, the claymore that had been his fore- 
 fathers' was held tight in his right hand. As he 
 reached the pulpit steps the ghost halted, stooped 
 to pull off his blue hose, and pulled them off de- 
 liberately, gave each one a shake, and threw them 
 across the back of the seat just below the pulpit. 
 The familiarity of the sight — the long knitted stock- 
 ings of coarse blue yarn — warmed the chilled blood 
 of the godly minister. Whatever the man with the 
 blue bonnet might be, undoubtedly he wore hose 
 such as might have been knitted in the manse. To 
 make sure Mr. Edgar leaned over the pulpit, impaled 
 a stocking on the point of his sword, lifted it up, 
 and found that it was indeed and in truth a real, 
 tangible, knitted piece of yarn. The comfort of the 
 discovery was very great. A ghost whose stockings 
 
 68 
 
THE REVEREND NICOL EDGAR 
 
 were of stout blue worsted instead of flickering 
 phosphorus was a more or less possible creature 
 to deal with. Opening the Bible that lay before 
 him, and holding his sword above his head, the 
 minister adjured his fearsome congregation of one 
 to state by all that was holy the cause of his 
 appearance. 
 
 As meekly as any earthly penitent might have 
 done, the ghost confessed that in his life he had been 
 a cattle-dealer, that he had been foully murdered on 
 the moors on his way from Lammas Fair, and that 
 his spirit never could find rest until his murderer had 
 been found and had paid the penalty for bloody 
 murder. Very patiently and sympathetically Mr. 
 Edgar listened to his tale. 
 
 ** But what gars ye trouble Hobkirk ? " he asked. 
 " Man, yeVe been as bad as the Plague here. Ye've 
 brought a fama against the Kirk of Hobkirk. Decent 
 folk would rather be hurled all the way to Souden 
 than be laid here, and the attendance in the kirk 
 on the Lord's Day is sore diminished." 
 
 The cattle-dealer had no defence. All he asked 
 of the minister was that he might be allotted a 
 certain space of ground where his restless spirit might 
 walk to and fro without let or hindrance until such 
 time as his murderer might be brought to bay. 
 
 *' Puir body," said Mr. Edgar. " There's nane will 
 grudge ye that — for I'll no' ask the heritors. And 
 here's your marching orders : — Henceforth, until the 
 
 69 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 Lord gives your wearifu' spirit rest, ye shall trouble 
 Hobkirk no more, but shall walk in a straight line 
 atween Hoddleswoodie and Howabank, on the lands 
 of Hoppisburn." 
 
 Grey and gash did the minister's face look as he 
 opened the manse door in the dawning, and was 
 received by his trembling daughters as one returned 
 from the dead. 
 
 " I have done my duty," he said in a weary voice 
 when they plied him with questions, " and a merciful 
 God will do the rest." 
 
 There is no record of the man with the blue 
 bonnet ever being seen on the lands of Hoppisburn, 
 but certain it is that from that night he returned 
 to Hobkirk graveyard and kirk nevermore. 
 
 The mercy of God is infinite. Man's mercy is 
 never a thing to lippen to. One might think that 
 the people of his parish showed some gratitude to 
 their minister for all he had dared and done for 
 them in the kirk on that dark night. But ever after 
 his meeting with the restless spirit the minister of 
 Hobkirk was looked on as an uncanny thing by 
 most of the members of his flock. The superstitious 
 could never feel comfortable in his presence. 
 
 " He has a kinda look I dinnae like," said they. 
 ** Mind ye, I'm no sayin' he's a warlock, but I wadnae 
 like to meet him alane in the kirkyard on a nicht 
 when the mune's no' owre bricht." 
 
 So did the Rev. Nicol Edgar pay for his embassy 
 
 70 
 
THE REVEREND NICOL EDGAR 
 
 to one who had intimidated his flock, and for that 
 flock's subsequent peace of mind. 
 
 Four years after his night of vigil the minister 
 of Hobkirk died, and was buried in the graveyard 
 of his church. One might imagine that his parish- 
 ioners liked to think of him resting near them 
 after having for so many years spent his life on 
 their behalf. But there had been too much talk 
 about the minister's uncanniness. Now that he was 
 dead the Hobkirk people felt sure that his spirit 
 would wander, and that once again the church and 
 graveyard would be haunted places. Some of the 
 bolder young men of the place decided that the 
 wise thing to do was to lift him from his grave 
 under the shadow of the kirk, carry him to some 
 lonely spot, and leave him where only the whaups 
 and the pewits would be likely to suffer from his 
 restlessness. 
 
 It was a warm dark night early in June 1724 
 when the grave was rifled. The resurrectionists 
 broke open the coffin, tied a rope tightly round 
 the body of their dead minister, binding his arms 
 close to his sides, and swung off" with their burden 
 towards Bonchester Hill. They were half-way to 
 the spot they had fixed upon when, in crossing a 
 deep syke, one of the bearers stumbled and roughly 
 jerked the corpse. One of the arms got loose 
 from the rope, and the chill dead hand of the 
 minister violently smote the face of one of his 
 
 71 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 bearers. It was more than enough to cause a 
 panic amongst those who had already fancied that 
 they saw strange forms and heard dread noises, 
 and whose hearts had grown chilled by the still- 
 ness and loneliness of the dark June night. The 
 body of the Rev. Nicol Edgar was dropped without 
 ceremony amongst the bracken in the syke, and the 
 resurrectionists fancied all the warlocks, ghosts, and 
 evil things of the nether world in pursuit as they 
 ran, at heart-bursting speed, back to their homes 
 at Hobkirk. 
 
 All night and most of the next day the dead 
 minister lay out there, the kind open sky above 
 him, but when next night came round a party of 
 bearers returned and carried him back to his grave 
 in the kirkyard. There, though much defaced by 
 time and weather, the record on his headstone is 
 still to be read : 
 
 " Here lys Nicol Edgar, son of the Laird of 
 Wedderlie, who died upon the 31st May 1724, 
 aged 67 years. And his spouse Susanna, who died 
 30th June 1713, aged 52." 
 
 72 
 
THE FALSE ALARM OF 1804 
 
 It is an old tale, that of the Lancashire man who 
 owned a bull-pup and who, when the dog fiercely 
 attacked his son and the son shrieked for help, 
 responded calmly : '' Let un be, lad ! let un worry 1 
 it'll be the makkin o' the poop." A little brutal 
 perhaps, a little unpaternal, yet no worse in senti- 
 ment than the speech of the true-born Briton when 
 he says that "A real good war — an invasion of 
 Great Britain — and a real good licking is what 
 our nation at present requires." In a word, **it 
 would be the makkin o' the poop." 
 
 It may be true, yet if those who speak seriously 
 believed in the possibility of an invasion, presumably 
 they would not speak in quite the same strain. 
 It is only to the minority of the British people 
 that such a contingency seems not only to be 
 likely, but imminent. To a very small proportion 
 of the inhabitants of our Islands does the necessity 
 for a systematic preparation of national defence 
 seem urgent. Already we have forgotten the tales 
 our grandfathers told us of the days when appre- 
 hension laid chilly hands on many hearts and grim 
 fear stalked unabashed through great Britain. 
 
 73 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 For a giant then walked the earth, and where 
 Napoleon Bonaparte was, there was ever found 
 action, and action that, for him, almost invariably 
 meant success. 
 
 A French invasion of Britain was a thing that 
 was daily expected, daily looked for. In 1 Soo- 
 the favourite threat of nurses when our grand- 
 parents cried was that they should be thrown to 
 " Boney and his Frenchmen." It yet wanted eleven 
 years till Waterloo should close the long and bloody 
 drama that had brought grief to many a home, and 
 in those early days of the nineteenth century, alike 
 over England and Scotland, the great Shadow 
 hung. 
 
 In the minds of all God-fearing people the name 
 of Napoleon was synonymous with that of ApoUyon, 
 the Arch-Fiend, the great Destroyer. He and his 
 armies had overrun and well-nigh conquered Europe. 
 The Netherlands had fallen before him. Spain, 
 Sweden, and Prussia had been forced to sue for 
 peace. Lombardy had been conquered in a single 
 campaign. Austria had been forced on her knees in 
 the Treaty of Campo Formio, and Britain was left 
 without a single ally. From the Tiber to the Seine 
 he had written in blood his right to possession. The 
 Powers of Darkness seemed to fight for him. ** He 
 had always won," says one writer ; " that was the 
 terror of it." 
 
 The children played French and English with 
 
 74 
 
THE FALSE ALARM OF 1804 
 
 all their might. Schoolboys gave and took black 
 eyes for the deadly insult of ** French puddock," for 
 that frogs were the staple food of the cut-throat 
 Johnny Crapauds was a horrid fact well known to 
 every intelligent schoolboy. Children of larger 
 growth also played at soldiers. 
 
 " We all cracked very crouse about fighting," says 
 Mansie Wauch, '' when we heard of garments rolled 
 in blood only from abroad. ... I shall never forget 
 the first day I got my regimentals on; and when 
 I looked at myself in the bit glass, just to think I 
 was a sodger, who never in my life could thole the 
 smell of powder, and had not fired anything but 
 a penny cannon on the Fourth of June, when I was 
 a halflins callant. I thought my throat would have 
 been cut with the black-corded stock ; for whenever 
 I looked down, without thinking like, my chafF-blade 
 played clank against it with such a dunt that I maistly 
 chacked my tongue off." 
 
 Mothers may have smiled at their sons as they 
 swaggered, glorious in a new volunteer or yeomanry 
 uniform, but tears must often have been very near 
 the smiles, for it cannot be so easy for the fisher-folk 
 on a storm-beaten coast to laugh at their children's 
 plays of shipwreck as for the mothers who live far 
 inland and have no fear of storms. 
 
 Even the Jacobite songs that had stirred men's 
 hearts in the '45 — while over the toll paid then 
 to the bloodthirsty god War some hearts had not 
 
 75 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 ceased to ache — were adapted to suit the case, and 
 our grandparents were dandled to the song, sung 
 to the original air : 
 
 " Bonaparte owre the sea, 
 Threatens jou and threatens me ; 
 Single-handed though we be, 
 Whistle owre the lave o't ! " 
 
 The pulpits of Scotland rang with warlike decla- 
 mations. In Scotland, at Kilmany, Dr. Thomas 
 Chalmers, who was afterwards to make a name for 
 himself as one of the fathers of " The Disruption," 
 preached to his people with a fervour that must have 
 made the heart of many a good woman sink into 
 her shoes and shiver there: "May that day when 
 Bonaparte ascends the throne of Britain be the last 
 of my existence ; may I be the first to ascend the 
 scaffold he erects to extinguish the work and spirit 
 of the country ; may my blood mingle with the 
 blood of the patriots ; and may I die at the foot 
 of that aitar on which British independence is the 
 victim." 
 
 Thus thundered Dr. Thomas Chalmers. In the 
 heart of every true-bred Presbyterian Scot there 
 has ever been an undeniable hankering after the 
 martyr's crown. But in spite of the forebodings 
 of that eminent divine, and the equally gloomy ex- 
 pectations of those better versed than he in the game 
 of war, in spite of the great Conqueror himself, who 
 
 76 
 
THE FALSE ALARM OF 1804 
 
 had arranged that the Pope should crown him " King 
 of England" at Notre Dame on his return, and 
 who had dies prepared for a medal bearing on one 
 side his own head crowned with laurel, and on the 
 reverse Hercules crushing Antaeus in his arms, the 
 motto being " Descente en AngleterreJ' and in smaller 
 letters '^ Frappe a Londres 1804," there was no 
 ascent by Napoleon Bonaparte of the throne of 
 Britain. 
 
 We had instead our " False Alarm," to be followed 
 by our Trafalgar and our Waterloo, and the British 
 lion, still calm and unmoved, looked across the sea 
 to the little rocky island of St. Helena, and saw 
 there a pale little man, with folded arms and knitted 
 brows, and a heart full of the mighty sorrow of a 
 mighty failure. 
 
 In the Highlands and Lowlands of Scotland, in 
 Northumbria, on Devonshire Moor and Sussex and 
 Kentish Weald, from the Pentland Firth to the 
 English Channel, from hilly Wales to the bogs 
 of Galway, war levied her tax on husband, father, 
 and son, and without a murmur the tax was 
 paid. 
 
 There is in this country of ours no epidemic 
 more rapidly contagious, more quickly ubiquitous, 
 than the war-fever that fires our blood and makes 
 us sweep aside all party considerations and convictions 
 as so many childish toys that we must dally with no 
 longer, so burningly desirous are we that we and ours 
 
 77 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 shall play the man and fight, and die if need be, for 
 King and country. 
 
 Distance and wont and use may sometimes 
 reduce the fever-heat of warlike patriotism, but in 
 Britain in those days the excitement was never 
 allowed to cool. For a year or two only twenty- 
 five miles of shallow water divided Britain from a 
 host of 150,000 of her well-armed enemies. On 
 clear days people on the south coast could see the ac- 
 coutrements of driUing armies at Boulogne twinkle 
 in the sun. A fog that must last for twenty-four 
 hours was one of the few requirements of the little 
 General who had everything so carefully planned for 
 a successful invasion, and there was never a foggy 
 night in those years that there was not a possibility 
 that peaceful English homesteads might be sacked 
 and burned before morning and their occupants put 
 to the sword. In Scotland the outposts by the grey 
 North Sea were ever ready, ever watchful. Any- 
 where from Berwick to Leith the foe might be ex- 
 pected to land, or a mighty French army might 
 tramp across the Border hills as the Romans did of 
 old, and view the country of their conquest from 
 the Carter Bar. It was a situation that seized the 
 imaginations and fired the pens of the poets of that 
 day. We had no " Tommy Atkinses " nor 
 " Absent-minded Beggars " then, but Robert Burns, 
 a Dumfriesshire volunteer, sang "Does haughty 
 
 78 
 
THE FALSE ALARM OF 1804 
 
 Gaul invasion threat?" dropping, after his first 
 somewhat bombastic line, into his more familiar 
 Scotch: 
 
 '* Be Britain still to Britain true, 
 Amang oursels united ; 
 For never but by British hands 
 Must British wrangs be righted.** 
 
 Walter Scott, a member of that corps, wrote 
 " The War Song of the Royal Edinburgh Light 
 Dragoons," "To horse! to horse!" (and, to the 
 credit of the dragoons, be it said that they were 
 mounted, armed, and uniformed at their own ex- 
 pense) : 
 
 '* To horse ! to horse ! the standard flies, 
 The bugles sound the call ! " 
 
 In "Donald M'Donald," Hogg, the Ettrick 
 shepherd, sang for the Highlanders : 
 
 " Wad Bonaparte land at Fort William, 
 Auld Europe nae langer should grane ; 
 I laugh when I think how we'd gall him 
 Wi' bullet, wi' steel, and wi' stane." 
 
 His friend David Thomson, styled by Sir Walter 
 Scott " the Galashiels Bard," proclaimed that beyond 
 all dispute 
 
 *' The safeguard of peace is the helmet of war " ; 
 
 79 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 and a greater than he was roused to equally war- 
 like sentiment : 
 
 " Vanguard of liberty, ye men of Kent ! 
 Ye children of a soil that doth advance 
 It's haughty brow against the coast of France, 
 Now is the time to prove your hardiment ! " 
 • <••••• 
 
 No parleying now ! In Britain is one breath ; 
 We all are with you now from shore to shore : 
 Ye men of Kent, 'tis victory or death ! " 
 
 So wrote that gentle, tender nature-lover, William 
 Wordsworth, from his home at Grasmere in 
 October 1803. 
 
 On 20th October 1803 a general fast was observed 
 throughout the country, and it was indeed a field- 
 day for the Scottish divines. In the High Church 
 of Edinburgh the preacher's text in the morning was, 
 ** O God, go forth with Thy hosts," and in the after- 
 noon, ** Help us, O Lord our God, for we rest in 
 Thee, and in Thy name we go against this multi- 
 tude." In the Tolbooth Church of the same city the 
 preacher spoke from the words, " Be of good courage, 
 and let us play the men for our people"; and a 
 well-known Scottish minister. Dr. Paterson of 
 Glasgow (a grandson of " Old Mortality," and a 
 Border raider by birth, as one might almost guess) 
 went still further: "He that hath not a sword, let 
 him sell his garment and buy one," were the words 
 he chose to preach from. The godliest of Presbyters 
 
 8o 
 
THE FALSE ALARM OF 1804 
 
 have always been good fighting men, and the men of 
 Edinburgh and of Glasgow must have felt their souls 
 stirred within them that day, even as the souls of 
 the Israelites were stirred when their leaders called 
 aloud to the God of battles. 
 
 But it was left for the Border — that piece of 
 debatable land where English and Scottish blood 
 had so often reddened the heather and bracken — 
 where only the cries of whaups and pewits break the 
 Sabbath-day stillness of moor and moss — to show 
 what sort of blood ran in the veins not only of 
 Britain's regularly mobilised troops, but in those of 
 hind and herd, of weaver and of artisan. And, as 
 not infrequently before and since, the deed that 
 proved what courage can be, and that made a whole 
 nation a prouder and a stronger one, was the result 
 of a great mistake. 
 
 In the winter of 1803-4, Napoleon, with 
 150,000 tried veterans, lay encamped at Boulogne, 
 with a fleet of flat-bottomed boats, ready for crossing 
 the Channel. " Let us be masters of the Channel 
 for six hours," said this monster who was reported to 
 live upon human flesh and have rashers of baby 
 every morning for his breakfast, ** and we are masters 
 of the world." On what part of British shores he 
 would land, no one could tell. Every Englishman 
 was sure it must be on the south coast of England, 
 and Scotchmen were equally certain that some portion 
 of the Scottish coast was destined to receive him. 
 
 8i F 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 News travelled slowly in those days. News- 
 papers only appeared once a week. Carriers going 
 from the small Border towns to Edinburgh or to 
 Newcastle felt themselves on their return to be of 
 no small importance, so precious was the freight 
 of verbal news and rumour which they carried with 
 them. At every stopping-place the coaches were 
 besieged by eager crowds, who feasted their eyes 
 on the caricatures of "Boney," chalked by artistic 
 wags on the panels, and held out hungry ears for 
 each scrap of information. Can we, pampered 
 children of the twentieth century, imagine how we 
 should have felt had we had to wait a week, or 
 more, for the latest news from South Africa, and 
 then have it brought to us viva voce by the not 
 always accurate guard of a lumbering stage coach ? 
 
 That was the time of which it is said that " the 
 glint of a fire at night upon the coast would set 
 every woman upon her knees, and every man grip- 
 ping for his musket." There were no railways, no 
 telegraphs, but a simple, yet effective system of 
 signalling by beacon was arranged. 
 
 In the event of the French fleet appearing 
 anywhere off the coast, the beacon nearest the 
 supposed place of disembarkation was to be lighted. 
 From one hill-top to another, the fiery signal was 
 to be passed, and warning of impending danger 
 thus speedily given. 
 
 The system was no new one. Many a time 
 
 82 
 
THE FALSE ALARM OF 1804 
 
 had the clans of Teviotdale, Liddesdale, Tweedside, 
 Ettrick, and Yarrow been stirred up by it. When 
 chief fought against chief, and the forays and re- 
 prisals of English and Scottish reivers were of daily 
 occurrence, men would oftentimes be roused at 
 night by the flaming signal — the "red cock's crow" 
 — and ride in hot haste through the darkness to 
 draw the sword for their feudal lord. An Act of 
 Parliament in 1455 had drawn up a code of rules 
 for the management of such beacons. It directs 
 that " One bale or faggot shall be warning of the 
 approach of the English in any manner ; two bales 
 that they are coming indeed \ four bales, blazing 
 beside each other, that the enemy are in great 
 force." . . . "The same taikenings to be watched 
 and maid at Eggerhope Castell, fra they se the 
 fire of Hume, that they fire right awa. And in 
 like manner on Soutra Edge, sail se the fire of 
 Eggerhope Castell, and mak taikenings in like 
 manner. And then may all Louthaine be warned, 
 and in special the Castell of Edinburgh; and their 
 four fires to be made in like manner, that they in 
 Fife, and fra Stirling east, and the east part of 
 Louthaine, and to Dunbar, all may se them and 
 come to the defence of the land." In later times, 
 Sir Walter Scott tells us, those beacons were "a 
 long and strong tree set up, with an iron brander 
 fixed on a stalk in the middle of it, for holding a 
 tar barrel." Eight waggon-loads of faggots, with 
 
 83 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 three or four tar barrels, was the regulation for 
 those beacons which flared up in warning on that 
 January night in 1804. 
 
 Should the French fleet arrive in daylight, 
 twelve minute guns were to be fired from Eye- 
 mouth, St. Abb's Head, Berwick-on-Tweed, Knock- 
 enhair (near Dunbar), and Haddington. If at 
 night, the minute guns were to be fired, and the 
 beacons lighted, while, in either case, men detailed 
 for the purpose were to drive all the cattle inland, 
 remove all the upper mill-stones, and destroy all 
 the ovens. Places of rendezvous were appointed 
 by the military authorities, and in the Borders war- 
 like feeling was at fever height. Leith and Berwick 
 were named as the most likely ports for the dis- 
 embarkation of the French, and heated imaginations 
 sighted the distant fleet making for these ports, 
 almost daily, for months. On the Dunion — the 
 round green hill near Jedburgh — on the furze- 
 covered crest of Duns Law, on Ruberslaw, on the 
 hill where the old keep of Hume Castle still stands, 
 on the farthest east of the three sister Eildons, and 
 on Penielheugh, commanding Lower Teviotdale, 
 where a monument to those who fell at Waterloo 
 is now visible from every part of the Border — on 
 every prominent hill-top from John o' Groat's to 
 Land's End, beacon fires were laid. The Belling 
 and Cheviot Hills had their fair share, while the 
 men of Ettrick Forest looked to The Wisp and 
 
 84 
 
THE FALSE ALARM OF 1804 
 
 Black Andrew — two rugged peaks towering darkly- 
 above the silvery Ettrick and tumbling Yarrow as 
 they run through their valleys. 
 
 The night of Tuesday, 31st January 1804, was 
 chill and dark, as the men on each beacon hill kept 
 their lonely watch. The Tweed and Teviot, Ettrick 
 and Yarrow, swollen by winter floods, rushed 
 through the dark shadows of their wooded banks. 
 That great sweep of Borderland that we see as we 
 stand on any of these beacon hills — ^the ploughed 
 fields with their thickly intersecting fir-woods, the 
 purple plain, with the jagged line of mountain 
 towards the south, the sharp peak of Eildon, and 
 Black Hill, and Ruberslaw — all was wiped out by 
 the darkness, with here and there the glow-worm 
 twinkle of the lights of a little village or farm. 
 
 The beacon on Hume Castle Hill was under the 
 superintendence of a retired captain of the Regulars, 
 who lived three miles from the Castle, the man im- 
 mediately in charge being a sergeant in the volunteers 
 and a newcomer to the district. 
 
 At Shores wood, in Northumberland, at about 9.30 
 that night, some charcoal burners were hard at work, 
 and as the red flames rushed skywards, they caught 
 the eye of the zealous volunteer. 
 
 Shoreswood is sufficiently near Doolaw where a 
 properly authorised beacon was known to be, for the 
 two localities to be mistaken by an over-zealous man 
 on a very dark night. In a twinkling, a light 
 
 85 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 was applied to the tarry wood on Hume Castle Hill, 
 and, with a crackle and a roar, the fire burst forth, 
 to publish far and w^ide its false alarm. 
 
 As soon as the flames of the beacon were seen 
 by the captain in charge, he sent a groom on horse- 
 back, full gallop, to ascertain the cause of the 
 sergeant's proclamation. The groom returned with 
 the tale that the sergeant had made a mistake and 
 had only then discovered it. But it was a mistake 
 which it was too late to rectify. One has sometimes, 
 from the dark window of a house in town, watched 
 admiringly the activity of a lamplighter as he hurries 
 along the dusky street and rapidly adds one light 
 to another. On the Scottish Border, on that dark 
 January night, the lights sprang up so rapidly, one 
 after another, that they might have been the work 
 of a titanic lamplighter. Doolaw beacon followed 
 the lead of Hume Castle: Caverton Edge, the 
 Eildons, and the Dunion followed suit, and passed 
 the tidings on to the hills of Cumberland. Steadily 
 onwards, north and south, the fiery signal ran, until 
 at St. Abb's Head the naval officer who was in 
 command of the station reasoned with himself that 
 an invasion must come from without, and not from 
 within, and that Napoleon must land on the coast 
 or nowhere. Thus did he refrain from lighting his 
 beacon, and spared the Lothians and north of Scot- 
 land, and the country south of Berwick-on-Tweed, all 
 the tribulations and the glories of the False Alarm. 
 
 86 
 
THE FALSE ALARM OF 1804 
 
 The beacon was fired by a mistake, but it was 
 a "mistake" that morally strengthened a nation's 
 power, and the response to that call to arms is a 
 fact of history to rouse a nation's pride. 
 
 In every town and village a wild scene of excite- 
 ment was caused by the sudden call to duty. 
 
 At Jedburgh, the old county town of Roxburgh, 
 a bell clanged the alarm, while the town drummer 
 beat it sturdily. The town-bell in the old tower 
 rang out a tocsin. Gilbert Elliot, Lord Minto, a 
 Lieutenant-Colonel of the 1st Battalion of the Rox- 
 burgh Volunteers, already a distinguished man and 
 the friend of Nelson, proved himself a worthy son of 
 the Border and a scion of the House of Elliot, which 
 was a terror to those on the English side in the 
 old freebooting days, by swimming on horseback 
 the flooded Teviot and leaving his servant to follow 
 by an easier route. The other Lieutenant-Colonel 
 of the battalion was John Rutherfurd of Edgerston, 
 whose father. Major Rutherfurd, was killed in the 
 war with the revolted Colonies of North America at 
 Ticonderoga in 1758, and who was a descendant of 
 Robert de Rutherfurd — the friend and gallant sup- 
 porter of Robert the Bruce — who was slain by the 
 Saracens in Spain along with the Black Douglas 
 in 1330. The Roxburgh volunteers were lucky in 
 their leaders. 
 
 The troops assembled in the market-place, and 
 women and children hung weeping to husbands, 
 
 8; 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 lovers, and fathers, who were being so ruthlessly 
 torn from them. In the semi-darkness many mis- 
 takes of identity were made. One gallant volun- 
 teer had a small bundle thrust into his hand by 
 an agitated young woman, who immediately there- 
 after ejaculated, " Mercy me ! it's no' him ! " and 
 fled in horrified haste. An old woman, throwing 
 up her window, demanded in a shriek, "If ony 
 person could tell her at which end o' the toun the 
 French wad come in." One man, with his wife and 
 family — Jedburgh still blushes at the tale — took to 
 the hills, provisioned for a fortnight. Another, for 
 whom — for he was a single man — Jedburgh's blushes 
 are still deeper, remained concealed under a bed 
 until the close of the following day. ** Dr. Doctor," 
 a third man wrote to his medical attendant, "this 
 comes to enform you that the Kernel of our Core 
 will not let me off from voluntearin. So you wod 
 oblige me by giving me a sartificate that I am 
 inkapable of serving." " Oh, mother, mother, a wuss 
 a was a wumman ! " was the moan of a hero from 
 Denholm as he buckled on his sword to go. ** Ye 
 auld limmer ! see what ee've brocht iz tae ! " was 
 the reproach that another mother received from her 
 son who felt it was not a good thing to be born 
 into a world where French invasions had to be dealt 
 with. But he was also a ''Jethart callant" who 
 bore arms all that night, and the following day, 
 with his hands in so painful and dangerous a state 
 
THE FALSE ALARM OF 1804 
 
 that no medical authority could have pronounced 
 him fit for active service, and when the roll of 
 volunteers was called there was but one man absent, 
 and he — so says tradition — was a lame tailor. 
 
 The company, when drawn up before Lord 
 Minto, must have looked a dandy troop indeed. A 
 blue swallow-tailed coat with scarlet facings, white 
 waistcoat and breeches, white cotton stockings and 
 short black gaiters, a tall bearskin cap, with a 
 taller feather — such was the ingenuously unpractical 
 uniform of the Roxburgh volunteers, so that the 
 appearance in their ranks of a shabby stranger in 
 working clothes, and armed with an old firelock, was 
 the more noticeable. 
 
 " Hullo, my lad," said Lord Minto, halting 
 before him, "where are you from?" "Frae Horsley 
 Hill, my Lord," said the man, touching the battered 
 remains of an old felt hat by way of salute. " And 
 pray, where are you going?" "To have a day's 
 blattering at the French, my Lord." "But you 
 are not a volunteer." " May be no, but I am 
 willing to be one," was the prompt reply. " Hold 
 up your hand," said Lord Minto, and the new 
 recruit was immediately sworn in. 
 
 The "Roxburgh Gentlemen and Yeomanry 
 Cavalry " mustered 108 strong, under another of the 
 clan Elliot, Colonel Elliot of Borthwickbrae, who 
 had already, more than once, successfully fought 
 the French, during the Irish Rebellion, when he 
 
 89 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 held a commission in the Roxburgh Fencible 
 Dragoons. " The conduct of the cavalry was highly- 
 conspicuous," say the dispatches relating to the 
 Battle of Ballinamuck in 1798, where the Roxburgh 
 Fencibles took a leading part. 
 
 At 6 A.M. the bugler sounded the order for 
 saddling, and at 6.20 every man was found in his 
 place. A certain Corporal Grieve of Branxholm — 
 one of whose descendants, a midshipman of 17, died 
 gallantly at his post on board of the ill-fated Victoria 
 in 1893 — arrived with two bundles of hay at his 
 saddle bow. There might be but little fodder where 
 they were going, he explained, and his horse was dear 
 to him. And off, at a sharp trot, went the Eastern 
 Division of the Roxburgh Cavalry, to Kelso, where 
 they joined the troops from the west, and rode 
 together to Duns, where they were billeted for 
 the night. 
 
 Hawick was in no way behind her rival Jed- 
 burgh in her response to the call to arms. 
 
 The eligible age for service was from seventeen 
 to fifty-five, but in the Roll of Names for General 
 Defence, dated August 27, 1803, we read the 
 names of ** Thomas Dyce, preacher, above age, yet 
 willing to serve," and of "Walter Grieve, under 
 age, yet willing to serve." 
 
 As there were no beacons in the wild country 
 beyond Hawick, the cavalry trumpeter rode up 
 the valley of the river Slitrig, and down through 
 
 90 
 
THE FALSE ALARM OF 1804 
 
 Liddesdale, waking sleepers up with a start, and 
 rousing all the echoes of the hills. Worthy de- 
 scendants of Scotts, Elliots, and Armstrongs, famed 
 in Border legend and ballad, did those men of 
 Liddesdale prove themselves to be. The haste with 
 which they were armed and saddled did credit to 
 their reiving descent. Their horses had, perforce, 
 to swim the flooded Liddel; many of them had 
 twenty miles to ride. But daylight saw them in 
 full force, piped through Hawick with two Elliots 
 in command, and to the old Border air : — 
 
 *' My name is little Jock Elliot, 
 An' wha daur meddle wi' me ! " 
 
 It is recorded by Sir Walter Scott that when 
 Dr. John Leyden, the Border poet, was lying ill 
 of fever in India, the news of the rising of his 
 fellow Borderers reached him. As he listened to 
 the account a friend read him of the various troops 
 entering Hawick, the languor of illness left him, 
 he sprang up in bed, and, with vehement gesticu- 
 lations, he sang : — 
 
 " Oh, wha daur meddle wi* me ! 
 An' wha daur meddle wi' me ? 
 My name is little Jock Elliot, 
 An' wha daur meddle wi' me ! " 
 
 His attendants thought him delirious, until his 
 friend and fellow Borderer, Sir John Malcolm, was 
 
 91 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 able to explain what a Borderer's love of country 
 could mean. 
 
 Captain William Elliot of Harwood commanded 
 the Western troop. He had seen active service 
 against the French and rebel Irish in 1798, and 
 when he subsequently became captain commandant 
 of the Western troop of Roxburghshire Yeomanry, 
 there could have been found no more popular officer. 
 His troop turned out to a man, and marched through 
 the night to Dalkeith, some forty miles away. 
 
 " Oh, faither, faither ! Kill's yersel' ! Kill's yer- 
 sel' ! " cried a Hawick weaver's daughter, " ye'U 
 dae't cannier than the French ! " 
 
 The parish of Yetholm, a stronghold of the 
 gipsies — their place of royal residence, indeed — pro- 
 duced 188 volunteers. The schoolmaster, who had 
 a command, noticed, when they were ready to 
 march, a woman in their company. "What are 
 you doing here, Bella ? " he asked ; " this is no 
 place for a woman. Where are you going to ? " 
 
 "I'll aye slack a bidlet afore my bairns," was 
 the reply of the dauntless Bella. 
 
 The volunteers of Smailholm, a tiny hamlet on 
 a hill above the Tweed, marched into Kelso during 
 the night, headed by their minister, the Rev. Thomas 
 Cleghorn. " They wore," says one writer, " flannels 
 for underwear, all of which had been made in the 
 manse." 
 
 Another little village, Sprouston, near Kelso, 
 
 92 
 
THE FALSE ALARM OF 1804 
 
 was also led by its minister, the Rev. Andrew 
 Thomson, subsequently a celebrated Edinburgh 
 divine. In the parishes of Lilliesleaf and Bowden, 
 under the shadow of the Eildon Hills, Sir John 
 Riddell of Riddell, Lieutenant- Colonel of the 2nd 
 Battalion of Roxburgh volunteers, had in four days 
 enrolled 64 men, 75 horses, 54 carts, and 27 drivers, 
 all to be ready when called upon, and they mobilised 
 most gallantly. The Roxburghshire volunteers 
 numbered 1060; Berwickshire produced 160 yeo- 
 men and 772 infantry; so that there were some 
 2000 men besides those in Northumberland. Three 
 thousand men in all answered the summons. The 
 total enrolled throughout the country was 90,000 
 militiamen and 42,000 volunteers. 
 
 At St. Boswells the roll was called at one 
 o'clock in the morning, and out of 500 volunteers 
 only two failed to answer to their names. " We had 
 not yet got our coarse regimental red coats, white 
 breeks with black legs, like Highland sheep," wrote 
 John Younger, the village shoemaker, who was 
 one of those who answered the call, " and so, of 
 course, we marched as we were, in our own various- 
 coloured raggery." At Kelso Bridge they found 
 a strong palisade as if in readiness for the French, 
 and in scaling this the brave John's corduroy breeches 
 suffered serious damage. *'So in we must march 
 through the Kelso causeway to join the assembling 
 force in the Cross Keys' big ballroom — my shirt all 
 
 93 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 the while doing, of its own free-will, the kindly 
 office of a Highlandman's kilt very sympathetically. 
 No matter for the colour of kilts in such a night 
 as this, and such a ballroom surely I It might 
 beat that at Brussels, I suppose, for mud, crowd, 
 noise, and confusion." 
 
 At Kelso, ball cartridge was served out to 
 each man, and 14 lbs. of biscuit dealt out to them, 
 and in the dark street, lighted only by blazing ^ 
 torches, they anxiously awaited their marching 
 orders. 
 
 At Galashiels those weavers who were too old 
 or too young to serve, watched, with the women 
 and children, the start of the country's defenders. 
 And then they found that they could not bear to 
 stay behind. Armed with old guns, sticks, and 
 pitchforks, or any other weapon that came handy, 
 the old men, women, and boys marched along the 
 Edinburgh road, a valiant, if undisciplined crew, 
 in the wake of the volunteers, until fatigue and 
 the non-appearance of the French army caused 
 them to give up their well-meant effort and return 
 to their families. 
 
 Mr. Pringle of Whytbank, captain of the troop 
 of Selkirk yeomanry, was visiting Lord Napier at 
 Wilton Lodge, near Hawick, that evening. The 
 well-trained butler entered the room and solemnly 
 made the announcement, " My Lord, supper is on 
 the table, and the beacon's blazing." Equally de- 
 
 94 
 
THE FALSE ALARM OF 1804 
 
 corously must that worthy man have announced 
 the simultaneous arrival of supper and of the end 
 of the world. With a delightfully responsive de- 
 corum Lord Napier remarked, " Whytbank, if the 
 beacon's blazing, little supper may suffice. The 
 sooner we ride to Selkirk the better." 
 
 At 4 A.M. the Souters of Selkirk — " the Flowers 
 o' the Forest " — got marching orders. Many of them 
 lived fifteen, twenty, and thirty miles from Selkirk, 
 yet when they mustered at the Cross, every man, 
 save one, answered to the roll call. Gideon Scott, 
 a tailor, was the recreant. His second thoughts, 
 however, were better than his first, for no sooner had 
 his companions-at-arms started on their long night 
 march than his courage reappeared, and he set 
 out in pursuit. As a passenger on the " Fly " 
 coach, he reached Dalkeith next morning, and 
 entered the first barber's shop he saw, for he 
 wished to look as trim and soldier- like as possible 
 when he joined his company. Others of his towns- 
 men had been there before him, and had told the 
 barber of the defaulting S outer, and he, not sus- 
 pecting the identity of his customer, proceeded to 
 entertain him with the story of the week-kneed 
 and chicken-hearted tailor. Having vigorously 
 lathered the tailor's face, and seized his nose with 
 the fingers of his left hand, the barber flourished 
 his gleaming blade and apostrophized Selkirk's 
 only coward — " Base, craven - hearted, cowardly 
 
 95 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 loon! if I only had a haud o' him by the nose, 
 I'd cut his throat wi' this razor, and hang him 
 up by the heels until every drap o' bluid ran oot 
 o' his vile carcase ! " 
 
 It was with a blanched face and trembling knees 
 that the tailor left the shop, and the patriotic trades- 
 man discovered too late that he had lost the chance 
 of putting his threat into execution. Nor did Gideon 
 Scott's tardy repentance prove of any avail. On the 
 return of the volunteers to Selkirk they were paraded 
 at the Market Cross in a hollow square, with the 
 unhappy man in the centre. All the officers were 
 present, and the Duke of Buccleuch, their Com- 
 mander-in-Chief, warmly complimented his men on 
 their gallant behaviour. " He then," says a writer, 
 "alluded to the conduct of the tailor, and said 
 that he was exceedingly sorry that any person in 
 Ettrick Forest who bore the ancient and honour- 
 able name of Scott, should have disgraced it in 
 such a cowardly manner. The buttons and facings 
 of the tailor s uniform were then torn off, he was 
 expelled from the company, and drummed home to 
 the tune of * The Rogue's March.' " 
 
 But Gideon Scott the tailor was the one blot 
 on the banner that the sons of the Forest carried 
 that day. The descendants of those who fought 
 and died at Flodden were not unworthy of the 
 names that they bore. "The Selkirk Yeomanry," 
 says Sir Walter Scott, " made a remarkable march, 
 
 96 
 
THE FALSE ALARM OF 1804 
 
 for though some of the company lived twenty to 
 thirty miles distant from the mustering-place, they 
 were embodied, and marched into Dalkeith, which 
 was their alarm post, about one o'clock on the day 
 succeeding the first signal, with men and horses in 
 good order, though the roads were in a bad state, 
 and many of the troopers must have ridden forty or 
 fifty miles without drawing bridle." At Dalkeith, 
 all fear of alarm over, the Selkirk men were feasted 
 by their commandant and feudal chief. Lord Home 
 called upon them for the old song : 
 
 " Up wi* the Souters o' Selkirk, 
 And doun wi' the Earl o' Home." 
 
 He called in vain, and so sang the song himself, 
 was rapturously received, and at once enrolled a 
 Souter. Compliments on the appearance, alacrity, 
 and zeal of the corps were poured upon the happy 
 warriors by the Duke of Roxburghe, Lord Dalkeith, 
 General St. James, and St. Clair Erskine. One of 
 the troopers, a Scott, came from far up Yarrow, 
 yet almost as soon as the summons reached him 
 he was mounted and ready for action. His mother, 
 who had already had two sons slain by the French, 
 kissed her son as he bent from the saddle, and, 
 says a local historian, " consecrated him to his 
 king and country with a mothers blessing." Two 
 members of the corps happened to be from home, 
 in Edinburgh, on private business. One of them, 
 
 97 G 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 who was only a few weeks married, had his uniform 
 and charger sent on by his bride to meet him on 
 his way home, so that he might join his troop 
 without loss of time. The other, Andrew Lang, 
 a lad of twenty-one, grandfather of another Andrew 
 Lang whose weapon was the pen, had his uniform, 
 arms, and charger sent on to meet him at Dalkeith 
 by his widowed mother. Sir Walter Scott relates 
 that he was " very much struck by the answer made 
 to him by the last-mentioned lady, when he paid 
 her some compliment on the readiness which she 
 showed in equipping her son with the means of 
 meeting danger, when she might have left him with 
 a fair excuse for remaining absent. * Sir,' she 
 replied with the spirit of a Roman matron, *none 
 can know better than you'" (for her husband, 
 John Lang, was SherifF-Clerk of Selkirkshire when 
 Sir Walter was Sheriff), "'that my son is the 
 only prop by which, since his father's death, our 
 family is supported. But I would rather see him 
 dead on this hearth than hear that he had been a 
 horse's length behind his companions in the defence 
 of his king and his country.' " Eight years later 
 the same lady's only other son, an ensign in the 94th 
 Regiment, was killed as he carried his flag on to the 
 ramparts of Badajoz — one of the gallant forlorn hope 
 that successfully stormed the town. The old lady 
 was certainly fit to be the mother of heroes, and 
 it is interesting to note that the bride who was so 
 
 98 
 
THE FALSE ALARM OF 1804 
 
 determined that her husband should serve his 
 country was her eldest daughter. The writer's 
 great-grandfather, a man of sixty-seven, the oldest 
 yeoman in his troop, had that day ridden nearly 
 thirty miles and attended a market before settling 
 down to spend the night at the house of his son, 
 who commanded two companies of volunteers. The 
 moment the alarm was given he rode home seven 
 miles, cut down a ham from the kitchen (provident 
 man!) and hung it at his saddle-bow, while his no 
 less practical wife stuffed his knapsack with soft 
 linen rags to bandage the wounds that French 
 swords might inflict. Before midnight he was off, 
 and never drew bridle until — when the next day was 
 no longer young — he and his comrades were met by 
 the news that, for any appearance to the contrary, 
 Boney and his soldiers were still encamped at 
 Boulogne. 
 
 One Berwickshire yeoman, having for some mis- 
 demeanour been deprived of his arms, armed him- 
 self with a cudgel and joined his company. Two 
 other men of the Merse, who were fifteen miles from 
 Duns at the time the corps marched, covered the 
 distance with all possible speed, picked up their 
 arms and accoutrements, and were in their places 
 when their corps paraded at Haddington next morn- 
 ing. Baillie of Mellerstain, who commanded the 
 Lauderdale men, did not even pause to draw on his 
 boots before galloping to Greenlaw, on his way 
 
 99 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 giving the alarm to all of his men whose houses 
 he passed. Sir Walter Scott was at lonely Gilsland, 
 on the line of the Roman Wall, when the alarm 
 was given, and it took him twenty-four hours to 
 cover the hundred miles between him and Dalkeith. 
 Cover it he did, however, only to be disappointed 
 when he reached his destination. " Fear is an evil 
 that has never mixed wdth my nature," he himself 
 has written, and he gloried in the fine gallantry of 
 it all. 
 
 King Arthur and his knights, in their cavern 
 halls under the Eildon Hills, must surely have felt 
 restless and turned in their sleep that night. 
 
 So rare it was amongst these mighty men of 
 valour to find a craven — or, maybe, a man whose 
 over- vivid imagination had made him sick with dread, 
 so that he braved shame rather than death — that 
 posterity has never been allowed to forget the few 
 who were branded as cowards. One unfortunate 
 refused to go until one of his officers, who had been 
 through the Irish Campaign and was a man of deeds, 
 not words, held a pistol at his head, and gave him 
 his choice of dying there and then or of delaying 
 his decease until a French bullet should put an end 
 to one who was a disgrace to the Border. The 
 volunteer chose the reprieve. 
 
 A company of farmers, all of them belonging to 
 the volunteers or yeomanry, had been that evening 
 dining at the house of a friend, himself a yeoman, 
 
 lOO 
 
THE FALSE ALARM OF 1804 
 
 During the evening one of the party, thinking 
 it time to break up, went to the door to see what 
 of the night. A glimmer of light, gradually in- 
 creasing in size, on a distant hill, at once caught 
 his eye and sent a thrill to his heart. To prevent 
 any mistake he climbed a piece of rising ground 
 behind the house, and from this point of vantage 
 saw one beacon after another flare up in rapid suc- 
 cession. He hurried back to his friends and gave 
 the alarm : " Up, lads ! look sharp ! The beacons 
 are blazing ! " A general rush to the door confirmed 
 the fact, and as soon as horses could be saddled 
 each guest galloped off. Owing to lack of stabling 
 accommodation the horse of the man who had first 
 seen the signal had been put in an old horse-box 
 with a ricketty door, and, as ill-luck would have it, 
 a sow which was prowling about had pushed its 
 snout under the door, raised the latch, and liberated 
 the prisoner. But the yeoman was not to be over- 
 come by so trifling a misfortune. He looted a cart- 
 horse belonging to his host, and rode his five miles 
 home at a pace which surely no cart-horse has 
 travelled at before or since. The farm cottages 
 stood some two hundred yards from the dwelling- 
 house, and a maid was dispatched to fetch the 
 steward to receive what might be his master's last 
 orders. One idea, however, possessed the woman's 
 mind, and in a few minutes she returned shrieking 
 " Help ! Help ! the French are at the town-gate I " 
 
 lOI 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 Many poor women had very muddled ideas that 
 night. It was a very feminine form of the doctrine 
 of the survival of the fittest that caused a certain 
 young Miss Romanes (relation of the late G. J. 
 Romanes) to wail beseechingly, " Oh, dinna shoot 
 the bonny ones ! dinna shoot the bonny ones ! " as 
 her father and brothers rode into the darkness with 
 their swords on their hips and grim determination 
 in their eyes. 
 
 The Selkirk volunteers had an extra trial of their 
 fortitude as they marched to Dalkeith. The report 
 ran that the French had landed on the shores of 
 the Forth, at Musselburgh, and orders were given 
 to keep a sharp look out. At daybreak a sergeant 
 gave the alarm of the near approach of the enemy. 
 The company halted, pulled their transport waggons 
 across the road, and drew up to receive the charge. 
 It was a kind fate that prevented any nervous hand 
 from touching a trigger with undue haste, and so 
 putting an end to one of the drivers of a string of 
 coal carts that presently emerged from the darkness. 
 
 That must have been a long, long January night for 
 many men and women. The straggling rays of a half- 
 moon and the red glow of the dying beacons lighted 
 some of the yeomen as they started for a solitary 
 ride. One by one their fellow-soldiers joined them 
 as they went on, ever nearer the enemy — the hated 
 French, whom they were to fight and to conquer. 
 In comparative silence they rode. Life and death 
 
 102 
 
THE FALSE ALARM OF 1804 
 
 seemed much too stern realities just then to permit 
 of much conversation. Men and horses were alike 
 tired, yet equally much possessed, it seemed, with a 
 resolute purpose to pass steadily forward to their 
 appointed goal. Occasionally they would halt for a 
 moment and eagerly listen for any sound of war that 
 might come to them through the still morning air. 
 At last, as day began to break, and the sun crept 
 over the Cheviots in amber and gold, they met 
 messengers who brought them strange tidings : that 
 the firing of the beacons had been only the result 
 of an accident, and that all that their country now 
 demanded of them was to go where man and beast 
 would be fed and rested, therefrom to return home 
 at their leisure. Some, it may be, were thankful at 
 the abrupt termination of their first and last cam- 
 paign, but not a few were heartily disappointed at 
 losing the chance of measuring swords with the 
 hated Frenchmen, and even, maybe, of gaining un- 
 ending renown by slaying Bonaparte himself. Of 
 this, however, there could be no doubt, that on the 
 return march a more gay and gallant company of 
 warriors could nowhere have been seen. They were 
 no longer silent, but like a pack of boys let loose 
 from school they found vent for their energies, and 
 showed off their martial spirit by severing branches 
 and tops of saplings and turnip tops at one clean cut 
 as they galloped past — severing them as French 
 heads must have been severed. Fierce thrusts were 
 
 103 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 given to unresisting haystacks, peatstacks, and any- 
 thing else that came handy as they joyfully hastened 
 home. And great was the welcome there, for they 
 and their friends alike shared the joy of feeling that 
 Britain had expected every man to do his duty, and 
 that by every man most faithfully the duty had been 
 done. 
 
 For many a long day afterwards, endless were the 
 tales told of that memorable night ; and now, even 
 to the third and fourth generations of those who 
 mustered then, there is still a charm to be found in 
 the oft-told story of the False Alarm. 
 
 There has been no ruler in Europe equal in might 
 with him since the ** Little Corporal " died in exile, a 
 broken-hearted man, and our island has known peace. 
 In far countries Britons have fought and died, but 
 the Scot and the Englishman of to-day have grown 
 comatose under the dehghtfuUy comfortable delu- 
 sion that invasion is a spectre that haunts the minds 
 of only a few Cassandras, that peace and prosperity 
 are for them and for their nation perpetual and 
 unending gifts. 
 
 We have no all-conquering Napoleon to fear, yet 
 there are armies now in Europe that would be vastly 
 more terrible engines of destruction, when turned 
 against us, than anything that our forefathers had 
 to dread. And meanwhile, because it seems an im- 
 possibility that, in our time, homes, wives, and chil- 
 dren may be subjected to all the nightmare horrors 
 
 104 
 
THE FALSE ALARM OF 1804 
 
 of invasion and bloody war, we are contented to 
 watch Peace swaying from month to month on her 
 dehcately adjusted scales, and to leave our future in 
 the lap of the gods. 
 
 When one is on the Border on a winter night, 
 imagination can once more muster, from mansion 
 and farm and lonely shelling, a gallant army of horse- 
 men and of footmen, in all the cumbrous military 
 trappings of bygone days — can watch them as they 
 swiftly march into the darkness towards the eastern 
 sea, to meet the phantom foemen whose bones have 
 long since mouldered into dust. 
 
 Do we dare to rest secure in the memory of the 
 heroic past ? Is there no fear lest our self-satisfied 
 apathy, our complacent unpreparedness, may be 
 mustering for us in future years a spectre host of 
 reproachful dead? 
 
 105 
 
THE MINISTER OF SPOTT 
 
 South from the broken coast-line of East Lothian 
 hes the blue chain of the Lammermuirs, a barrier 
 between stormy breakers and a green and pleasant 
 land of promise for those who go down to the sea in 
 ships and do their business in great waters, and who 
 glance longingly inland as, gale-driven, they flog 
 past the rocks by Dunbar harbour. Up on the slope 
 between sea and hill lies the village of Spott, and on 
 an April day of the year of our I^ord, fifteen hundred 
 and seventy, there walked slowly along the road 
 near the little hamlet a tall, well-featured, well- 
 favoured man in sombre black garb, the livery of 
 the minister of the parish. In the woods the prim- 
 roses were showing — a shower of timid stars that had 
 lost their way — and a blackbird trilled its song from 
 a snowy tree of gean-blossom — a slender bride of the 
 forest. The sky was a symphony in blue and white, 
 and a sea of sapphire and opal was edged by a 
 broken creamy line that ever moved swayingly along 
 the yellow sand, like a long white feather in the 
 wind. The message of spring did not come to an 
 unappreciative heart. The Rev. John Kello saw 
 everything with glad eyes, valued everything, heard 
 
 1 06 
 
THE MINISTER OF SPOTT 
 
 with exquisite pleasure Nature's proclamation of a 
 world's resurrection from a wintry death. 
 
 Not a pastor of small reputation was the minister 
 of Spott, but one whose notable piety and eloquence, 
 and whose zeal as a follower of the godly Mr. Knox 
 had marked him as one of the rising men in Scot- 
 land in a day when Papacy was on the wane and 
 the star of Mary Queen of Scots was setting. On 
 a height beyond the village he sat himself down on 
 that bright spring day, and looked out to the Bass 
 and thought of many things. Life had been kind to 
 him so far. Ten years earlier he had been passed by 
 John Knox and other ministers and commissioners 
 sitting in Edinburgh as being "maist qualified for 
 the ministring of the word of God and sacraments, 
 and reiding of the common prayer publicklie in all 
 kirks and congregations." He was pious and he was 
 popular. His wife was all that wife should be — a 
 plump, fair-haired, gentle, simple-minded creature, 
 with a complexion of strawberries and cream. No 
 dowry worth mentioning did she bring with her, but 
 she was of worthy birth, had given him three hand- 
 some, healthy children — Bartilmo, Barbara, and 
 Bessie — was a notable housewife, and the most 
 adoring and tender of helpmeets. 
 
 Yet, as he sat gazing out to sea, the thoughts 
 of the Rev. John Kello were not all in keeping 
 with the sunny sky, the song of the blackbird, 
 and the white cherry-blossom that gently moved 
 
 107 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 in dancing measure with each soft breath of the 
 spring. 
 
 Only one Sabbath ago he had preached a sermon 
 that moved the hearts of many of his hearers, taking 
 for text the words of Timothy: ^^ Fo?' the love of 
 money is the root of all evil: which while some coveted 
 after, they have erred from the faith, and pierced 
 themselves through with many sorrows J'' 
 
 To the educated members of his flock the ser- 
 mon was the more moving because of the pathetic 
 fact of the beggarly pittance in pounds Scots upon 
 which the preacher, who spoke with such eloquence 
 of the disease of the soul wrought by filthy lucre, 
 had to exist along with his wife and three stirring 
 bairns. As the laird's coach waited outside for the 
 laird and his wife and sister to come out, Mr. Kello, 
 wiping from his high forehead with a snowy hand- 
 kerchief washed and laundered by his wife the drops 
 of perspiration induced by his eloquence, came by 
 and becked low to the great folk of his parish. The 
 laird's sister was a handsome spinster, with a good 
 tocher still awaiting a worthy partner, and she looked 
 at the earnest minister with kindly gaze. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Kello," she said, " you have wrestled 
 with Satan for all our souls this day." 
 
 "It is my trade, Madam," said Mr. Kello; 
 "many a time and oft have the Evil One and I 
 wrestled together for a soul." 
 
 And the lady drove away with the recollection 
 
 1 08 
 
THE MINISTER OF SPOTT 
 
 of a fine pair of dark eyes fixed earnestly upon hers, 
 and of a gallant figure in shabby black but with 
 linen of spotless white bowing low at the kirk 
 door, and forgot both discourse and minister ere 
 she reached the syllabub at her brother's sumptuous 
 Sabbath meal. But Mr. Kello did not forget so 
 easily. Kind words and kindly glance still stayed 
 with him. Margaret was getting stout. A grey 
 hair or two grew amongst the golden, and her 
 face was growing weather-beaten from much ex- 
 posure to North Sea breezes. Her hands were 
 those of a toilful peasant. Her clothes . . . that 
 brown padusoy was sorely worn and had never 
 been much of a fit. Dear Margaret — gentle, worthy 
 creature. . . . She was a handsome woman, that 
 sister of the laird, and bore a pretty little fortune 
 on her slim white fingers and on her shapely 
 shoulders. Had Providence but willed an earlier 
 meeting, what might not a fortune, with so much 
 family influence in Lothian and the Merse, com- 
 bined with his own eloquence and popular gifts, 
 have succeeded in accomplishing. . . • With a 
 start the minister dismissed his thoughts. 
 
 *' Retro me, Sathanas!"" he said inwardly. 
 
 Down on the grey walls of the Castle of Dunbar 
 the sun was shining. On a spring day only four 
 years ago that wicked woman, Mary Stuart, had come 
 there in company with Bothwell, her husband's 
 murderer. What righteous indignation had been 
 
 109 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 Mr. Kello's that day! The very souls of the 
 queen and her paramour should have been scorched 
 and have ascended to the skies in smoke, like one 
 of the witch-burnings on the top of Spott Loan, 
 before the fiery words of condemnation of the 
 murderers of Darnley and my Lord Regent Moray 
 and the lurid picture of their coming destruction, 
 that were hurled from the pulpit of the minister 
 of Spott. 
 
 She was born at Linlithgow, that wanton 
 queen. Mr. Kello knew Linlithgow well. ... It 
 was there that he had invested the little sum of 
 money that came to him from his father's estate, 
 an investment which had proved thoroughly satis- 
 factory. 
 
 At times he could wish that he had left 
 the money where it was originally placed and 
 where it had brought such return that it obviously 
 had a blessing on it. But those fields close to the 
 church of Spott were very tempting. Their pur- 
 chase had meant the expenditure of all his gains, 
 the mortgaging of the lands at Linlithgow, and 
 the borrowing of other monies. Yet if seasons 
 were good he might yet recoup himself. Margaret 
 had wept over both wadset and borrowed money, 
 but she had never any head for finance — faithful, 
 fond creature. If only the Kirk would do its 
 duty by him, the paying of the interest would 
 be a mere flea-bite, and this sickening skimping 
 
 no 
 
THE MINISTER OF SPOTT 
 
 and saving might be at an end. What with 
 Bartilmo wanting new boots and Barbara having 
 a flux and requiring the services of the chirurgeon 
 from Dunbar, there never seemed a time when the 
 children and their needs were not sand-papering 
 his sensitive nerves. At moments he could almost 
 wish himself a bachelor. The Kirk was most cul- 
 pable in neglecting the crying needs of the ox that 
 trod out the corn. The people of the parish were 
 a mean lot. "It is their duty to take care of me," 
 he said petulantly, and his under lip looked for a 
 second like that of Bartilmo about to undergo a 
 flogging. 
 
 If Margaret were to die — if the Lord had 
 willed to take her away when little Bessie was 
 born ... his grief undoubtedly had been terrible, 
 yet it would have been a blow from the hand of 
 the Almighty. It would have been a duty to 
 replace her — to give the babes another mother, 
 a mother with a handsome dowry and influential 
 friends who could procure advancement for the 
 devoted father of three motherless babes. ... So 
 did his thoughts circle round, and the unconscious 
 lady who had enjoyed his eloquence must have 
 been horrified indeed had she seen the place pre- 
 pared for her by the preacher. 
 
 A dark cloud was gathering behind the Bass, the 
 lights on land and sea faded, the tree of gean-blossom 
 beside which he sat gave a shiver in the wind, and 
 
 III 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 the minister hastily rose to his feet, chilled, as he 
 found when he rubbed his hands, and took his way 
 hastily home to the manse. Shouts of laughter and 
 children's voices came from behind the big yew 
 bushes by the door as he clicked the latch of the 
 little front gate. A scutter on the gravel, like 
 rabbits fleeing to their warren, and three pairs of 
 flying legs vanished round the corner of the house. 
 The Rev. John Kello's brow darkened, nor did it 
 lighten when with heavy step along the narrow 
 passage to the door, his wife came to greet him 
 out of an atmosphere where turnips and onions 
 strove with each other for mastery. Her plump, 
 kindly face pink from the kitchen fire, Mrs. Kello 
 looked anxiously at him who for the eleven years of 
 her acquaintance with him had stood to her for 
 divinity. 
 
 "Was the bairns making owre muckle noise?" 
 she queried timidly. ** I have given them a flyting, 
 but the young things are just like lambs in the 
 spring." 
 
 " You bring up your bairns to behave like fools, 
 Mistress Kello," said the minister. 
 
 Mrs. Kello's brow wrinkled anxiously. 
 
 " Have you a sore heid ? " she asked. 
 
 " Heid! " said her husband with contempt. " Sore 
 
 heid, she says ! and weel she kens that I hardly 
 
 shut eye in the nicht-watches for thinking how to 
 
 provide for her and for her regardless bairns, forbye 
 
THE MINISTER OF SPOTT 
 
 having been up since the dawning searching the 
 word of God for the discourse for next Sabbath. 
 A puir thing it is for a minister of God to come 
 to his ain hoose after having striven alone in the 
 wilderness and to be met wi' nothing better than 
 skirling laughter like the crackling o' thorns under 
 a pot, an' wi' a stench o' neeps and ingins.'* 
 
 Mrs. Kello's face paled under its sunburn and 
 scorching. 
 
 " I'm sore vexed, Mr. Kello," she said, a little 
 quaver in her voice ; " I will better go ben the hoose 
 and shut the door to keep the smell oot o' the 
 study . . . it's a sheep's heid. You're aye fond o' 
 a sheep's heid. I will give the bairns their denners 
 
 by themsels " Tiptoeing footsteps along the 
 
 passage and an irrepressible giggle cut short her 
 words. 
 
 **For God's sake!" said Mr. Kello — and the 
 door slammed on terrified heels in grey knitted 
 stockings. 
 
 That was a long, long spring for the minister 
 of Spott. Interest fell due and he could not pay 
 it. Income from the Kirk failed as it had failed 
 before. Many a night did he lie awake till near 
 dawn, while the winds from the sea soughed through 
 the yew-trees and elms by the manse, tossing, 
 turning, striving against the actualities of life — 
 resentfully laying before Providence the duty that 
 Providence owed to him. And through many a 
 
 113 H 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 night did his wife lie there beside him, not daring, 
 lest she angered him, to show that she did not 
 sleep, eyes shut, breathing peaceful, listening with 
 miserable, alert ears to her husband's sighs and turn- 
 ings, welcoming the first chirping of the sparrows 
 in the ivy — waiting the gradual tuning up of a 
 feathered orchestra — still more gladly welcoming 
 the first pale streaks of dawn. At times she would 
 timidly open her eyes and nervously watch her 
 husband, to see if indeed he slept at last, and when 
 she softly got out of bed and went about her 
 morning duties, there were dark rings under the 
 eyes that in the golden days of courtship the Rev. 
 John Kello had likened to *'the eyes of doves by 
 the rivers of water, washed with milk, and fitly set." 
 The thoughts that had come to him as he sat by 
 the gean-tree on that spring morning were evil birds 
 that had come to roost, and each day they grew 
 stronger, more formidable, well - nigh irresistible. 
 Now and again, when he had come to persuade 
 himself that only one really feasible course lay open 
 to him and that to hesitate in pursuing it meant 
 weakness, sudden terrors struck him and prevented 
 him from putting his plans into execution. To 
 allay all suspicion he made a will appointing his 
 beloved spouse " to have the whole care of his gear 
 and upbringing of his children," and at the same 
 time dropped dark hints to several of his parishioners 
 that she was beset by melancholia. For forty black 
 
 114 
 
THE MINISTER OF SPOTT 
 
 days his temptation lasted, until at last his devil- 
 ridden mind affected his stalwart body, and sent 
 him to bed seriously ill. Joyously did Mrs. Kello 
 welcome the chance of nursing her divinity and 
 pouring on him all her wealth of tenderness. 
 Bartilmo, Barbara, and Bessie did not dare to speak 
 above a whisper. Mrs. Kello tiptoed along the 
 passage till each loose board squeaked aloud in 
 protest. The bedroom door she opened in a long- 
 prolonged series of cracks, excruciating to an invalid 
 with nerves all ajar — murderous to herself, poor 
 soul, had she but known it. Sometimes, every devil 
 in his heart awake and kicking, he would feign sleep 
 for no better reason than to have her torture him by 
 the heavy, tiptoed creep up to his bedside, the long 
 pause to listen to his breathing, the final, half- 
 whispered, timid inquiry: **Are ye sleeping, Mr. 
 Kello?" Justified in his own eyes was Mr. Kello 
 each time her wifely anxiety so led her to trespass. 
 It was after some days of this, and when the apothe- 
 cary from Dunbar had left with the minister some 
 potent drugs with which to treat his disease, that it 
 came to Mr. Kello that poison was a gentle means 
 of attaining his end. "Poison the wife who is 
 nursing you so tenderly ? " queried his horrified 
 conscience. But the very consciousness of her 
 devotion — her doting devotion — seemed to give Mr. 
 Kello the more reason for his plan. Had she only 
 fallen upon him, slain him with her tongue — nay, 
 
 115 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 even smitten his sullen face with angry hand when 
 he received all her gentle ministrations with rude 
 unthankfulness — he might have been less merciless. 
 But gentle Margaret Thomson was of the type of 
 the cat that runs away, and so is chased by dogs 
 or stoned to death by cruel boys. It was her 
 saint, her brilliant, handsome, popular husband, the 
 minister of Spott, who treated her thus. He was 
 ill, and doubtless she must deserve it. So it came 
 on a day that he would have her sup the strong 
 broth he left in a basin, and she, joyful at his 
 solicitude, gladly sat down by the bed and supped 
 as he bade her. He watched her the while with 
 anxious, dark eyes, and for an hour thereafter, when 
 all the house seemed still, he lay abed, first placidly, 
 hopefully, then torn by dread and horror of a devil's 
 plan that had reached accomplishment. He was 
 just about to spring up and go to see for himself 
 what had happened, when there came that familiar, 
 tiptoeing creak along the passage, that intolerable 
 slow opening of the door, and then the inevitable 
 murmured *' Are ye sleeping, Mr. Kello ? " 
 
 For reply he glared at her for a second or two 
 in silence, then : 
 
 " You look gey wauf," he said. ** Does aught 
 ail ye ? " 
 
 " I have been very seeck," said Mrs. Kello ; *' these 
 broth must have been owre strong for me. I was 
 terrible griped." 
 
 ii6 
 
THE MINISTER OF SPOTT 
 
 " The cleanness of Mr stomache did reject that 
 violence^'' was what he wrote of the incident in 
 later days. So did Mrs. Kello seal her doom, 
 
 A few days afterwards, when the children, 
 seeing their father apparently recovered, had re- 
 laxed their rules of conduct a little, and had 
 received from a righteously angered parent the 
 trouncing which they doubtless deserved, an in- 
 vitation for them to spend a week at a neigh- 
 bouring manse arrived most opportunely. Joyously 
 they went off with well-mended, well-washed gar- 
 ments, waving farewells to their mother, who 
 watched them a little tearfully until the face of 
 the brae hid them from sight. Now she was alone 
 in the manse again with her husband, as in the 
 days when he was still her lover, ere the patter- 
 ing feet of the babies had come to interrupt the 
 minister's studies and to make music in their 
 mother's heart. She may have fancied, poor soul, 
 now that there was nothing to anger an invalid 
 of uncertain temper, Mr. Kello might recall those 
 exquisite days of wedlock when she felt as one of 
 those human women of ancient Greece when one 
 of the Olympians condescended to come down from 
 the heavens to woo her. Indeed in those days she 
 seemed to have reason for her fond hopes. Her 
 husband was gentler, more like his old self. One 
 day, indeed, he suggested a stroll in the gloaming. 
 She knew her place better than to venture on an 
 
 117 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 interruption of his train of thought until he ijiade 
 the first overture. 
 
 A coach passing on the dusty high road was what 
 caused a break in his apparently deep meditation. 
 They stood aside to let it rumble past. A lady sat 
 inside, and Mr. Kello, observing her, louted low. 
 
 " I had thocht she was in France," he said half 
 to himself. 
 
 "The laird's sister?" said his wife. "Oh I 
 kenned weel she was coming here. A bonny wife, 
 is she not, Mr. Kello ? She will be bringing a braw 
 tocher to the one she weds." 
 
 That was a Friday evening. All Saturday the 
 minister was in his study toiling over the Sabbath's 
 sermon. On the Sabbath morning — a bright Sep- 
 tember day, when cornfields were yellow and the 
 sea a royal blue — Mrs. Kello was in her bedroom, 
 laying out her little store of Sabbath finery — the old 
 brown padusoy, a bit of lace — a poor little show 
 enough. Heaven knows ! — in readiness for the kirk, 
 when her husband entered the room. He said no- 
 thing, only looked at her, and a smile was on his 
 face. Though he said never a word she knew the 
 end had come, knew her sentence as surely as 
 though she were a guilty wretch in the dock with 
 a judge in black cap pronouncing her doom. He 
 walked up to the wash-hand basin and took a clean 
 coarse towel off the rail, and still smiling came 
 close up to her, gripped her shoulder in its clean 
 
 Ii8 
 
THE MINISTER OF SPOTT 
 
 dimity gown, cast the towel round her neck and 
 began to twist the ends of it. 
 
 *' John ! " she cried, " for God's sake, John ! Mr. 
 Kello ! — are ye gane wud ? " and with terrified, strug- 
 gling hands she strove to rid herself of her hideous 
 neckerchief. "Ye mustna do itl" she gasped. 
 " It's a sin, John ! dinna do it ! oh dinna do it ! 
 for the bairns' sake . . . and you a minister o' the 
 Gospel!" 
 
 For answer he ^twisted the tighter, and then she, 
 panting, gasping, trying still to stay his murderous 
 hands, told him in broken, sobbing words that she 
 knew he bore her no evil will . . . that she loved 
 him . . . that she would depart willingly, gladly, 
 if her death could do him either vantage or pleasure. 
 *' God have mercy on me ! " she sobbed at last when 
 sure that of mercy from her husband she would have 
 none . . . Only a little while did the struggle last, and 
 then she fell prone against him, a leaden weight. 
 He laid her on the floor, and for a short time still 
 his relentless hands went on throttling, choking the 
 last breath of life out of her. After all it had not 
 taken many minutes to accomplish his task. He 
 felt her heart, held his ear near her lips. She was 
 dead. This ugly, lifeless thing, a thing very much 
 like the puppets her mother made for little Bessie 
 to play with, was Margaret his wife. He had loved 
 her once. Even now, he told himself with a calm 
 interest in the curious workings of his innermost 
 
 119 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 man, were he young again and his hfe to live over, 
 he would still choose his wife before all other 
 women. ''Behold thou art fair, my beloved, yea, 
 
 pleasant " The amatory phrases of the Song of 
 
 Songs had very often crossed his lips during the 
 months of his courtship. 
 
 When he lifted her up and carried her to the 
 passage of the front door, he was pleased to find 
 the sentiment of those past days springing up again 
 fresh and green. He felt very kindly towards his 
 poor dead wife. Already he had locked the door, 
 leaving the keys inside. Now he fetched from the 
 kitchen a length of rope which she had used in the 
 bleaching - green, and a common chair. A rafter 
 close behind the door provided an excellent place 
 from which to attach the rope. It was not so easy 
 as he thought, to suspend her from the noose he 
 made. More than ever like a puppet — a doll of 
 rags — she looked now, her feet dangling against the 
 chair. He laid the chair on its side underneath her 
 and looked at the whole thing critically — an artist 
 criticising his work. Then to the back door, and 
 carefully locked it. To his room for an instant, 
 to biTish his hair and put his white bands in order, 
 for the kirk bell was ringing, and then, very quietly, 
 out of the door that opened direct from his study 
 on to the grass at the side of the house and that 
 stood locked from year's end to year's end. A 
 strange feeling of exaltation possessed him as he 
 
 I20 
 
THE MINISTER OF SPOTT 
 
 walked up the gravel path to the church. How 
 simple a thing it was to put out that God-given 
 spark called Life. How ridiculously easy the whole 
 thing had been, and how blessed it was to feel that 
 those torturing days and nights of indecision were 
 at an end. 
 
 His hearers afterwards declared that they had 
 never heard Mr. Kello preach a more eloquent 
 sermon than he did that day. The services over, 
 he spoke to a neighbour who had listened with 
 deep admiration to his eloquence and asked him 
 if he and his wife would do him the favour of 
 coming back to the manse to dine. Mrs. Kello, he 
 said, had been for some time in a rather depressed 
 state of mind and he felt that to have a little 
 company would cheer her up. " She misses the 
 bairns," he said. The neighbour gladly complied, 
 and together he and the minister went to his house 
 to fetch his wife, who came in a pleased flutter at 
 the honour done her by that vessel of grace, the 
 Rev. John Kello. He talked to them very gravely 
 as he escorted them to the manse. He was, indeed, 
 seriously anxious about Mrs. Kello. The Evil One 
 was striving for that gentle soul. 
 
 The neighbours were horrified. They could scarce 
 believe such a thing possible. Could it be that 
 
 witchcraft ? Sombrely Mr. Kello shook his 
 
 head. Well they knew how he had laboured to 
 purge the land of witches and of warlocks — there 
 
 121 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 was a freshly charred patch even then on Spott 
 Loan. But he could only say that Mistress Eello 
 had for some time past been tempted in the night. 
 
 *' But come, come, your company will cheer 
 her ! " he said, and walked forward to open the front 
 door for his guests. 
 
 A strange thing — a most unusual one — the door 
 seemed to be locked. Again and again he tried, and 
 his guests also vainly made attempt to turn the 
 handle, to force open the door. 
 
 " Oh, sir I " said the woman, already alert for 
 horrors, '* the Lord grant no evil has come to Mrs. 
 Kello ! " 
 
 " We will try the back door," said the minister 
 firmly, and round to the back they trooped. 
 
 This entrance too was closed against them, and 
 no sound was heard within, although Mr. Kello 
 knocked with a will. 
 
 " It ill behoves me to enter my ain dwelling like 
 a thief in the night," said Mr. Kello, *' but we maun 
 try the windows." 
 
 Windows too were snibbed, and it did not 
 occur to either of the neighbours to try the disused 
 door into the minister's study, nor did Mr. Kello 
 suggest it. He found a window at last, one into his 
 study, that it was possible to open from without, and 
 the neighbour assisted him to make an entry. 
 
 ** If you will bide at the front," he said, " I will 
 open the door to you." 
 
 122 
 
THE MINISTER OF SPOTT 
 
 Round to the front they tramped, both filled 
 with apprehension, and anxiously waited for a few 
 minutes. Then not the door but a front window 
 was opened, and Mr. Kello looked out — and very 
 gash he looked, they said — and called out in a very 
 lamentable voice : '' O my wife, my wife, my beloved 
 wife is gone ! " 
 
 They lost no time in entering to confirm his 
 words, and when they found the gentle, placid, good 
 wife and good mother, for whom they and all others 
 in the district held a sincere regard, hanging strangled 
 behind the door, their cries were almost as anguished 
 as were those of the bereaved husband. 
 
 That was a melancholy day in Spott. By night- 
 fall all the parish knew that the minister's wife had 
 hanged herself, and more than one old woman was 
 mentioned as being better banked up with tar barrels 
 on the Loan when the spouse of so pious a minister of 
 the Gospel as the Rev. John Kello could commit 
 such an unpardonable sin, while he was in the very 
 act of preaching the word of God in his own kirk 
 upon the Lord's Day. 
 
 When the news of the suicide became public, the 
 afflicted minister had many sympathising visitors, 
 and all agreed that his grief was terrible to witness. 
 Some of his brethren even went so far as to say that 
 they feared he was imperilling his own soul by 
 doubting the judgments of the Almighty. For of 
 those who sought to comfort him, the grief-stricken 
 
 123 
 
\ 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 husband begged piteously if they would tell him if a 
 suicide's soul might yet be saved — if God would not 
 have pity on one who, under terrible temptation, had 
 made away with herself, and who yet " could once 
 sob for God's mercies." A thorough man was this 
 minister of Spott. No artistic detail was omitted, 
 and when his brethren gave him but little hope as to 
 his wife's eternal happiness, he horrified them by 
 crying in agony that there was indeed no God, for if 
 a God there were, "He could not have suffered so 
 innocent a creature to give place to the temptation 
 and rage of Sathan." 
 
 In truth, in evil case was this staunch supporter 
 of the godly Mr. Knox. Sympathisers saw with 
 sorrow that his body suffered as well as his mind. 
 A parishioner meeting him on the Loan at nightfall, 
 dark eyes glowing from ashen face, went home 
 declaring that the minister looked like a warlock. 
 
 ** Sirce, the look he gied when 1 bade him 
 Gude'en fair garred me grue. His een glowered 
 like a wuUcat's." 
 
 In the graveyard by the kirk his wife lay at rest, 
 but rest for the minister there was none. At night, 
 when all was still and he lay alone in his room, his 
 senses all terribly awake, the wind that blew up from 
 the sea, rustling and whispering through the elms 
 and the yew bushes, would seem of a sudden to stop. 
 In the tense stillness before the dawning he would 
 fancy he heard tiptoeing footsteps along the passage, 
 
 124 
 
THE MINISTER OF SPOTT 
 
 then surely the slow, long-prolonged creak of the 
 opening door. He would tightly close his weary 
 eyes, determined not to see, would pull the bed- 
 clothes over his ears, determined not to hear, yet 
 ever he would wait in hideous expectation for the 
 words he knew must surely come at last: '^ Are ye 
 sleeping, Mr, Kello ? " 
 
 During the day he would wonder that the mark 
 of Cain was not visible to all those that he met, so 
 conscious was he of its presence. He had thoughts 
 of fleeing abroad, but then his guilt must at once be 
 proclaimed, " a perpetual infamie upon the Kirk of 
 God," and so resolved to remain and to brazen it out. 
 
 At Dunbar at that time the double office of 
 master of the grammar school and minister of the 
 parish was filled by a certain Rev. Andrew Simpson, 
 a man of much learning, and also apparently one 
 of considerable psychic power. He it was who, 
 seven years later, foretold the terrible disaster of 
 the Sabbath fishing. As he went to officiate in 
 the Kirk of Dunbar, he saw with sorrow a thousand 
 or more of his parishioners starting off* in their cobles 
 after herring. Moral suasion was of no avail, and 
 from the pulpit he spoke with terrible earnestness 
 of a disaster which he had tried to avert, but which 
 nothing now could turn away. Before midnight a 
 tremendous thunderstorm swept down on the fishing 
 fleet, and next morning at Dunbar the tally of boats 
 that were lost was one hundred and twenty, and 
 
 125 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 two hundred and eighty widowed women were wail- 
 ing for the husbands who had found graves in the 
 North Sea. 
 
 Whether Mr. Simpson had already begun to 
 suspect Mr. Kello ere he paid him a visit of condol- 
 ence in his sickness, who knows ? But the minister 
 of Spott was by no means himself when Mr. Simpson 
 came and sat by his bed. It had been a terrible 
 night, for when sleep came at last to shut out the 
 haunting phantoms of remembrance, Mr. Kello had 
 a dream that made him awake, still trembling and 
 with drops of sweat on his brow. The dream re- 
 mained with him through the day, and when his 
 fellow-preacher had sat and talked in kindly, sym- 
 pathetic fashion with him for some time, the tempta- 
 tion came to him to rid his mind of the dream and 
 see what effect its relation had upon the minister 
 of Dunbar. 
 
 " My soul hath been sore harried by a vision of 
 the night," he said, his nervous hands pleating little 
 folds in the sheet as he spoke. He looked up at 
 Mr. Simpson with a shifty, scared look from under 
 dark eyelids. 
 
 " I will hearken willingly, my brother," said the 
 minister of Dunbar, and glanced at him but once, 
 then folded hands on crossed knees, and fixed his 
 solemn, gentle gaze on the floor. 
 
 ** Methought a great man came and carried 
 me by force before the face of ane terrible judge," 
 
 126 
 
THE MINISTER OF SPOTT 
 
 said Mr. Kello, '*and to escape his fury I did 
 precipitate myself in ane deep river. But there 
 was for me no escape. For even into the depths 
 of the rushing river did his angels and messengers 
 follow me, and with two-edged swords they struck 
 at me, and swore as they struck. Siccan a terror 
 was mine that I did decline and jouk in the water, 
 and mony a time they strack at me as I joukit, 
 and aye mine end seemed surely come, and yet 
 again wad I jouk, though the stream ran fierce, 
 as in a spate, till in the end, by ane way unknown 
 to me, I did escape." 
 
 Then Mr. Kello lay still and looked, first fur- 
 tively, then anxiously and with amazement, at the 
 minister of Dunbar. 
 
 His hands still folded on his crossed legs, his 
 gaze fixed at a spot on the floor, Mr. Simpson sat 
 silently on. 
 
 For what seemed to Mr. Kello a long, long time, 
 still he sat. 
 
 Then of a sudden he looked up. So might 
 Daniel have looked at King Belshazzar when he 
 interpreted to him the writing on the wall. 
 
 The big frame of the minister of Spott seemed 
 to shrink in size and girth as Mr. Simpson stood at 
 the end of his bed and stared at him. 
 
 " Here," said he, and his voice was as the voice 
 of God on Judgment Day in his hearer's ears; 
 '*here is the interpretation of your vision: The 
 
 127 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 great man who carried you before God's judgment- 
 seat was your own conscience. He stands now in 
 God's presence to accuse you. The messengers of 
 God are the justice of this land. The water is your 
 own vain hypocrisy and blasphemy. Vour deliver- 
 ance sail be spiritual. For albeit ye have other 
 ways deservit, yet God sail pull you forth of the 
 hands of Sathan, and cause you confess your offence 
 to His glory and confusion of the enemy." 
 
 Mr. Kello was drawing his breath quick and hard, 
 like a runner who has outrun himself. The sweat 
 stood on his brow. His lips were open as if to 
 speak, yet never a word said he. His great eyes 
 were fixed on Mr. Simpson's face. Hard he strove, 
 yet could not take them away. Then the minister 
 of Dunbar, who had till then spoken in the slow, 
 solemn, even tones of one who is fencing the tables, 
 suddenly thrust out his arm at him who sat up, 
 coweringly, in the bed, and shot out a finger. 
 
 " John Kello," he said, in a terrible voice, ** thou 
 art the man'' 
 
 A few weeks later, on a bright October day in 
 1570, a vast congregation of people was gathered 
 in the Grassmarket of Edinburgh to witness a hang- 
 ing of more than usual interest. The partisans of 
 Mary Queen of Scots were assembled, in gibing 
 humour; the faces of the followers of Knox were 
 long. Those who were able to quote from the 
 murderer's confession were held in high repute. 
 
 128 
 
THE MINISTER OF SPOTT 
 
 Most handsomely had he uncovered the shameful 
 nakedness of his sin, most thoroughly expressed his 
 dire contrition. With dignity, too, as a minister of 
 the Reformed Kirk, he had had a parting fling at 
 those who had committed " the abominable murtheris 
 of Harie Stewart, king of this land, and of my lord 
 Regent lately murthered." He had expressed the 
 fear that the partisans of Queen Mary might ask 
 *' What mervell is it, that ane waik veschell brocht 
 up in pleasouris had not the feare of God before 
 hir eyes, when ane minister not of smallest reputa- 
 tione hes so trespassed ? " Nor did he pass over the 
 neglect of the kirk and parish of his crying necessities, 
 nor the national sin of usury. With much warmth 
 he called on God and His angels to witness that the 
 fama that his crime had come about because of his 
 "Ingres in the wickit practices of Magicienis" was 
 utterly without foundation. Since he had confessed 
 his sin, he said, his illness of body and agony of mind 
 had departed, and he ended his confession by testify- 
 ing to his complete trust in Him against whom he 
 had sinned ; '* So farre doe I trust in His merceys 
 that I sal be compted amonges His elect whois names 
 are written in the buike of life." 
 
 The law of the land had sentenced the Rev. 
 John Kello, by his own confession, "to be hangit 
 to the deid, and thaireftir his body to be cassin 
 in ane fyre and brint in assis; and his gudis and 
 geir quhatsumevir (pertening to our soveran lord) 
 
 129 I 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 to be confiscat " — (these were afterwards restored 
 to his poor httle orphans, and the boy lived to be 
 the Rev. Bartilmo Kello). But as the minister of 
 Spott mounted his last pulpit, his terrors were all 
 past. His was the joyous exaltation of a sick man 
 whose grievous illness has come to an end. On 
 the gallows he fell on his face, and **made so 
 Godlie a prayer that made everie ane to murne." 
 Then the hangman did his duty, and the minister 
 **departit this life, with an extreme penitent and 
 contrite heart, baith for this and for all other his 
 offences in general, to the great gude example and 
 comfort of all beholders." 
 
 Fresh October winds were blowing up from the 
 Bass over harvested cornfields, whispering their 
 secrets to the solemn yews that kept sentry over 
 a green mound in Spott kirkyard. But it was 
 no wind from the clean blue sea that swayed a 
 vast crowd in the Grassmarket, and that great, 
 long sigh was of the spirit, and came from human 
 hearts. Nor was it a gale from the Forth that 
 made the black pendent figure jerk grotesquely, 
 then dangle and gently swing, a limp, foolish 
 puppet whose little play was done. 
 
 130 
 
MIDSIDE MAGGIE 
 
 In spring when the whins are a blaze of gold, and 
 in summer when the hills are purple with heather, 
 there are few breezier, healthier, cheerier places 
 than the region of the Lammermuirs. It is in 
 winter, when all the colour has gone from the up- 
 lands, when bitter winter winds come roaring across 
 the grey North Sea, driving the snow in chilly- 
 clouds before them to gather deep in the solitude 
 of dark and lonely glens; when perishing sheep 
 seek for a kindly bield and find only the bleak 
 hillside exposed to the fierce assault of every blast 
 that blows, that we know why it is that so many 
 of the tales of the Lammermuirs are sad tales of 
 terrible snowstorms and of sheep and of men done 
 to death out there among the hills. 
 
 High up amongst the Lammermuirs, close to the 
 bpundary between Channelkirk parish with that of 
 Lauder, and not far from the peak of Lammerlaw, 
 lies the farm of ToUishill. In the seventeenth 
 century it was tenanted by three brothers named 
 Hardie, whose landlord was none other than John 
 Maitland, second Earl, afterwards first Duke of 
 Lauderdale — a man whose memory has come down 
 
 131 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 to us with but little in the way of gracious deeds 
 to keep it sweet. That part of the farm named Mid- 
 side was occupied by Thomas Hardie, who in 1643 
 married as comely, as thrifty, as hard-working, and 
 as well-doing a lass as was to be found in all the 
 Border — Margaret Lylestone by name. All the 
 happiness that a good wife could bring to her 
 husband, Midside Maggie brought, but in spite 
 of that the years that followed their marriage were 
 gloomy ones indeed. When sunshine and mild 
 weather should have been greeting the young lambs 
 at ToUishill, there were sleet and snow and cruel 
 winds. Just when a green braird was beginning 
 to show above the brown earth, frost followed 
 frost, and wiped out the harvest for the coming 
 year. For seven years Maggie and her husband 
 did battle with evil fortune, but when the year 
 1650 brought them in the months of March, April, 
 and May **weet, cold, frost, and tempest," their 
 hearts must nearly have failed them. That was a 
 year when there was a great dearth all over Scot- 
 land, and in the next year the dearth continued. 
 AVith such seasons no amount of skilful farming 
 or careful management was of any avail. Most of 
 Thomas Hardie's remaining stock perished in the 
 snowstorms of that winter, and when rent day came 
 round there was no money with which to pay it. 
 Many another Border farmer was in like case, but 
 Thomas Hardie had always held his head high. He 
 
 132 
 
MIDSIDE MAGGIE 
 
 had worked early and late; he had never been im- 
 prudent, never spared himself ; he was indeed black 
 affronted when there seemed to lie before him no 
 other prospect than that of a '* roup " at the farm, 
 and of leaving ToUishill with his wife and bairns 
 and taking service under some farmer whose capital 
 was large enough to enable him to gamble with 
 the elements. 
 
 "Aweel, aweel, lass," he said, *'ooVe dune oor 
 best. There's nane can say ooVe wasted, or negleckit 
 the bestial. Its been late an' early for huz yins, 
 an' a gude wife ye've been tae me, but the siller's 
 a' gane, an' there's an end o't." 
 
 But Midside Maggie was not one of those who 
 sit down in the ditch of affliction and weep along 
 with the sufferer. Before doing so she was always 
 ready to pull with all her might with her strong 
 kind hands. 
 
 The "Yirl" — Lord Lauderdale — ^who was later 
 so terrifying a personality to those whom he sent, 
 according to his own coarse jest, "to glorify God 
 in the Grassmarket," was even then one of whom 
 only the most courageous was likely to dare to ask 
 a favour. But Maggie Hardie had made up her 
 mind that the only thing to be done to save the 
 situation was for her to have a personal interview 
 with their landlord and to beg him to let the rent, 
 for the present, '* stand owre." 
 
 So off she tramped the long six miles from 
 
 133 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 Tollishill to Thirlestane Castle, courageous indeed, 
 for she feared no man, but very timoursome as to 
 the result of her enterprise. Her comely face and 
 winning manners stood her in good stead with 
 those who were not already acquainted with 
 " Midside Maggie " when she got to Thirlestane, 
 and when she was ushered into the Earl's presence 
 they won her a hearing which otherwise might 
 not have been granted. 
 
 The Earl was sitting in his library when a 
 gorgeously liveried servant showed her in with a 
 solemn — **The wife from Tollishill to see you, my 
 lord." 
 
 '*Siccan a muckle graund chamber, Thomas!" 
 she said as she afterwards recounted her adventures 
 at home; **a' the plenishings like a royal pailis, 
 an' the pictures on the wa's framed wi' gowd ! " 
 And in the muckle room was a muckle man, his 
 red hair long and rough as the hair of a Highland 
 stot, and who addressed her in a rough great voice, 
 and with a tongue so much too big for his mouth 
 that he spluttered and slavered as he spoke. No 
 careful choice of words did John Maitland ever go 
 in for. " His manner was ever rough, boisterous, 
 and very unfit for a court," wrote Bishop Burnet 
 of him, but Midside Maggie knew nothing of 
 courts, and stood her ground with dignity when 
 **the Yirl" bawled at her in language that any 
 rough Lammermuir hind might have used. 
 
 134 
 
MIDSIDE MAGGIE 
 
 She told the tale of the lean years and of the 
 last most doleful winter in a way that carried 
 conviction with it. Many another similar story 
 must already have been poured into the landlord's 
 ears, but probably none of the petitioners was quite 
 so well-favoured as Maggie of ToUishill. The Earl 
 protested, scolded, spluttered disclaimers of any 
 responsibility, but listened, and finally, with a loud 
 laugh at his own wit, suggested payment in kind. 
 
 " Snaw ? say ye, wumman ! — snaw, snaw, snaw — 
 I'm deived wi' the name o' snaw ! Ye'd think it 
 did naething but snaw on my fairms frae Martinmas 
 till Lammas ! Be dammed tae the snaw ! I'm seek 
 o't, I tell ye." . . . 
 
 "But, my lord," said Maggie, "it's just as ye 
 say ! The hale year roond there's been frost an' 
 sleet an' snaw. If there hadnae been, ye'd hae had 
 the rent." 
 
 " God's w^ounds, then, gudewife ! here's a gude 
 offer for ye 1 If there's naething but sleet an' 
 frost an' snaw at ToUishill, ye can pey the rent 
 in the only crop ye've gotten ! Bring me a snowba' 
 on Midsummer Day, and never a penny o' siller 
 will I tak frae ye ! " 
 
 The Earl was scarcely prepared for the fervency 
 of Maggie's thanks. 
 
 " Mind ye, lass, it's snaw or siller ! an' if ye 
 cannae raise either when Midsummer comes roond, 
 oot ye gang — man an' bairns an' a' I " 
 
 135 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 Back to Tollishill trudged Midside Maggie, 
 and her goodman's anxious face grew round as 
 she eagerly expounded her plan. Together they 
 went off to a lonely cleuch on the farm where the 
 snow still lay deep, and when they had collected 
 a quantity of it they pounded it into a solid mass. 
 This they hid in a dark gorge in the glen where 
 neither sun nor wind could ever come, and covered 
 it thickly up with bracken. 
 
 That spring was no more kindly than the springs 
 that had gone before it, and often on bitter nights 
 when the sleet drove against the windows and snow 
 drifted down on the hills, Midside Maggie would 
 comfort her heart with the thought of the rent that 
 lay hidden in the lonely glen. 
 
 When the first of June came round she again 
 took her way to Thirlestane Castle, a large bundle 
 carried carefully in her arms. Into the great, grand 
 room she was shown once more, into the presence 
 of that most loutish of aristocrats. Silently she 
 dropped a curtsey. 
 
 " The goodwife from Tollishill, my lord," said 
 the lackey. 
 
 Down on her knees on the floor went Maggie, 
 a clean "brat" was spread out to save the carpet, 
 and swiftly and deftly the bundle was opened. The 
 Earl stared in round-eyed amazement, then when 
 Maggie looked up from her employment and he 
 saw a large, white round object on the floor before 
 
 136 
 
MIDSIDE MAGGIE 
 
 him, he gave a great bellow of amusement. " God's 
 sake 1 " he shouted. '* rm domned if she hasnae 
 brocht the snowhcC I " 
 
 There was no going back on his word, and 
 Maggie came home a proud woman, the rent for- 
 given. 
 
 That was the last bad season at ToUishill for 
 many a day. In 1653 the only snow was the 
 blossom of the fruit-trees which flowered then for 
 a second time. Some of them even bore fruit, 
 " albeit not in perfection." For a second time, too, 
 the whins and broom bloomed, and the violets came 
 out in the glens. At Martinmas the birds had 
 nested and were laying eggs, and " salads and sybows 
 were cried and sold in Edinburgh on the 27th 
 November." Equally ideal were the years that fol- 
 lowed, and happiness and prosperity reigned at 
 ToUishill. 
 
 Meantime the fortunes of the landlord were less 
 sunny. Although he had been an upholder of the 
 Covenanters and was a party to the betrayal of 
 Charles I, he had later joined his fortunes with those 
 of Charles II. 
 
 At the defeat of Worcester in 1651 he was 
 taken prisoner, and for nine years, until the " King 
 came to his own," he was confined in first one 
 English prison, then in another. His Lauderdale 
 estates suffered from mismanagement, and his tenants 
 saw no reason why their rents should contribute to 
 
 137 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 the maintenance of an absentee landlord who was 
 being punished for his sin of rebellion against the 
 Government. 
 
 But Midside Maggie's grateful heart had never 
 forgotten that gracious deed of one whose virtues 
 and graces were never very noticeable. Each year 
 the rent for ToUishill was put carefully aside, until 
 it had reached a goodly sum, made up of every 
 coin in the realm. Then one fine day Midside 
 Maggie set off to Edinburgh, walking by Soutra Hill, 
 and in Edinburgh had the money changed into gold 
 pieces. She got safely back to the farm with her 
 precious burden, though those were days when 
 Soutra Hill was a mischancey place for those who 
 carried anything that a footpad might fancy. At 
 Tollishill she then baked a bannock, carefully knead- 
 ing into the meal the golden coins that belonged to 
 her landlord. 
 
 Would that we had some record of the journey 
 that followed, for, as intrepid and as loyal-hearted 
 as Jeanie Deans, Midside Maggie took upon herself 
 the same adventure as Sir Walter's heroine, and 
 tramped the four hundred miles to London. The 
 Earl of Lauderdale was then lodged in the Tower, 
 and thither Maggie found her way, the bannock still 
 safely carried. Outside the Tower she stood and 
 there, so says tradition, sang a song that she knew 
 was a favourite with the Earl. That honest Lowland 
 voice — the Border song — it must have been a good 
 
 138 
 
MIDSIDE MAGGIE 
 
 thing to fall on the ears of a prisoner in that 
 gloomy gaol by the Thames. It was not long ere 
 the singer had orders to go inside and see the noble 
 prisoner who liked Scots songs. 
 
 " Godsake 1 " said the Earl, " it's never the gude- 
 wife frae ToUishill 1 Ye've no' socht us another 
 snowba', my lass ? " 
 
 " Na, ma lord," said Maggie, " I've come tae pey 
 the rent wi' a bannock." 
 
 '* A bannock ! " said Lauderdale. " The woman's 
 no' wyce ! " 
 
 ''Gin ye'll please tae pree it, sir," said Maggie 
 demurely, " ye'll see I'm wyce eneuch." 
 
 The Earl took the bannock in his big coarse 
 hands and roughly broke off a corner. 
 
 The bread had travelled many a mile since it 
 smelt fresh and fragrant on the ToUishill girdle and 
 it took a tough pull to break it, and as the broken 
 piece came away there fell on the stone floor not 
 only crumbs, but some objects that jingled as they 
 fell, and shone ere they left the sunshine and hid 
 themselves in dark corners of the room. 
 
 " A farm where the snaw aye fa's and the 
 bannocks are made o' gowdl" said the Earl. 
 **Fegs, wumman, I'm thinkin' the hairt o' the 
 guidwife o' ToUishill is made o' the same stuff as 
 her bannocks ! " 
 
 It was not long after Midside Maggie had 
 trudged one evening into her own kitchen, a weary 
 
 139 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 woman with a proud and happy heart, that Lauder- 
 dale, through favour of General Monk, got his 
 freedom. 
 
 In Holland, with his Prince, the golden guineas 
 from ToUishill must have come in very handy, and in 
 1660 he returned to Britain with Charles II, to enjoy 
 for many years the condition of being a strong power 
 in the state. His was in no way an edifying 
 history, and he died, twenty-two years after the 
 Restoration, a dishonoured and a friendless man. 
 Perhaps no man was ever better hated, or with 
 better reason, but in one family he always remained 
 a gracious hero — in the family of the Hardies of 
 ToUishill. For when the Earl of Lauderdale came 
 home from Holland he visited his Lauderdale estates, 
 and there arranged that Midside Maggie and her 
 family should hold the farm rent free for the term of 
 their successive lives. With the promise he gave 
 Maggie a silver girdle as guerdon — a girdle that the 
 curious may yet examine in the National Museum of 
 Antiquities in Edinburgh. 
 
 That spluttering, rude tongue that made the pre- 
 sentation was probably never more gently courteous 
 than when a blushing gudewife received, with a 
 complete sense of her own unworthiness, this mag- 
 nificent token of a nobleman's gratitude. 
 
 ** Every bannock has its maik," he said with a 
 smile, *' but the bannock of ToUishill." 
 
 140 
 
THE LOVER WHO RODE ON 
 
 Many a mournful song the Tweed will sing to those 
 whose ears know how to listen to it, and it knows 
 few more piteous stories than that of the fair maid 
 of Neidpath. 
 
 Once on a time the Earl of March was Lord of 
 Neidpath, and no prouder lord than he was to be 
 found in all Scotland. He was proud of his family, 
 proud of his lands, proud of his feats of arms, but 
 proudest of all was he of his daughter, the fairest 
 maid in all Tweedside. To his father's heart she 
 seemed fit bride for a king, and many a high castle 
 in the air he built for her as he watched her lead 
 in the dance or ride by his side to the chase — 
 gayest, fairest, and most fearless of all Border 
 maids. 
 
 Down the valley and over the hills they rode 
 one bright autumn day, father and daughter and a 
 goodly following of gentlemen and of servants, to 
 the chase in the Forest of Ettrick. It was a thick, 
 dark forest in those times, with game in plenty 
 both for hawk and for hound, and on that day the 
 sport was extra good. The Earl's daughter rode a 
 horse that could outpace any there, and in her 
 
 141 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 girlish keenness she spurred on ahead after hounds 
 that had the finest stag of the day as quarry. For 
 the other riders the pace was one that was too hot 
 to last, and one by one they got left behind, until 
 only the horse ridden by the Earl's daughter still 
 crashed untiringly through the thick undergrowth, 
 following the loud-baying hounds and the fast tiring 
 stag amongst the rapidly lengthening shadows of 
 the forest. In a bed of golden-brown bracken, 
 under a clump of grey birches, the hounds pulled 
 their quarry to earth, and the huntress checked her 
 panting horse. It had been a noble run, and now 
 the stag's race was ended and the fierce hounds were 
 mercilessly tearing at their sobbing prey. With 
 voice and whip the girl tried to call them back, but 
 she might as well have tried to stem the breakers 
 of a stormy sea. She sprang from the saddle, and 
 at dire risk to herself strove to force her way 
 amongst the struggling brutes, their jaws red and 
 dripping with their victim's blood. From a jewelled 
 case that hung by her side — dainty part of her 
 hunting - outfit — she drew a hunting - knife. The 
 stag must be put out of pain — it was not right 
 that anything so noble should be allowed to suffer 
 so. She hated the hounds — would have slain them 
 if she could. But she was helpless, and could only 
 cry for " Help I Help I " in a wail that surely none 
 could hear above the fierce turmoil in that trampled 
 bracken. Yet the cry was heard. As if she had 
 
 142 
 
THE LOVER WHO RODE ON 
 
 called magic to her aid, a horseman galloped up, 
 leapt from his horse, and ran towards her. 
 
 *'You cried for help!" he said. "What harms 
 you?" 
 
 The girl pointed to the struggling stag. Her face 
 was white with the misery of it, her dark brown 
 eyes had in them some of the helpless pain that a 
 wounded stag might wear. 
 
 "Kill it!" she said; "for pity's sake kill it 
 quickly ! " and she thrust the hunting-knife into his 
 hand. 
 
 A man of swift action was the youth. At the 
 sound of his voice the dogs looked up from their 
 worry, and his sound kicks in their ribs enforced their 
 obedience. No shameful death did that stag of 
 many points die. It was a skilled sportsman who 
 swiftly and surely administered the coup de grace. 
 
 The hounds slunk into heel at the command of 
 one whom they recognised as having a right to com- 
 mand, and the young man turned to where the fair 
 lady in her habit of green stood beside the horses. 
 Her face was still very white and tears were in her 
 dark eyes. 
 
 " I thank you, kind sir," she said. " I was sore 
 bestead. . . . Hold me not for a cowardly maid . . . 
 but he was so gallant a stag, and heretofore the death- 
 stab has been dealt quickly by a strong man's hand 
 ere I could see the dreadful pain and shame of it all." 
 
 The youth stood silent for a moment, cap in 
 
 143 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 hand. He was a stalwart fellow, tall and broad- 
 shouldered, and with a handsome face that knew no 
 fear. To him this was the most heavenly vision that 
 mortal eyes had ever looked upon. 
 
 ** I think you must be the goddess Diana," he said. 
 ** I have a wise clerk for cousin, and he has spoken of 
 her as we rode to the chase. But goddess or not 
 goddess, I am your faithful servant for evermore. " 
 
 And his blue eyes met her brown ones, and the 
 deed was done. 
 
 He was a son of the laird of Tushielaw, in Ettrick 
 Forest, he told her, and a cloud passed over his sky 
 when she told him that her father was the Earl of 
 March. But the Earl was very gracious to young 
 Tushielaw when, a little later, they were guided by 
 his hunting-horn to where Ettrick water was silvering 
 in the evening light, and for many a week thereafter 
 the laird's son was the Earl's constant and most wel- 
 come guest. 
 
 It was the Lady March whose keen sight first 
 saw what mischief had been done, and told her angry 
 husband that not only had the young commoner 
 dared to lift his eyes to their daughter, but that their 
 daughter had lowered herself so far as to look down 
 on him with love. 
 
 Such a match by no means befitted her quality. 
 The insolent youth must instantly be sent packing ; 
 the girl be told that her conduct was shameful for 
 one who might mate with the highest in the land. 
 
 144 
 
THE LOVER WHO RODE ON 
 
 In vain the girl pled. In vain did young TushielaMr 
 try to gain a hearing from the furious Earl. It was 
 a hopeless cause. Rather would her father see his 
 daughter lying dead than wed to a penniless, low- 
 born reiver. 
 
 Tushielaw, conscious of his own good birth, 
 spoke, in the rashness of his youth, of fire and of 
 swords. He would steal his lady-love away, would 
 break the bolts of any prison that might hide her. 
 But words were empty weapons with an adversary 
 like the Earl of March. 
 
 For some months the young laird plotted and 
 planned, ate his heart out with longing, haunted 
 the yew forest and the long avenue of Neidpath, 
 hoping for a glimpse, for a word. But the fair maid 
 of Neidpath had gone, no one could tell him whither. 
 The sunny orchard on the hillside, the garden and 
 terraces by the river knew her no more, and the 
 woods near the castle were too full of the Earl's 
 armed men to be good for the health of any 
 trespasser. 
 
 At long last Tushielaw was forced to buckle on his 
 sword and to cross the sea to the wars in France, in 
 the hope that a close acquaintance with the god Mars 
 might help to rid him of the heart-aching remem- 
 brance of her whom he called his goddess Diana. 
 
 While he fought and saw fresh sights, learned 
 new things, his goddess, in the Castle by the Tweed, 
 dwined and pined away. All the life and laughter 
 
 145 K 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 seemed to have gone out of her. She grew listless, 
 spiritless, and pale. 
 
 Then came winter, and the winds blew shrewd 
 and cold down the Tweed valley, and snow lay 
 deep up Manor Water and on lonely Minchmoor. 
 All through the dark winter days she coughed, and 
 each cough was a stab to her mother's heart. 
 " When spring comes she will be herself again," 
 said her father. But ere the first primroses appeared 
 under the sloe bushes down by the Tweed, a skilful 
 leech from Edinburgh was brought to see the maid. 
 Many and horrible were the prescriptions he used 
 for her, yet she grew no better. Months dragged 
 past until at length, honest man, he had to own 
 that her illness was beyond his skill. No herbs nor 
 nauseous compounds could amend her state. She 
 was in a consumption, and love lay at the root of 
 the evil. 
 
 Were she to be given her way and her lover 
 restored to her, recovery might be possible. Other- 
 wise there was no hope. 
 
 That was a bitter day for the Earl of March, 
 but he took his trouncing like a man. Messengers 
 were straightway despatched to France, and the 
 young laird, who was still indeed the faithful servant 
 of her whom he had met by the birch trees in the 
 Forest of Ettrick, came back in all haste to Scotland, 
 bringing with him a gallant record of prowess in the 
 field. 
 
 146 
 
THE LOVER WHO RODE ON 
 
 At Neidpath, once the decision had been made, 
 the days were happy ones. The glad parents saw 
 their daughter's eyes grow bright once more, eagerly 
 watched the roses coming back to her cheeks, and 
 listened joyfully to the happy laugh that had so long 
 been silent. 
 
 *' 1 am going to live now," she said. ** When he 
 comes back from France my heart's life will come 
 too." 
 
 The days, the hours, the very minutes were 
 counted until young Tushielaw should return to 
 his own. They were autumn days now. The purple 
 had gone from the heather on the moors ; the 
 bracken was golden and brown and amber; the 
 rowans still flamed scarlet amongst their yellow 
 leaves, and grey mist hung on the hill-tops and 
 crept up the valleys. 
 
 "I am glad he will come on an autumn day," 
 she said. " I wish him to remember the day, two 
 long years ago, when he came to me in the Forest." 
 
 When the day of his arrival was so near that 
 hours could measure the time to pass before they 
 met, her impatience fretted like a restive horse. 
 
 " I must be the first to meet him," she said. " I 
 must be the first to greet him." 
 
 And her father's pride bowed its head before love 
 such as hers. 
 
 A happy thought came to him. He owned a 
 •house in Peebles, and through Peebles the lover 
 
 147 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 must ride to come to Neidpath. He spoke of it to 
 his daughter, and was rewarded for his thought by 
 the joy with which she agreed that she should be 
 taken there on the day that he arrived, and lie on 
 cushions on the balcony, so that she might give him 
 the joyous surprise of a welcome when he came 
 riding through the town. 
 
 " Do you think he will find me changed ? " she 
 anxiously asked her mother as she looked in the 
 little hanging glass when they had robed her in 
 clothes fit for Court. "I look older, I think — and 
 my face is thin and pale — but, sure, it will grow young 
 again in the sunshine of his love." 
 
 There came a stound at her father*s heart. 
 
 "By Saint Ronayn, you are as fair as you ever 
 were," he said, *' as fair and as young — fair enough 
 to be the bride of a king." 
 
 But the Earl knew that these were false words 
 that he spoke. 
 
 She was tired and more pale when the journey 
 was accomplished and when she had been settled on 
 cushions on the balcony in Peebles, and lay, with 
 eager, beating heart, watching the riders who passed 
 along the road. They would have had her drink 
 some cordial, but she would have none. 
 
 "The wine 1 want is the light from his eyes," 
 she said. 
 
 The autumn day wore on, but the light was still 
 on the silver Tweed and the rich woods by the river 
 
 148 
 
THE LOVER WHO RODE ON 
 
 when she started up and stood, leaning with both 
 hands on the stone of the balcony. " Hark ! I hear 
 his horse's feet ! " she said. *' I am not wrong. I 
 know. How could I mistake when he is the one 
 who rides ? " 
 
 At first it was only she who heard. Then the 
 ring of the hoofs came nearer, nearer. It was one 
 who rode in haste, and as he drew near, her glad 
 eyes saw as gallant a lover as any fair maid could 
 desire for her own. -Her father and mother, 
 standing in the shadow behind her, felt their re- 
 luctance fade as they looked. He was no laggard 
 lover. His horse showed traces of hard riding, and 
 yet he pressed it harder still, for his heart had 
 wings and for well-nigh two years he had longed 
 with all his soul for this day when he should ride 
 to Neidpath Castle and claim his own. Yet, hard 
 though he rode, his eyes were drawn up to the 
 balcony from whence a woman looked down at 
 him, a woman pale and haggard and ill, with dark 
 eyes, like the eyes of a dying stag, that gazed at 
 him beseechingly. "Poor soul!" he said to him- 
 self, "she is a-dying." And then — "My beautiful 
 goddess ! my rose-cheeked Diana ! At Neidpath 
 she waits ! " 
 
 And so he looked away, pressed his spurs into 
 the sides of his wearied horse, and galloped on- 
 wards. 
 
 The Earl and Countess sprang forward to call to 
 
 149 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 him, but ere they could call, their daughter fell back 
 in their arms. 
 
 " She is dying ! " cried her mother. 
 
 But her father said, '' She is dead,'' 
 
 And the hoofs of her lover's horse rang on, rang 
 on, ever getting fainter until they died away. 
 
 150 
 
SUPPERSTEETIONS 
 
 " Some folk's unco suppersteetious," said Mrs. Halli- 
 day, as I sat by her fire waiting for the snowstorm to 
 abate before facing that bleak road home from the 
 village. She sat in a high, hard-backed chair by the 
 whitened fireplace, and the firelight glowed redly on 
 her face that is a network of wrinkles. Mrs. Halliday 
 wears a black cap tied under her chin, and a little 
 black and purple knitted shawl crossed on her chest. 
 She has a firm mouth, although her teeth are mostly 
 gone and have made it fall in. There are dark 
 hollows round her eyes, but her grey eyes are still 
 keen and bright. She gazed past me and my two 
 dogs out of the little window with the pot of 
 geranium in front of it. Her eyes looked along the 
 snowy road, up to the belt of fir trees on the far 
 horizon, and watched the snowflakes dancing a wild 
 can-can together. 
 
 "Aye, some folk's unco suppersteetious," she 
 repeated. *' Now, it'll maybe sound a suppersteetious- 
 like thing for me to tell, but it's true for a' that. 
 When oor Walter was ta'en awa', he had a bullfinch " 
 (Mrs. Halliday pronounced it to rhyme with dull 
 finch). " It was aye singin', an' better singin', a' the 
 
 151 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 time he was lyin\ He lay three month or mair. 
 It was an unco bird to sing. But the day oor Wat 
 was ta'en awa' the bullfinch never said Peep. It 
 just sat there, dowie-like, in the cage, and never 
 gi'ed a cheep. An' his faither said, ' The very bird is 
 murnin'.' It never sang after that — no' for a year. 
 But a year after, to the very day, that oor Wat was 
 ta'en the bullfinch begude tae sing again. ... It 
 may be a suppersteetious-like thing tae tell. But 
 it's true." 
 
 Janet broke in. Janet is Mrs. Halliday's 
 daughter, and one of the best women I have ever 
 known. 
 
 " Oh, birds often stop singing," said Janet apolo- 
 getically. " Ye canna tell what they dae't for. They 
 often just stop. . . . But I mind my brother's bird. 
 It was a queer-like thing." 
 
 Mrs. Halliday is a little deaf. She is frequently 
 deaf to Janet's remarks. She gazed steadily into the 
 storm, and there were tears in her eyes. 
 
 '* Aye, that was oor Wat's bird. * The very bircCs 
 murnin\' his faither said." 
 
 The snow fell fast and heavily. The coUie laid 
 his head on Mrs. Halliday's knee, and whimpered 
 uncomfortably. 
 
 " The bease kens weel enough when death's near," 
 said Mrs. Halliday. " It may seem suppersteetious 
 tae believe it, but I ken that they have an instinct 
 that folk canna understand. A dog kens far mair 
 
 152 
 
SUPPERSTEETIONS 
 
 than a body. My faither was a herd up Yarrow. 
 He was lost in a snowstorm when I was a bit bairn, 
 and they fand him when the snaw gaed awa'. I 
 dinna mind aboot it, but my mother aye telled us 
 that his dog gaed aboot for mony a long day after 
 that, aye murnin' an' seekin' for him, and when she 
 gaed to the kirkyaird it ran till his grave an' wad ha 
 howkit the corp up again. Oh, they ken fine." 
 
 " Weel, there's cats," said Janet. " They ken as 
 weel as can be when there's gaun to be a death 
 When the maister was ill, the auld cat and the 
 young yin, that were never awa' frae the hoose, an' 
 aye needin' tae be let in at the windows, an' aye 
 seekin' meat or sittin' on the maister's knee, or 
 foUowin' like dogs, they never were seen. Ye'll 
 mind that ? Never yince, for a' thae ten days, did a 
 body see them. An' it wasna as if they werena weel 
 looked tae. There was meat pitten for them every 
 day, but they never cam near the hoose. But that 
 very day that the maister dee'd, when it was a' owre, 
 I'd been washin' oot some things and hingin' them 
 on the hedge at the back door, an' here comes the 
 twa o' them, waulin' an' waulin'. They followed me 
 into the hoose, up the stair. The door o' the 
 maister's room was lockit, but there they sat, waulin' 
 an' better waulin'. Oh, they kent fine." 
 
 "Oh, aye," said Mrs. Halliday. "That's a 
 suppersteetion aboot cats. It's true eneuch." 
 
 It was a true story, I knew, and I said so. 
 
 153 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 " Aweel, I*m no suppersteetious," said Mrs. Halli- 
 day, "but there's a thing that I've mony a time 
 seen come true. 1 never like tae hear a bird come 
 bang against the window. It means a death." 
 
 Janet moved uneasily. 
 ** Oh, I wadna say that," she said. Janet's prin- 
 ciples are perpetually warring against her beliefs. 
 ** I wadna say that." 
 
 Her mother ignored her. ** There was Leddy 
 Murray," she said. " A bird played bang again' the 
 window the nicht she was ta'en awa' that sudden, 
 an', says I, I'll hear o' a death the morn. There was 
 John Tamson, tae, an' mony anither. Auld Tibby 
 was at her denner, when a bird near gars the window 
 flee. ' I doot oor John's awa',' says she. An' sure 
 eneuch he was. It's no' a week till next Sabbath 
 when I was taking a bit lesson — I was gaun ower 
 the Revelations; there's some gey queer things in 
 the Revelations — when a bird plays bang again' the 
 glass. On the Monday we had word frae Jean Dick 
 that Sandy, her eldest, that got mony a piece frae 
 me when he was a bit callant rinnin' roond the doors, 
 dee'd o' pewmonia on the Sabbath morning." 
 
 " Aye," said Janet, " there's a lot o' trouble aboot 
 the noo. It's aye the way in the end o' the year an' 
 the beginning o't, especially when we haena had 
 ony snaw. A green Yule maks a fat kirkyaird, they 
 say. But death's naething when ye're prepared tae 
 meet it." 
 
 154 
 
SUPPERSTEETIONS 
 
 "Aye, aye," said Mrs. Halliday, ''if ye're pre 
 pared, that's the main thing. . . . It's lookin' like a 
 feeding storm. What ails the dog? Its wheenge- 
 ing. ..." 
 
 I rose hastily to go. 
 
 The night was falling and the snow still whirled 
 across the moors and fields on to the road where 
 drifts lay deep already. 
 
 Mrs. Halliday gazed absent-mindedly into the red 
 coals as I said good-bye. 
 
 *' Aye," she murmured to herself. '* Some folk's 
 unco suppersteetious." 
 
 155 
 
THE COWIE OF GORANBERRY 
 
 The days of the fairy folk are past. No longer can 
 we see the little figures in green slipping behind the 
 trees when we go to pick primroses in the woods. 
 No more does the will-o'-the-wisp beguile us as we 
 ride through the moors of bog, myrtle, and peat when 
 the sun has fallen and before the moon has come up. 
 There is no longer a meal left out for the Brownie at 
 night, nor do we deck our lintels with rowan sprigs 
 to keep tricksy spirits away. The Little People have 
 sailed far across the sea to a land we do not know. 
 The worthy Presbyterians who warred against witch- 
 craft swept many away. The Board Schools are 
 responsible for most of the rest. All through the 
 years the children would have saved them if they 
 could. They would save them even now, though it 
 means a harder struggle as the years go on. But we 
 are too scientific, too commonsensical, to permit it. 
 " When I was a little girl I believed in fairies," says 
 the child of nine. How many of her listeners 
 applaud her growing sense ? How few sigh for the 
 loss of which she is still most innocently un- 
 conscious ? 
 
 In the olden days, Goranberry Tower, near the 
 
 156 
 
THE COWIE OF GORANBERRY 
 
 source of the Hermitage Water, and about two miles 
 above Hermitage Castle, was the chosen home of 
 one of the Little People. Some of the Elliot clan 
 lived there then, and to the Brownie who had claimed 
 their hospitality they gave the name of " The Cowie." 
 ** The Cowie of Goranberry " was no useless spirit, 
 satisfied to expend its energy on meaningless tappings 
 and scrapings, or to keep its hosts in a proper con- 
 dition of respect by sighs and moans and heavy foot- 
 steps as they lay in bed. A thoroughly practical, 
 hard-working, capable Brownie was the Cowie of 
 Goranberry. That it had the good of the Elliots 
 warmly at heart was unquestionable. Who carted 
 in all the peats and safely stacked them one night 
 when at daybreak the snow was drifting down in 
 that terrible storm that lasted for a week on end ? 
 Who sheared the last little field of oats, acted as his 
 own bandster, and stacked it safely before the autumn 
 spates could harm it ? Who sheared the sheep just 
 when they wanted it, and when the goodman of 
 Goranberry was unexpectedly detained on the other 
 side of the Border on pressing business connected 
 with some English cattle ? Who chopped firewood 
 for the goodwife ? Who ground the quern so that 
 in the morning the bairns found abundance of fresh 
 oatmeal for their porridge? Who but the Cowie 
 of Goranberry. 
 
 In a hundred different ways did he help on the 
 work of the household and of the farm, and yet the 
 
 157 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 grateful family never once saw their friend. Often 
 at night they would hear him at work — chopping 
 wood, sawing, spinning or rolling yarn, grinding the 
 handmill. But they would only contentedly say to 
 each other, "The Cowie is having a busy nicht," 
 and go to sleep again, knowing that they would find 
 the work well done in the morning. To only one 
 sound that the Cowie made did they object, and yet 
 the family took a kind of mournful pride in a thing 
 that so distinguished them from common people. 
 Always as Death, was about to stretch out his hand 
 and take hold of one of the Elliots, the event was 
 foretokened by the sound of bitter weeping from the 
 Cowie of Goranberry. Many a year came and went, 
 one Elliot made room for another — still at the old 
 Tower up Hermitage Water the Cowie held his 
 sway. 
 
 But there came an autumn, when Adam Elliot, 
 the last of his family, was laird of Goranberry, that 
 black depression seemed to have fallen upon the 
 Cowie. When the moonlight harvest nights were 
 past, all through the long nights of October, and 
 in the blacker ones in the early part of November, 
 the Cowie did not cease to make his moan. Eerie 
 it was for all who served there, eerie for those who 
 rode that way at night, for the laments were those 
 of a beast that had lost her young and yet had all 
 the human pitifulness of the wail of a woman whose 
 heart is broken. Only one of those who listened 
 
 158 
 
THE COWIE OF GORANBERRY 
 
 hugged to a wicked heart the thought of what the 
 waiUngs betokened. Many a time had Adam Elliotts 
 false wife prayed for "a dark nicht and a toom 
 saddle" when her husband rode abroad, and it 
 seemed now as if her prayers were about to be 
 answered. 
 
 It was a bright November day with sun on the 
 hills and on the still red bracken when the laird rode 
 off to the Martinmas Hiring Fair at Copshawholm, 
 but it was told afterwards by those who watched 
 him ride away, that even in the morning sunshine 
 they could hear that piteous wail that all knew 
 for the lament of the Cowie of Goranberry. 
 
 The bright morning ended in a stormy day, and 
 already all the Border streams were flooded when 
 Elliot took his homeward way across the moors 
 in the darkening. All through that night his 
 servants vainly and in dismal apprehension awaited 
 his return. With every decorous semblance of 
 anxiety his wife also kept vigil. The sleet was 
 driven in fierce blatters against the Tower, and the 
 flooded Hermitage Water moaned aloud, but ever 
 above the howling gale and the thousand angry 
 noises of the night the bitter moaning of the Cowie 
 made itself heard. Then at length in a lull in the 
 storm the watchers heard the whinny of a horse 
 and the sound of hoofs on the causeway in front 
 of the Tower. Gladly did the servants run to open 
 the door for their master, while the heart of the 
 
 159 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 woman, who had hoped for what she dared not name, 
 sank within her. But the horse was riderless, and 
 they could see that the water that dripped from 
 its saddle came not only from the drift of the rain. 
 It was a wild night indeed, a night no serving-man 
 or woman there ever forgot, for through the storm 
 the dismal keening of the Cowie sounded like the 
 cry of a lost soul, and made even the most hardened 
 horse-couping Borderer there, kneel and pray, while 
 his eyes were wet with pity for something more 
 piteous than he had ever known that the world 
 could contain. 
 
 In the grey drizzle of the next morning they 
 found Adam EUiot. He was sitting with his back 
 against the wall of Hermitage burying-ground, his 
 cloak about him, drenched through, stiff and dead. 
 He had been swept from his horse as he forded 
 the flooded stream, but had managed to struggle 
 out of the water and had crept to the bield of the 
 kirkyard wall, hoping to find shelter there. 
 
 That was the end of Adam Elliot, and that also 
 was the last of the Cowie of Goranberry. As day 
 dawned one of the watching women said she heard 
 it give a last cry, like that of a little whimpering, 
 new-born babe ; then all was silence, and the place 
 that had known it knew it no more. 
 
 i6o 
 
BY THE NORTH SEA 
 
 It is a bleak and rugged coast. Its naked head- 
 lands catch the gales that sweep across from 
 Denmark and the regions of snow and ice. Its 
 ragged coast-line welcomes the storms that churn 
 up the surf on the shore, that throw the sea- wrack 
 up in lavish tangles, and cast wreckage and all 
 that have wrestled with the sea and been thrown, 
 on to its shingly beaches. In spring, when primroses 
 star its more sheltered cliffs, and in summer, when 
 the sea-pinks and rock-roses and wild thyme grow 
 thickly on the turf that the spray cannot reach, 
 the coast masquerades as a light-hearted dilettante. 
 The little village by the shore is full of visitors. 
 Artists are as plentiful as the blackberries in the 
 lanes. The beach is alive and moving with nurses 
 and children. The fisher folk are valuable only as 
 "local colour." The brown sails of the fishing- 
 yawls are also valuable "notes," but the fisherman 
 has usually taken his boat and himself to Ireland 
 for the herring. His wife and his mother have 
 stayed behind to have their harvest. Their little 
 rooms, with beds in improbable chests of drawers, 
 and full-rigged ships in impossible bottles, have 
 
 i6i L 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 become almost worth their weight in gold. One 
 may still often hear the voices of these owners, 
 whose normal tone is a sea-bird shriek, defiant of 
 any tempest, but the summer visitor is the man in 
 possession. Edinburgh and Glasgow and London, 
 and their wives and children and nurses, have con- 
 quered the little hold of those that go down to the 
 sea in ships. 
 
 Only now and again during the light-hearted 
 summer does the tragedy which is the dominant 
 note in the homes of the fisher folk reassert itself 
 
 The day is bright and clear, the sky is blue, 
 and the blue waves ride high and toss up their 
 white spray insolently to the heavens. The nurses 
 and the children are dotted over the yellow sands. 
 The children dig, and the women gossip, and it is 
 all quite commonplace and entirely peaceful. Then 
 someone runs — a boy, white and gasping — to the 
 little hut where the lifebuoys and ropes are kept, 
 and one by one a straggling crowd realises that 
 there is something dreadful behind the dark rocks 
 at the point, and follows him as he ploughs heavily 
 along the wet sand by the sea. It is only one of 
 the holiday-makers, they say — "A lad frae Edin- 
 burgh." He is the son of an old man in a village 
 near, a little mechanic who has fished once too 
 often with his heavy pole from a shelving ledge 
 which the hungry sea has many times eyed greedily. 
 His cap and the rod still bob about near the rock 
 
 162 
 
BY THE NORTH SEA 
 
 where he stood. There is no one to blame. No 
 one could swim ; not even the strongest swimmer 
 could have saved him out of that turbulent mael- 
 strom of water that is scourging the rocks and 
 gambolling playfully, like a wild beast that has 
 eaten its fill. As those who were on the shore 
 when "it" happened return to the village, a 
 dreadful importance is attached to their every word 
 by the breathless women who have heard the news 
 — heaven knows how — and who run down the cliff 
 path to the sands. The youngest nursemaid swells 
 with importance, and strains her imagination for 
 details. The other visitors and the fisher people 
 hang upon her lips. The village looks like a bee- 
 hive that has just been assailed by the stone of a 
 mischievous boy. The very oldest inhabitant cannot 
 stay indoors, but hastens in an unsteady canter 
 to the cliff. As she goes she adjusts a large and 
 heavy telescope to bear on the scene of the disaster, 
 lest, perchance, she may have the privilege of 
 sighting some part of the flotsam and jetsam of 
 the waves. Nor does the tragedy end there. Day 
 after day men and women scan the waves and 
 haunt the shore. They talk of "it." The little 
 mechanic from Edinburgh and the neighbouring 
 village has lost his identity. And in his reduction 
 to the neuter he enjoys a fearful importance that 
 in life he never knew. Then comes a grey evening 
 when a boat slowly rows into the harbour, and the 
 
 163 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 stone of the predatory boy has apparently once 
 more struck the hive. A short bundle lies in the 
 boat, covered by a w^hite sail. The fisherman who 
 found " it " tells his tale with much gesticulation, and 
 his audience is spellbound. The sand had silted up. 
 
 "I lookit doon through the waitter. * Is that 
 a muckle white shell?' says I. *Ma hostie, but 
 it's owre muckle tae be a shell. . . .' " Without 
 one variant, the story is passed from mouth to 
 mouth during the next days. Even the gestures 
 of the finder are imitated with entire accuracy. 
 
 For a little the village has ceased to pretend to 
 be dilettante. It is terribly in earnest. 
 
 The evenings lengthen, and the days creep in. 
 On the white cliff, near the harbour, guillemots and 
 seamews, puffins and divers, and sea-birds of every 
 sort of plumage and harsh shriek have roosted all 
 summer. Their wailing clamour, that rises and falls 
 all through the day and night, has been compared 
 by listeners to many things — to a gramaphone, an 
 international football match, the screams of women 
 in a terrible railway accident, the cries of lost souls 
 in Hades. But the time has come for the birds to 
 fly away. Only the seamews stay behind, to float 
 on the crests of the waves and scream at each other 
 across the water, and the curlews that wail along 
 the lonelier parts of the shore. The white cliff is 
 silent and deserted, and soon the village is silent 
 and deserted too. For the visitors have gone, and 
 
 164 
 
BY THE NORTH SEA 
 
 the fisher folk are a silent people. Most of the 
 men, too, have only come home from Ireland to 
 go off to Yarmouth for the autumn fishing. 
 
 The boats that stay behind go out, on those 
 days when the weather is not too stringent, to 
 catch white fish. The women and boys toil amongst 
 the slippery rocks to collect mussels for bait, and 
 labour half the day, with chilled, wet fingers, at 
 baiting the lines. They are not a provident people 
 those toilers of the sea. If the season is good and 
 the money is there, the money is spent forthwith. 
 There is no laying by for a rainy day. They for- 
 get, when the sun shines, the existence of umbrellas. 
 A successful season means shortbread for breakfast, 
 and a period of riotous living on butcher meats 
 and baked meats, and gorgeous tinned things from 
 the grocer's. Then comes pinching poverty, and 
 a long fast, until the good times come again. The 
 women do not know the merest elements of cookery. 
 Their hands, that are so skilful and quick in bait- 
 ing lines, are very nearly useless where cooking a 
 meal is concerned. 
 
 The winter winds blow shrewdly and keen in 
 the villages by the sea. East winds vary the nor'- 
 easters. The waves sweep the shingle up the 
 village street, and the houses near the shore have 
 to put up their shutters and pass long days in the 
 twihght, while the sea makes all their crockery 
 rattle and tries to smash their windows in. On 
 
 165 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 the days when the sea-wrack smells strong and 
 the wind whistles shrilly down the wet streets, one 
 notices how bloodless and pinched the children look. 
 The women, with their inadequate little shawls over 
 their heads, are chilly and careworn as they carry 
 home their loads of potatoes from the patches on 
 the cliffs, or their burdens of sticks from the lanes 
 farther inland. The fishermen look anxious as they 
 await at the daily auction at the harbour the sale 
 of the night's take of haddock and whiting. The 
 fish-curers who buy are calmly indifferent. There 
 are mostly an opulence about the size and form 
 of the waistcoats and a self-satisfied arrogance about 
 the general demeanour of those buyers that place 
 one's sympathy with the sellers, with their weather- 
 beaten faces and anxious eyes, and sea-boots and 
 blue jerseys still wet from the sea. Yet they who 
 know them best say that none are better able to 
 look after themselves and their own interests than 
 are those East Coast fishermen. Certainly the idler 
 ones amongst them have a lamentable fondness for 
 a breed of slinking yellow lurcher, and a habit of 
 contemplating the view over the gates and hedges 
 of neighbouring preserves, which has a fatal effect 
 upon rabbits and hares of which they are not the 
 lawful owners. But if one joins them in their 
 contemplation of the beauties of the scenery (while 
 the lurcher goes wide), their neglect of the dog 
 is so complete, and their appreciation of the land- 
 
 i66 
 
BY THE NORTH SEA 
 
 scape so whole-hearted, that one is forced, however 
 unwillingly, into admiration. Few can equal those 
 fishermen in descriptive narrative, and their action 
 is always effectively dramatic. One may never have 
 spent a night in a fishing-boat in the North Sea, 
 yet for evermore one feels one has seen the beauty 
 of the hauling in of the nets in the tender morning 
 light, when one has heard an old fisherman tell 
 how the nets with the herring come in, **wi' a' 
 the tails o' the hern wavin' like silver T the sun, 
 for a' the warld like leeks in a kailyaird." 
 
 And there is a tale of one who was drowned in 
 a harbour, and over whom guns were fired until 
 the body rose, **and sailed away oot to the sea 
 like a ship in the wind." 
 
 But it is when they talk of " the October storm " 
 of 1881 that their tales can make one grow sick at 
 heart from the sheer horror of it. 
 
 There are those to whom the death of a few 
 fishermen means about as much as a horrible railway 
 accident in Pennsylvania. But had they once heard 
 from one of the survivors the story of that black 
 day when, from one village alone, one hundred and 
 twenty-nine men were drowned, they would sleep 
 less peacefully in their beds on the nights when 
 the nor'-easters blow. Twenty-three years have 
 passed since that black storm, but its mark is still 
 seen on the people of that coast. Amongst the 
 younger folk there is a lawlessness and a disrespect 
 
 167 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 for all authority that one can trace to the death 
 of the bread-winner and the undisciplined upbring- 
 ing of the fatherless bairns. 
 
 Gales do not go on all through the winter 
 without a break. After a week of them, on a sunny 
 day, when one can see, far out on the horizon, 
 hoary-headed Proteus driving his snowy flocks, one 
 walks along the shore. The tattered surf scuds 
 across the sea-bitten grass like little white birds 
 in a storm. The brown-sailed fishing-boats run into 
 their harbour before the wind, and the Millet-like 
 women with their loads of sticks or potatoes toil 
 homeward to where the blue smoke hangs over the 
 red-tiled village. Even although the spray flies high 
 on the rocks, it is idyllic. 
 
 But there are starless nights when sleet and 
 rain cast themselves on the windows in solid sheets, 
 and when the winds and waves sob and shriek and 
 howl together. 
 
 The sea of the East Coast is a cruel sea, and its 
 thunderous roaring is wonderfully like the roar of a 
 hungry beast. But the fisher folk have the courage 
 of lion-tamers, and all through the long and dreary 
 winter their courage never wavers. And with their 
 courage they have a patient endurance that leads 
 generation contentedly to follow generation in a 
 grey life passed beside the breakers of the grey 
 North Sea. 
 
 i68 
 
THE MURDER AT LINTHILL 
 
 On a knoll behind some elms, a little aside from 
 the roadway, stands the sombre, grey old house. 
 The stone pillars of the dilapidated gate are solid 
 witnesses of the mansion's past grandeur. Within 
 there are staircases and oak-panellings that might 
 make it still the most desirable of residences for 
 anyone who could once get over the horror that 
 years have not allowed it to lose. For centuries the 
 house, almost a peel-tower in form, has belonged 
 to one of the oldest families in the south-east 
 of Scotland, and in course of time, like all 
 thoroughly respectable family mansions, it came to 
 possess a ghost or ghosts of its own. A mysterious 
 carriage drove up in the darkest hours of night; 
 unseen men, with heavy tramp, slowly mounted the 
 stair, laid on the floor in the corner of a room the 
 body of a man, dead or dying, and heavily tramped 
 away again. 
 
 Legend tells us of those who have seen the man 
 lying where he was laid, his white face stained with 
 blood, and some identify him with one of the " Seven 
 Spears of Wedderburn " slain at Flodden, but what 
 is the correct genesis of the story none can tell. Be 
 
 169 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 what it may, however, it holds its own to this day ; to 
 this day to the dwellers in the house the night brings 
 ghostly trampings, the rumble of wheels, the clatter 
 of horses' hoofs, and the sound of a heavy body laid 
 heavily down. After all, however, the tale is too 
 nebulous to bring much horror with it. It was the 
 year 1751 that doomed the house to remain for ever 
 a gloomy monument of crime. 
 
 In the autumn of that year, the widow of a son 
 of the old family was occupying the mansion-house. 
 One day she sent her most trusted manservant, 
 Norman Ross, to Edinburgh to bring her a sum of 
 money. Why the man did not escape direct from 
 Edinburgh with the booty that he coveted, only the 
 devils that tempted him can tell. But he proved 
 himself worthy of his trust, rode up that drive past 
 the gnarled holly trees to the old grey house where 
 his innocent victim awaited him, and handed over 
 the money like a respectable, faithful serving-man. 
 That night his mistress slept in peace. How the 
 man, a storm of evil passions in his heart, spent the 
 sleeping hours, who can say ? Were the rumbling 
 wheels and heavy steps extra loud that night ? Did 
 he fancy that they spoke to him of Death, that even 
 then was drawing near? One wonders how the 
 next day passed for him. The October sea would 
 be grey, the river Eye, that passes so near the house, 
 would murmur its tale of autumn rains and coming 
 floods, the leaves dropping and whirling before the 
 
 170 
 
THE MURDER AT LINTHILL 
 
 gale would tell of a summer that had died, of a year 
 that was dying. And, all the while, Death — a cruel 
 Death — was slowly, grimly, creeping nearer. Night 
 fell and the victim went to her room, to bed, but 
 not to sleep. So still did she lie that the murderer, 
 fancying her asleep, presently crept from beneath 
 the bed where he had concealed himself, and went 
 softly towards the dress in whose pocket was the 
 key of the drawer in which the money was deposited. 
 His mistress started up, and in a moment the wild- 
 beast in the man had asserted itself, and he was 
 mercilessly hacking and hewing at her with his 
 clasp-knife. Thinking her dead, he proceeded with 
 his robbery, but the poor lady, with a courage and 
 a fortitude that are as amazing as they are haunting, 
 managed to struggle from her bed while his back 
 was turned, and, leaning one blood-stained hand on 
 the wainscotting, desperately rang the bell. On 
 the woodwork the frantic, dying fingers have left 
 their indelible mark. One does not know whether 
 it was the footsteps of his fellow-servants on the 
 narrow stair, or the sight of bloody murder of his 
 own commission, still confronting him, accusing him, 
 looking at him still with living, fearful eyes, that 
 brought panic on the man. He rushed to the 
 window, a drop of eight feet, jumped out, and 
 disappeared into the night. His victim lived long 
 enough to tell the name of her murderer and bid 
 the servants look for his knife behind the bed. 
 
 171 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 Days passed and he was still at large, but one 
 evening when some children were playing in a field 
 of pease to the east of the house, they were terrified 
 by the sight of a haggard, blood-stained, pain- 
 stricken man who crawled out from amongst the 
 thick crop to a spring in the field, to drink. His 
 right leg had been broken when he took that leap 
 to escape from his accusing victim, and when the 
 children rushed off in terror and gave the alarm, his 
 capture was easily effected. 
 
 Before his execution in Leith Walk, the Gol- 
 gotha of Edinburgh, his right hand — the murderous 
 hand that slew the innocent lady — was struck off, 
 and his was the last body that, in Scotland, dangled 
 in chains, a grim plaything for the winter winds. 
 
 No sooner was the funeral of Ross's victim over 
 than the windows were barred up and the doors 
 locked, everything within the house being left as 
 it was on that day. For many a year it remained 
 thus, a fearful thing to many who hastened their 
 footsteps as they came to that part of the Ayton 
 road after darkening, until it was discovered that 
 thieves had broken into the cellar, and its proprietor 
 had it opened to see to what extent the place had 
 been robbed. A woman who was at work at the 
 time on the harvest-rig close by, told Sir Thomas 
 Dick Lauder, who repeats the tale, that she and 
 some of her fellow ** bondagers," stimulated by curi- 
 osity, left their work and entered the house to see 
 
 172 
 
THE MURDER AT LINTHILL 
 
 what might be seen. What they saw they never 
 forgot. Articles of the old lady's apparel still hung 
 on pegs on the door, linen lay scattered about, and 
 when they touched the old-world garments they fell 
 to pieces on the ground. 
 
 The swinging skeleton in Leith Walk has been 
 gone for many and many a day. Its horror is for- 
 gotten. But, gruesome and ghastly still, the story 
 of the crime lives among the country folk. They 
 have tried to plane away the bloody marks, but yet 
 they remain. And the horror of that one night has 
 left on that dreary house a mark as indelible as are 
 the stains of blood. 
 
 Outside the sunbeams may play with the grey 
 walls and grey trunked trees, and with the vivid 
 scarlet berries with which the old hollies are laden. 
 But inside there is a shadow that no sunshine can 
 ever drive away — the abiding shadow of a sordid 
 crime. 
 
 173 
 
THE LADY AT SWINTON 
 
 Of all the young bucks who ruffled it in the streets 
 of Edinburgh in the year 1716, there was none with 
 a more swaggering, all-conquering air than one who 
 wore the uniform of his gracious Hanoverian Majesty, 
 King George — Captain John Cayley, Commissioner 
 of His Majesty's Customs. Cornelius Cayley, a 
 citizen of York, may have had some gracious remem- 
 brance of his graceless son when that son ruffled 
 it no longer, but Captain John was not one to 
 inspire general regard. A vain, boastful, swaggering 
 profligate who, flushed with wine, bawled details of 
 the success of his various dingy amours to his com- 
 panions in the Change House, and who thoroughly 
 relished the position of Government Commissioner 
 for the Scottish estates forfeited in the '15 — such 
 was Captain John Cayley of York. To no Scottish 
 lady or gentleman of breeding could his manners 
 have been pleasant. To those of Jacobite leanings 
 they must have been doubly offensive. 
 
 Now, in the year when this English Commissioner 
 came north to see and to conquer, one of the reign- 
 ing beauties of Edinburgh was the young wife of 
 an elderly lawyer. Mrs. McFarlane was the daughter 
 
 174 
 
THE LADY AT SWINTON 
 
 of Colonel Charles Straiton, a highly-trusted agent 
 of the Jacobite party, while her husband had once 
 been man of business to Lord Lovat, and now 
 enjoyed a very good practice amongst various well- 
 known families. At the many entertainments which 
 the worthy people of Edinburgh gave to the 
 Hanoverian commissioners by way of showing the 
 soundness of their political principles, it was not 
 long before Captain John met the beautiful Mrs. 
 McFarlane, admired her, and marked her as one who 
 was to be honoured by being chosen as his quarry. 
 No doubt Mrs. McFarlane, who was well accustomed 
 to a tribute of admiration from all who came her 
 way, was at first not disdainful of the bold glances 
 of the dashing Captain John. A reputation for 
 gallantry did not come amiss in the society of that 
 day, and not only in that day have pretty women 
 found it amusing to play with fire. The English 
 Commissioner in his red coat was quickly numbered 
 amongst Mrs. McFarlane's respectful admirers, and 
 the ill-natured soon began to couple the gay and 
 thoughtless beauty's name with that of a rake whose 
 admiration was never an innocent one. 
 
 Cay ley's foul tongue, meantime, was quite unable 
 to remain silent. It tickled his vanity to drop evil 
 hints to his boon companions, to let the gallants 
 of Edinburgh imagine that already his superior 
 knowledge of the ways of weak woman, coupled with 
 his own irresistible charm, had been entirely success- 
 
 175 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 ful in the case of a reigning toast. Echoes of his 
 empty boasts reached at length the ears of the 
 lady who was their subject, and stirred her to wrath, 
 but when one day Cayley left her no longer room 
 for doubt as to the dishonourableness of his designs, 
 the shame and rage of his destined victim were 
 bitter indeed. She took the honest course and 
 told her husband, and together, through a miser- 
 able sleepless night, they consulted over what had 
 best be done. It was a difficult case. Mr. McFarlane 
 was an elderly lawyer, and he did not covet the 
 reputation nor the punishment that a sanguinary 
 duel might bring to him. Moreover, Captain Cayley 
 was one of King George's six commissioners in 
 Scotland — *' Dicky Steele" was another — and Mr. 
 McFarlane had every desire to be found on the 
 Hanoverian side of law and order. Apparently 
 gossips tongue, set agoing by Captain Cayley's 
 slanders, was already wagging over-briskly, and 
 the canny lawyer knew the safe side for his wife's 
 reputation was that of silence. Gradually to drop 
 the libidinous officer in public, in private to have 
 none of him, but to say nothing on the subject to 
 anyone — such was the course decided on by the 
 McFarlanes. Unfortunately for his future, this was 
 a course which Captain Cayley was quite unable to 
 understand. Some days before he had made his 
 evil designs clear to the angry beauty, he had lent a 
 case of pistols to Mr. McFarlane, who was going on 
 
 176 
 
THE LADY AT SWINTON 
 
 a journey and had none of his own. What was 
 easier for an outraged husband than to bid him 
 come and get them back from him in the Hunter's 
 Bog or on Musselburgh Sands ? No message came ; 
 nothing happened. Obviously the fair McFarlane 
 had not confided in her old husband. In all proba- 
 bility she was merely coy, and had already wholly 
 relinquished her heart to the irresistible Captain. 
 Only a few days he waited, and then, one October 
 afternoon, he swung along the street in all hi« 
 bravery to the house of the McFarlanes. He 
 chose his time well, for it was the hour when 
 the busy lawyer was usually to be found discuss- 
 ing knotty legal points over his claret in the 
 Change House, and Mrs. McFarlane was alone. 
 He spared her no insult, and the girl — for she 
 was but little more — at bay, seized the brace of 
 pistols that lay waiting to be returned, and faced 
 him as though he were a mad dog, with one in 
 either hand. 
 
 " What, madam, do you intend to perform a 
 comedy ? " sneered Captain John, upset at the recep- 
 tion of his vehement love-making. 
 
 " You shall find it a tragedy ! " she cried, and 
 straightway fired the pistol that he tried to wrest 
 from her. The bullet merely grazed his left hand, 
 but ere the now furious man could do more, the 
 contents of the other were discharged into his right 
 breast, and he fell back, shot through the heart. 
 
 177 M 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 Thus died Captain John Cayley, and so rid the 
 world of a poisonous blackguard. 
 
 In later times the heroine of the adventure might 
 have swooned, but those were the days of the 
 prototypes of Flora Maedonald and of Diana Vernon, 
 and Mrs. McFarlane showed no tremors for what 
 she had done. She turned the key in the door of 
 the room where Cayley lay, and at once dispatched 
 a messenger to fetch her husband from the Change 
 House. When he came she wanted him to send 
 for the magistrates and for Cayley's friends and tell 
 them the whole story. 
 
 " I judged this too rash," later wrote the worthy 
 lawyer to one who proved himself the truest of 
 friends, and so, ere the news of the slaying of 
 Captain Cayley was flying like wild-fire from close 
 to wynd, from Change House to barracks, from the 
 Old Town to the New, Mrs. McFarlane had vanished, 
 and for many a day to come Edinburgh saw her no 
 more. 
 
 For twenty-four hours the body of Captain John 
 Cayley lay where it fell, stiffening in a pool of 
 blood, and during those hours Mr. McFarlane, as 
 well as his beautiful wife, had disappeared from 
 Edinburgh. At the end of a day, however, the 
 lawyer returned, quite simply and clearly made a 
 deposition to the Lords of Justiciary, declaring his 
 entire ignorance of the "accident" until his wife 
 sent for him, but not giving by one sign any inkling 
 
 178 
 
THE LADY AT SWINTON 
 
 as to the place where she who was known as the 
 murderess of Captain Cayley had found sanctuary. 
 Whether it was murder, manslaughter, or justifi- 
 able homicide, whether Mrs. McFarlane was a false- 
 hearted Circe or a noble Lucretia, how it happened, 
 why it happened, where the fugitive from justice lay 
 hidden — all these were subjects in the mouths of 
 every lady and gentleman of quality in Scotland 
 and out of it for many weeks on end. Even Pope, 
 writing to Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, had to 
 quote the case of " Mrs. Macfarland." 
 
 Meantime, so well was the secret of Mrs. 
 McFarlane's hiding-place kept, that although she 
 was declared outlaw — "fugitated by the Court of 
 Justiciary" — it was only when more than half a 
 century had passed that the details of her escape 
 from the terrors of the law were made public 
 property. 
 
 At the old mansion-house of Swinton, in Berwick- 
 shire, in the year that was such a stormy one for 
 Mrs. McFarlane, lived the representative of one of 
 the oldest of Scottish families, Sir John Swinton, 
 a stout adherent to the Hanoverian cause. A good 
 man and a true, apparently, was Sir John, and his 
 wife was in all points worthy of him. With Sir 
 John, McFarlane had had some business dealings, 
 and Mrs. McFarlane is supposed to have been 
 distantly related to the Lady of Swinton. One 
 Sunday in the winter of 1716, Sir John and his 
 
 179 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 lady had gone off to church, taking with them all their 
 young family, save one — little Margaret, a child of 
 seven, who had some childish indisposition. Before 
 Lady Swinton left, she strictly enjoined the child 
 not to go into the parlour where her parents had 
 breakfasted, although she might have the run of 
 the rest of the house. But the spirit of Bluebeard's 
 wife possessed little Margaret. The parlour into 
 which she might not go was the only room in 
 Swinton House into which she had any desire to 
 enter. Gently she turned the handle of the parlour 
 door, and tiptoed into the forbidden room. And 
 there she stopped and gazed round-eyed at an as- 
 tounding vision. The most beautiful lady she had 
 ever seen was seated at the table, and, though 
 obviously an angel, was engaged in the surpris- 
 ingly unangelic occupation of washing and drying 
 the breakfast dishes. There was no time to run 
 away, nor did little Margaret feel any desire to flee 
 from one who looked so good and was so lovely, 
 and when the lady looked up, saw the little intruder, 
 and gently bade her come to her, the child at once 
 obeyed. Very tenderly and lovingly did the lady 
 talk to her, and Margaret contentedly submitted 
 to her caresses. 
 
 "I want you to promise me something, little 
 Peggy," said the lady. " Let your having seen me be 
 a secret between you and me. Do not tell any of 
 the others — tell nobody, save your mother, but be 
 
 1 80 
 
THE LADY AT SWINTON 
 
 sure to tell your mother, as soon as you are with her 
 alone." 
 
 Readily did the child promise. She could have 
 refused nothing to this exquisite angel, and even the 
 youngest of the Swintons knew how to keep a 
 promise. Presently the lady suggested that she 
 should look out of the window and see if she could 
 see her mother and the others returning. She strained 
 her eyes but saw nothing save the wintry trees and 
 the snowy road, and turned round to say so to her 
 lovely new friend. But as she gazed out at the snow 
 a wonder had happened. The parlour door remained 
 shut — she would certainly have heard it, had it 
 opened — and yet the lady was gone. After all, she 
 was an angel ! and Margaret scurried out of the 
 empty room feeling that she had seen something 
 " no' canny," and eagerly and anxiously awaited her 
 mother's return. Thankfully she saw her arrive, and 
 no sooner were the mother and child alone than, 
 with bright eyes and heart a-thump, Margaret told 
 her amazing tale. 
 
 '' You are a very sensible girl, Peggy," said 
 Lady Swinton, " for if you had spoken of that poor 
 lady to anyone but me, it might have cost her her 
 life. But now I will not be afraid of trusting you 
 with any secret, and I will show you where the 
 poor lady lives." 
 
 Her hand in her mothers, Peggy then went 
 back to the parlour, Lady Swinton pushed away 
 
 i8i 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 a sliding panel, and in a little room behind it stood 
 the beautiful lady with a specially beautiful smile 
 for the little child who had kept her promise. 
 
 One would gladly know more of those days at 
 Swinton, but all we do know of the subsequent life 
 of Mrs. McFarlane is that, after some time had 
 elapsed, she returned to Edinburgh, where she lived 
 and died, and that no surer proof of the guilt of 
 Captain Cayley and of her innocence could be given 
 than the fact that she, a declared outlaw, was never 
 brought to trial. 
 
 There are now in the possession of the present 
 representative of the noble old family of Swinton, 
 letters from Mr. and Mrs. McFarlane to Sir John and 
 to Lady Swinton which might have helped to stop the 
 mouths of cruel scandal-mongers in the year 1716 had 
 their contents then been known, ilr. IMcFarlane 
 gives the case as it happened. " Malice and envy 
 are now hard at work," he then says, "but to 
 you. Sir, and to yr. Lady who know my wife so 
 well, I need not justify this action, the good and 
 wise are for us, the rest of the world are not 
 much to be regarded ; my wife's integrity and 
 innocence are testified ; that gives me comfort, and 
 will make her still dearer to me." 
 
 To the woman who practically saved her from 
 the gallows Mrs. McFarlane writes : — 
 
 Nov. 16, 1716. ''As to the fatal accident, 
 yr. Ladyship has good nature enough to believe 
 
 182 
 
THE LADY AT SWINTON 
 
 that nothing less than the most unworthy provo- 
 cation would have occasioned it. The story as it 
 was written to you is too true. I am far from 
 justifying the unlucky action or glorying in it, 
 as my enemies falsely say. But I earnestly hope 
 and pray that the same good God who permitted 
 my weakness to be tried, may mercifully forgive 
 my faulty rashness and vindicate me in as far as 
 I am injur'd, and as to what concerns the world, 
 I am fully convinced that if ever the virtuous 
 part of it come to any tolerable knowledge of 
 my case, it will find me much more the object of 
 pity than of insolence." 
 
 Long years after the beautiful Mrs. McFarlane 
 and the tragedy in which she was implicated had 
 faded from the public mind, an eager little lame boy 
 listened to the tale of the lady at Swinton as 
 told by a very dear great-aunt whose stories were 
 a never-ending joy to him. And it is the little 
 Peggy's great-nephew, Walter Scott, who has 
 kept alive for us the memory of a woman whose 
 beauty made her reign in Edinburgh two hundred 
 years ago, and of a blackguardly ruflBan who 
 swaggered in his red coat down the causeway in 
 the disguise of a brave gallant, a pretty man of 
 fashion. 
 
 183 
 
MURDER, OR MANSLAUGHTER? 
 
 It all happened some years ago, and as there was no 
 trial, no verdict was given. But this is the case, for 
 the reader's judgment. 
 
 The road-mender slowly plodded homeward, up 
 the road between two moors. 
 
 It was Saturday afternoon, and his work was 
 piecework, so that he was able to take a little extra 
 holiday when he pleased. 
 
 A sultry, thunderous day it was. A tyrannous 
 sun beat down upon the purple heather, trying to 
 make it brown before its time. There was no 
 breath of air, no movement among the blue-green 
 branches of the Scotch firs that were huddled to- 
 gether on the crest of the hill. 
 
 *' It'll be rain afore the morn," said the road- 
 mender to himself, "an' I doot there'll be an oncome 
 afore the rain." 
 
 And he did his best to quicken the hobble that 
 came from threescore years and ten, and most of 
 them years of strenuous labour in a climate that 
 knew best how to be stern. 
 
 He was a lonely man, this road-mender. His 
 wife had lain in her grave for forty long years, and 
 
 184 
 
MURDER, OR MANSLAUGHTER? 
 
 he had never owned any " bairns." His Httle cottage, 
 white-washed, and with moss-grown thatch, was as 
 lonely and as old as he was. It stood on a moor in 
 one of the most desolate parts of the Scottish Border- 
 land, where curlews shrill and pewits wail un- 
 hindered, and where a tiny hamlet, seven miles away, 
 stands as a quite adequate representative for a remote 
 civilisation. Round the cottage was a tiny garden, 
 gay with roses and pinks and sweet peas, fragrant 
 with mignonette and thyme and southern-wood, 
 and in this garden lived the old man's heart. For 
 this it was that he gave himself an afternoon's holi- 
 day. ** The gairden " was wife and child and friend 
 to him. 
 
 " I'll get thae chrysanthemums staked the day," 
 he murmured to himself. *' They'll be rale bonny i' 
 the backend." 
 
 And to himself he pictured with complacency 
 the admiration of the two herds, his nearest neigh- 
 bours, and of their wives and children, when they 
 should take their annual Sabbath walk to his cottage 
 to see how his garden grew. 
 
 " But it's gaun tae be an oncome," he said again. 
 " The thunner's started, I'm thinkin' ! " 
 
 And with the safety of his beloved flowers driving 
 him on, he climbed the dusty road — a little insigni- 
 ficant figure, old and grey, bent, and shabby and 
 toil-worn. The thunder was coming nearer, if 
 thunder it was. But the road-mender's hearing was 
 
 185 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 not what it had once been. The sultriness of the day, 
 that made him mop his forehead, and think of a tropic 
 rain that should beat down the cherished children of 
 his own rearing, suggested only thunder to his slow 
 old brain. 
 
 Nearer it came and nearer still. 
 
 Up the rough road between the two moors rushed 
 a monster — ^red, the colour of blood. Moaning, it 
 came like a wild beast driven to be cruel in spite of 
 itself, and protesting against the relentlessness of the 
 human hands that drove it on. 
 
 Only once in his life had the road-mender seen 
 a motor, for the roads he had mended in these later 
 days were off the beaten track. It was a danger with 
 which he had never had to grapple. The forces of 
 nature were the only forces which he had ever had to 
 take into account. And so, still brooding on the 
 coming storm, he passed, unheeding, on. 
 
 One man only sat in the great machine that 
 rushed so easily up the incline. His eyes were 
 hidden by motor glasses, and he looked a fitting 
 satellite for the monstrous thing that tore onwards, 
 regardless of all that might daunton the heart of a 
 willing horse, and that slew the fragrance of heather 
 and bog-myrtle and left an evil-smelling trail of 
 dust behind it. 
 
 The man in the motor was hot and irritable. 
 Twenty miles or more had he lost through the 
 misdirection of what he called, with maledictory 
 
 l86 
 
MURDER, OR MANSLAUGHTER? 
 
 adjectives, "a yokel." He, too, felt the thunder m 
 the air. His tour in Scotland had not been all 
 that he had meant it to be. The motor was a new 
 toy, and he took a pride in being able to drive it 
 himself, but after ten days of misadventure he was 
 getting what he called " fed up " with it, and " bored 
 stiff" with his own company. He had no eyes for 
 blue hills and purple moors, and banks where rabbits 
 scurried terrified into gracious hiding-places of 
 bracken and heather. The dust of the road was 
 thick and white in his big yellow moustache, and 
 the lunch he had had at his last stopping-place had 
 been far from what his palate desired. He was 
 making up, now, for lost time. 
 
 " The one good point in this God-forsaken place," 
 said he to himself, "is that the peelers are as rare 
 as the decent food." 
 
 In front of him he saw the bent, grey figure 
 and sent an impatient hoot of warning before him. 
 But the road-mender's head was filled with thoughts 
 of his roses, and the sound that made a covey of 
 grouse whirr, terrified, far away, fell upon deaf ears. 
 
 Again, the speed of the motor unabated, he 
 sent on a loud hoot of warning. 
 
 Still the old man plodded, unheeding, on his 
 way. 
 
 "The old fool I" said the man angrily, "I'll 
 teach him a lesson!" 
 
 Onward rushed the great, blood-red machine. 
 
 187 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 *'The thunder's comin' unco near," said the 
 road-mender. Yet, his future being in the lap of 
 the gods, he did not look round. 
 
 Grimly the yellow-moustached man increased 
 his speed. He was "travelling," now. 
 
 *' I'll frighten him ! " he said. 
 
 He waited until the motor was only some half- 
 dozen yards behind that patient, toilworn, old figure, 
 and then, with a malicious smile, he loudly sounded 
 his hooter. 
 
 The result was not quite what he had anticipated. 
 The old man did not leap aside with a look of abject 
 terror and allow him to rush onwards, laughing. 
 One horrified start he gave, one startled leap he 
 took, it is true, and turned back a face of dazed 
 and patient questioning to the man in the car. 
 And then he fell. There was no help for it. He 
 fell down, and the motor went on. Thirty yards 
 it dragged him before its white-faced driver could 
 make it stop. 
 
 Then, muttering sobbing oaths, he took It from 
 underneath. He dragged It with loathing and sick 
 disgust to the short turf by the roadside. Then he 
 looked round for a cottage, or for a man to come 
 and help. 
 
 The road-mender*s cottage was the nearest, and 
 it was half a mile on, over the brow of the hill. 
 There was no building of any sort in sight, no 
 human being visible. Some Cheviot sheep on the 
 
 i88 
 
MURDER, OR MANSLAUGHTER? 
 
 moor and a curlew that cried aloud dolorously, 
 were the only living things he saw. 
 
 He looked at the Thing by the roadside, and 
 hurriedly looked away. He glanced down at his 
 gloves and, with a shudder, pulled them off, rolled 
 them into a ball, and threw them far over the grey 
 stone dike into the heather. Over and over again 
 he said the same oath. Over and over again always 
 the same word. His face was a very sickly white, 
 and it was not the sun that made the drops bead 
 his forehead. 
 
 How long he might have stood there, quite 
 stupidly, repeating the same word, and looking away 
 from the thing, one cannot say. But a peal of 
 thunder, not very far off, brought him to himself. 
 He unbuttoned his coat, and looked at his watch — 
 " A quarter to four." With good luck he might 
 do it — an eighty mile spin, and the night train 
 back to London. He was sick of motors — sick of 
 this country — sick of the quiet and the loneliness. 
 
 The curlew cried again, and he gave a frightened 
 start; then hurried up to the great machine — still 
 pulsing and throbbing impatiently— avoiding the 
 marks on the dusty road where it seemed as though 
 the motor had left some of its colour, still fresh 
 and wet, behind it. 
 
 Next evening he was in London. He and a 
 friend and two guests dined at Princes'. It was 
 raining outside, and inside the restaurant the smell 
 
 189 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 of hot food, of wine, and of tobacco smoke, hung 
 heavy. Two women sang, and then a tenor, and 
 while the diners sipped coffee and liqueurs and 
 smoked cigarettes, a cinematograph was thrown on 
 the wall. 
 
 The yellow- moustached man, his face flushed and 
 hot, sat with his back to it, but his vis-a-vis, a 
 lady with masses of wonderful copper-coloured hair, 
 and with large gold hoops in her ears, made him 
 turn round. 
 
 *' Oh, look, Charley ! " she exclaimed, ** what fun I 
 Don't miss it ! " 
 
 The man turned quickly. 
 
 " It's the motor race," she said. " Oh-h-h I that 
 man's going to be run down ! Look ! What a 
 squeak ! " 
 
 Her host turned round abruptly. His face had 
 grown suddenly sallow, and aloud he said a word 
 he had said many times on a moorland road, was 
 it fifty years ago ? or only the day before ? 
 
 ** What's the matter with Charley?" asked the 
 other woman. ** I don't think that motoring in 
 Scotland all on your own-eo agrees with you, dear 
 boy." 
 
 "Didn't make a big enough bag, I suppose," 
 said the other man, with a fatuous chuckle. " He 
 has owned to me already he was bored to tears. 
 Tell us how many you slew, old chap— men, women, 
 and children ? " 
 
 190 
 
MURDER, OR MANSLAUGHTER? 
 
 His host's voice was quite steady when he 
 answered : " Oh, a fair mixed bag— about five brace, 
 all told." 
 
 The woman laughed in shrill approval of his wit. 
 " I say, this Fin Champagne isn't half bad. Let's 
 have some more," said the man. 
 
 And the babble of voices and clink of glasses 
 went on, deadened by the jingle and the roar of 
 the traffic in the wet London street. 
 
 In a little thatched cottage in the lonely Border- 
 land there lay, gently covered by the shepherd 
 friends who had, early that Sabbath morning, re- 
 verently borne it there, the body of the man who 
 had been killed so much less mercifully than the 
 fierce thunderstorm and torrential rain had slain 
 the flowers that he had loved, and that now lay 
 in his garden, bruised and broken and dead. 
 
 And all the night long, and all through the 
 day, and all through the night that followed, the 
 merciful rain was heavily falling — falling — falling, 
 swift and sure, blotting out and washing away 
 from the moorland road the awful visible sign of 
 a thing heedlessly spilt, and crying to the skies for 
 vengeance. 
 
 191 
 
MADGE AND JEAN GORDON 
 
 " Hast thou not noted on the lye-way side. 
 Where aged saughs lean o'er the lazy tide, 
 A vagrant crew, far straggled through the glade. 
 With trifles busied, or in slumber laid ; 
 Their children lolling round them on the grass, 
 Or pestering with their sports the patient ass ? 
 The wrinkled beldame there you may espy. 
 And ripe young maiden with the glossy eye, — 
 Men in their prime, — and striplings dark and dun,— 
 Scathed by the storm, and freckled with the sun : 
 Their swarthy hue and mantle's flowing fold, 
 Bespeak the remnants of a race of old. . ." 
 
 In that wonderful portrait gallery of Scottish 
 character that Sir Walter Scott has bequeathed to 
 us — a gallery in which each portrait is vividly, 
 splendidly alive, painted with the firmness and 
 surety of a master's touch — there is, perhaps, none 
 that appealed to us so much in our childhood, and 
 that in our older days has remained so wholly un- 
 faded, as the terrifying figure of Meg Merrilees. 
 
 In long ago days she possessed for us all the fear- 
 ful joys of a witch of fairy tale. Later on she repre- 
 sented all that was weird and uncanny, savage and 
 heroic, cruel and loyal of the old gipsy race. 
 
 192 
 
MADGE AND JEAN GORDON 
 
 On the slopes of the Cheviots, almost in the 
 shadow of "Muckle Cheviot" itself, lies the gipsy- 
 hamlet of Kirk-Yetholm, where Meg Merrilees was 
 born. A blue huddle of hills is behind the little 
 white-washed cottages, with their thatched roofs ; and 
 the winds blow fresh down the hilly slopes round 
 the village, across thick broom and whin, that on 
 the sunny June days are a royal blaze of gold. 
 
 The village has changed but little through the 
 centuries, and so we may take it that it looked much 
 as it looks now on the day that Meg Merrilees — 
 whose real name was Jean Gordon — first saw the 
 light, about the year 1670. Jean's forbears, the 
 mysterious, swarthy, lawless tribe that had drifted 
 across Europe from India, and arrived in Scotland 
 in the twelfth century there, under the name of 
 "The Saracens," to set all law and order at de- 
 fiance, had had many tribulations to face since first 
 they landed on Scottish soil. Those "children of 
 water," rudderless, restless, idle, dishonest, fierce, 
 had but scant justice meted out to them in the lands 
 they wandered through. Social pariahs they were 
 — supposed by many to be in reality wandering 
 portions of the lowest of all Indian castes, the Parias 
 — and, like the pariah dogs of India, they were dogs 
 who were given a bad name and hanged without 
 much further ado. 
 
 Early in the seventeenth century there was 
 almost no one to be found to say a good word for 
 
 193 N 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 them. In Haddington, in 1636, a number of the 
 gipsies were seized and imprisoned, apparently for 
 no other specific offence than just that they were 
 undesirable aliens, without fixed place of residence. 
 For a month they lay in gaol ; and then, it having 
 been decreed by act of Privy Council that "the 
 keeping of them longer there is troublesome and 
 burdenable to the town,'* the sheriff sentenced all 
 the men to be hanged ; all the childless women to be 
 drowned ; and all the women with children to be 
 scourged through the burgh of Haddington. " Vaga- 
 bonds, thieves, and limmers " was the ordinary techni- 
 cal description of them ; and they were, truly, children 
 of Ishmael — their hands against every man, and 
 every man's hand against them. 
 
 Jean Gordon married one of the royal gipsy line, 
 Patrick Faa of Kirk-Yetholm, and bore him a family 
 of twelve children. Jean herself was a queenly woman 
 of commanding presence. " She was well over six feet 
 high; wore a man's greatcoat over the rest of her 
 dress ; had in her hand a goodly sloe-thorn cudgel ; 
 and in all points of equipment, except her petticoats, 
 seemed rather masculine than feminine. Her dark 
 elf-locks shot out, like the snakes of the Gorgon, 
 between an old-fashioned bonnet called a ' bongrace,' 
 heightening the singular effect of her strong and 
 weather-beaten features, which they partly shadowed, 
 while her eye had a wild roll that indicated some- 
 thing like real, or affected insanity." 
 
 194 
 
MADGE AND JEAN GORDON 
 
 Such is Sir Walter's description of his heroine ; 
 and can we wonder that during the years that 
 Jean Gordon and her clan infested the Border, 
 their reign was a reign of terror for the simple 
 country folk? Not only did they help themselves 
 to all the game on moor and in wood ; and to trout 
 and salmon in season and out of season; but no 
 goodwife's hen-roost was safe when the gipsies were 
 near; no pigstye was not called upon to offer up 
 a sacrifice to their robust appetites. Of many a 
 good healthy hog or gimmer, many a fat lamb, 
 was the farmers' stock deplenished; many a hay- 
 stack went to give winter fodder to the horses 
 and asses of the wandering tribe. Nor was the 
 household-plenishing free from their thievish fingers. 
 A handsomely-hung clothes-line, with a well-washed 
 collection of the goodman's shirts, the bairns' little 
 garments, the wife's wrappers and underclothing, 
 the best of the napery, would be gently swaying 
 in the spring sunshine when the first brown-faced 
 " Egyptian," the advance-guard of the undisci- 
 phned army, put his face over the side of the brae. 
 When the army was past, rope and all would 
 be gone. The dangling white sheets had faded 
 away, like snow in the sun ; and the cottage, or 
 little farm-house, would also be a sorry sight — the 
 rafters bare of hams, the meal girnel empty, the 
 tempting supply of scones, oatcakes, and fadges, 
 baked that very morning, all reived away, and a 
 
 195 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 weeping housewife, with terrified children clinging 
 to her skirts, awaiting in helpless misery the arrival 
 of what must have been a righteously furious 
 goodman. In their own justification the sturdy 
 beggars were often able to plead that they took 
 nothing; they only asked, and it was given. But 
 there were few with suflScient strength of mind 
 to refuse the urgent request of a swarthy-skinned 
 army, with fierce dark eyes, well-armed with cudgels 
 and with knives, and yet better armed with a terrible 
 reputation not only of knifing a fellow-creature upon 
 the slightest of provocation, but of being able to 
 work terrible spells which brought upon those who 
 thwarted them much worse evils than sudden death. 
 " Ahll gie ye tae the tinklers ! " — even to this day 
 there are few worse threats that a Border woman 
 can use to her naughty child, and it surely must 
 be a hereditary knowledge that even now makes 
 the threat so rapid a styptic for tears. Tales of 
 kidnapping by the gipsies were rife in Jean Gordon's 
 day; and child-stripping was by no means an un- 
 common amusement for the gipsy mothers whose 
 own brood was in want of clothing, and who met 
 a well-dressed child on a lonely road or moor. In 
 spite of her royalty, tradition tells us that Jean 
 Gordon was by no means above this, and must 
 have brought curses upon herself from many a 
 woman who found it hard to comfort her own 
 sobbing, terrified, shivering, skirl-naked child, who 
 
 196 
 
MADGE AND JEAN GORDON 
 
 had left her well-clad and happy one brief hour 
 before. Yet, in justice to Jean be it Said, although 
 she would most light-heartedly rob a stranger, and 
 spare no cruelty to those who had offended her, 
 she never did an ill-turn to a friend, and never 
 forgot a benefit. 
 
 The farmer of Lochside, near Yetholm, had 
 often showed hospitality to Jean and her family, 
 and for this reason Jean preserved the strictest 
 etiquette of honesty with regard to all Lochside's 
 property. Her nine sons had no such delicate com- 
 punctions, and a brood-sow proving too overwhelm- 
 ing a temptation to them, it was skilfully taken 
 away from the farm one moonless night. Black 
 affronted was Jean with her mannerless offspring, 
 but all she could do to show the Lochside family 
 her shame was to pay no visit to the farm for 
 several years. During this time the goodman of 
 Lochside fell on evil days — happily transient ones 
 for him — and in order to raise his rent had to go 
 to Newcastle. The money was forthcoming, but 
 as he rode home with a light heart through the 
 lonely passes of the Cheviots between Newcastle 
 and Lochside, he was benighted and lost his way. 
 A somewhat hopeless business it was for him in 
 country that he did not know well, with peat-bogs 
 gaping for strayed travellers, and heather roots ready 
 to trip his tired horse, and black darkness on every 
 side, and he was a thankful man when at long 
 
 197 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 length he saw a light in front of him. He rode up 
 to the glimmering light, and found that beside the 
 ruins of a farm-house there still stood a gaunt, 
 empty barn, from the window of which the light 
 shone. He knocked at the door, and was amazed 
 when it Avas opened by Jean Gordon, whom he 
 had not seen for years. It was not with much 
 pleasure that he saw her, for her presence there 
 meant that her clan was not far away, and to those 
 fidgetted by but few ethical scruples a year's rent 
 of Lochside must certainly prove a much more irre- 
 sistible temptation than even the fleshly charms of 
 a brood-sow. 
 
 But to Jean the meeting brought only pleasure 
 with it. 
 
 ** Eh, sirs ! the winsome Gudeman of Lochside ! " 
 she cried. " Light down, light down ; for ye maunna 
 gang farther the night, and a friend's house sae near." 
 
 The weary man felt he had no alternative. He 
 lighted down, and accepted his hostess's offer of 
 supper and a bed. But his ease of mind was not 
 increased by the preparations he found on foot. 
 Savoury stews, and ample roast-game were being 
 cooked, and a party of ten or twelve was evidently 
 expected. With sinking heart he listened absently 
 to Jean's conversation. She lightly touched on the 
 subject of the stolen sow ; alluded feelingly to the 
 shame and pain that had been hers on account of 
 the bad manners of her sons, and went on to say that 
 
 198 
 
MADGE AND JEAN GORDON 
 
 the world grew worse daily. Like other parents, 
 she said "the bairns got out of her guiding, and 
 neglected the old gipsy regulations, which com- 
 manded them to respect, in their depredations, the 
 property of their benefactors." Then, plump and 
 plain, she asked Lochside what money he had with 
 him, and commanded him to hand it over for her 
 to keep for him as "the bairns" would soon be 
 home. There was no help for it. The farmer had 
 to tell his tale, and hand over to Jean the gold 
 that was to have paid the rent. Black misgivings 
 must have filled his mind as she pocketed it; 
 returning him only a few shillings, with the remark 
 that it would excite suspicion were he to be found 
 travelling with never a penny in his pocket. 
 
 Having supped, the farmer was then accom- 
 modated with a heap of straw with some blankets 
 laid over it, and lay down and shut his eyes, while 
 stories of robbery and of bloody murder committed 
 by the gipsies, and of cruelties on the part of his 
 hostess herself, followed each other in dismal pro- 
 cession through his mind. 
 
 About midnight he heard voices, and the door 
 opened to admit about as fine a gang of ruffians 
 as could have been mustered that night between 
 Thames and Tweed. They had had a successful 
 foray, and the language in which they discussed it 
 made the honest farmer tremble under his blankets 
 as though he had an ague. Jeans "bairns" soon 
 
 199 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 noticed that their mother had a guest, and of course 
 at once demanded who he was. 
 
 ** E'en the winsome Gudeman of Lochside, poor 
 body," said Jean. '' He's been at Newcastle seeking 
 siller to pay his rent, honest man, but deil-be-lickit 
 he's been able to gather in, and sae he's gaun e'en 
 hame wi' a toom purse and a sair heart." 
 
 " That may be, Jean," replied an astute " bairn," 
 ** but we maun ripe his pouches a bit, and see if the 
 tale be true or no." 
 
 Loud were the protests of Jean against such a 
 breach of the laws of hospitality, but, in spite of 
 them, Lochside soon heard stealthy footsteps by 
 the pallet upon which he lay, and stifled whispers. 
 He gathered, in spite of his closed eyes, that they 
 were rummaging his clothes, and presently he heard 
 them come on the coins that Jean had made him 
 retain lest he should be found with a "toom 
 pocket." Some argument took place over the 
 money, but Jean was hot in her denunciation of 
 their blackguardliness, and, after all, the booty 
 was hardly worth the taking. So back in his 
 pocket it was placed, and the gipsies returned to 
 the good Hollands that no officer of customs had 
 ever been within sight of ; drank, fought, and made 
 merry until sleep claimed them one by one, and 
 they threw themselves down to sleep near their 
 sleepless guest. 
 
 A mere glimmer of the cold, grey morning light 
 
 200 
 
MADGE AND JEAN GORDON 
 
 was forcing its way into the darkness of the barn 
 when Jean, treading hke a cat amongst the sleepers, 
 came and bade the farmer make haste and begone. 
 He found his horse, which she had stabled for him, 
 waiting behind the house, and Jean strode on by 
 its head for some miles, until the sun that came 
 creeping over the hilltops showed him some " kent ** 
 landmarks, and he knew that he was safely on the 
 road for home. Ere they parted, Jean returned to 
 him intact the rent which had passed through such 
 perils, nor would she, in spite of his earnest entreaties, 
 accept so much as a guinea for her guardianship. 
 
 In the year 1714 the distinguished career of Jean 
 Gordon's husband, Patrick Faa, was brought to an 
 untimely end. 
 
 From day to day the righteous heart of Sir 
 William Ker of Bridgend — now Springwood Park — 
 near Kelso, had been grieved by the evil deeds of 
 Patrick Faa and his fellows. As a Justice of the 
 Peace, this Border laird felt it his bounden duty to 
 do all in his power to exterminate the children of 
 Ishmael, who preyed upon decent Scots, and whose 
 lightness of fingers and of morals were such an evil 
 example to all the youth of the land. 
 
 For no specified crime, and apparently as much 
 for future misdeeds as for past offences. Sir William 
 caused Patrick Faa, Jean Gordon, and a following of 
 six, mostly women, to be seized one night in a barn 
 near Sprouston, and taken to Jedburgh for trial. 
 
 20I 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 Old Janet Stewart, Faa's mother, in terrible 
 distress, came to Bridgend, and besought the laird to 
 have mercy on her son. She brought with her — poor 
 body — some testimonials of Patrick Faa's character, 
 how obtained and from whom, who can say. But 
 these Sir William scornfully threw away, and angrily 
 bade the old woman begone as a **lown." Later in 
 the day two young hinds, who met her, thought it 
 would be fine sport to bait the half-demented mother, 
 and did their best to be very amusing on the subject 
 of the forthcoming hanging at Jethart of her son and 
 the other Egyptians. Suddenly, at bay, she turned 
 on them. " They would hear other news ofit^ she 
 darkly said. 
 
 Three weeks later, an eavesdropping ploughman 
 came on old Janet praying in a barn at Hairstones, 
 and distinctly heard her ask that *' God's malison 
 might light upon them that had put her to that 
 trouble." Asked for her meaning, she said that she 
 spoke of Ker of Bridgend, who had sent " her bairn " 
 to gaol. 
 
 Had a douce, decent, Presbyterian woman asked 
 that her enemies might be rewarded, in the subse- 
 quent happenings the hand of the Almighty might 
 perhaps have been discerned, and the whole affair have 
 redounded to the credit, rather than otherwise, of the 
 petitioner. But when, on the night of March 25th, 
 1714, the mansion of Bridgend was burned to the 
 ground, the entire ** wyte " of the proceeding w^as 
 
 202 
 
MADGE AND JEAN GORDON 
 
 laid at the gipsies' door, and Patrick Faa, leaning 
 out of his gaol window in Jedburgh, took an in- 
 criminatingly lively interest in all the details of the 
 event. 
 
 A heavy price had he and his people to pay for 
 that fire. As " notorious Egyptians, thieves, vaga- 
 bonds, sorners, masterful beggars, and oppressors," and 
 as wilful fire-raisers, they had to come up for trial. 
 
 Old Janet Stewart was scourged, bare-backed, 
 through the town — nor was it likely to be a mere 
 matter of form when the common hangman wielded 
 the scourge — thereafter sent back to prison for three 
 days to recuperate ; then exhibited at the Town Cross 
 for a quarter of an hour, with her left ear nailed to a 
 post, an agreeable butt for all the friends of justice 
 who wanted to make quite sure that ''the auld 
 limmer " got her deserts. Her son was also scourged, 
 and had one of his ears nailed to a post for half an 
 hour before both his ears were "cutted off." Then, 
 along with six women and one man, who had also 
 endured the law's mercies of scourging and branding, 
 he was banished for life to Queen Anne's American 
 plantations, never to return. 
 
 1714 was indeed a bad year for Jean Gordon or 
 Faa. It would be interesting to know how she 
 succeeded in avoiding the loss of her ears and a 
 subsequent tedious voyage to America, but on this 
 point history is silent. Gladly, one is sure, she would 
 have given up an ear, and much more of her body, 
 
 203 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 could she have saved the son who was murdered in 
 the same disastrous year of his father's banishment. 
 
 A cot-house at Huntleywood, near Melrose, had 
 been taken forcible possession of by a couple of 
 sturdy gipsies, Johnston by name. 
 
 Whether there had been some ancient vendetta 
 between the Johnstons and the Faas, or whether 
 the murder of Sandy Faa was merely the result of 
 sudden irritation, which showed itself, as was the 
 gipsy way, in deeds, not words, we have no means 
 of knowing. But the owner of the cot-house, as 
 witness, deponed that when Sandy Faa arrived with 
 his family at Huntleywood he marched boldly up 
 to the door of the cot, which stood ajar, and de- 
 manded admission of its two occupants. Robert 
 Johnston, the younger of the pair, held a graip in 
 his hand, and by way of reply to this request he 
 showed silently, but with absolute certainty, that his 
 answer was a negative one, by driving the prongs of 
 the graip crashing through the chest of the applicant 
 for admission. Sandy Faa staggered back and fell 
 on the midden near by. 
 
 "Retire for your lives!" he cried to his wife 
 and children, "for 1 have got my death." And 
 thereon he died. 
 
 Past his bleeding victim ran Johnston. 
 
 " Where are the whelps, that I may kill them 
 too ? " he bawled. 
 
 But wife and children, mindful of the dying 
 
 204 
 
MADGE AND JEAN GORDON 
 
 man's warning, had fled in haste; and when the 
 murderer dashed into the cottage of a hind, where 
 one of Faa's boys had run and hidden himself behind 
 a baby's cradle, the cries of those outside, who had 
 found that Faa was really dead, scared him, and he 
 rushed off. He was seen presently, running "down 
 a balk and a meadow " ; and later, witnesses saw him 
 trying to make good his escape, riding off on a horse, 
 shoeless, stockingless, without " coat or cape." 
 
 He was captured, years later, and sentenced to be 
 hanged on June 13, 1787, but he succeeded in 
 escaping from prison. There was, however, no peace 
 for him. What fiercer, keener sleuth-hound could 
 be found than the mother of the murdered man? 
 To Holland she tracked him — these were the old 
 smuggling days, when many a lugger with contra- 
 band cargo plied between Scotland and the Low 
 Countries — from thence to Ireland, and there had 
 him seized and brought back to Jedburgh. A holy 
 gladness was surely hers when she saw him dangling 
 on the gallows-hill. 
 
 Some time afterwards, so the story goes, the 
 farmer of Sourhope, on Bowmont Water, said to 
 her — "Weel, Jean, ye hae gotten Rob Johnston 
 hinget at last." 
 
 " Aye, gudeman," said Jean, lifting her apron up 
 by its corners, " an' a' that fu' o' gowd has'na dune't." 
 
 In the year 1730 the last remaining three of 
 Jean's sons, and two of their wives, were convicted 
 
 205 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 of sheep-stealing. The jury could not agree as to 
 their punishment until a juryman, who had been 
 overcome by the stuffiness of the old Court House, 
 and by the potations necessary to see him comfort- 
 ably through a criminal trial, and who had slumbered 
 peacefully through the latter stage of the proceedings, 
 suddenly woke up. They were only Egyptians, 
 thieves, and sorners, and he was a decent Borderer, 
 sickened by the pestilential closeness of the hall of 
 judgment, and longing to be on his horse again, 
 breathing the fresh hill air as he cantered home in 
 the cool of the evening. There was no dubiety in 
 his decision : 
 
 " Hang them a'T he pronounced, loud and clear ; 
 and, thankful for such a definite piece of advice, the 
 rest of the jury speedily passed the verdict of *' Guilty," 
 and the five prisoners were sentenced to be hanged. 
 
 ** The Lord help the innocent in a day like this," 
 said Jean Gordon, who was present when the verdict 
 was given. 
 
 Jean's powers over those of her race were well 
 known, and the verdict was far from being a popular 
 one. The good people of Jedburgh feared that a 
 rescue might be attempted when the afternoon of 
 Monday, the 5th of June, came round. Forty men 
 of the incorporated trades of Jedburgh, and twenty 
 men of the town, had to be provided to act as guard, 
 with Deacon Hope, who had seen some service in 
 his day, in command. Between the hours of two 
 
 206 
 
MADGE AND JEAN GORDON 
 
 and four these five souls had to be thrust into 
 eternity, and the guard apprehensively watched the 
 dark faces of the gipsy crowds, who came to see the 
 last of their friends, when John Gray, the burgh 
 hangman, saw the head of the first of them safe 
 within the noose. But — as is often the case — Nature 
 was more kind than human nature on that June 
 day of 1730. Dark cloudis that had been hanging 
 over the Dunion suddenly broke, and a terrific 
 thunder-storm, with torrential rain, dispersed the 
 gloating crowds, drove the mourning gipsies to seek 
 for shelter, and made the men and women on the 
 gallows perhaps a little less reluctant to leave this 
 stormy earth and seek a less unfriendly world. 
 
 Jean Gordon was childless now — a wolf with 
 her mate and cubs reft from her, yet with her 
 fangs and claws as strong as ever they were, an 
 unchancy customer for any weak person to en- 
 counter. A power in her tribe was she; and with 
 her tribe she travelled about over all the low- 
 lands of Scotland, taking toll where she listed, 
 leaving behind her the terror of the old grey wolf. 
 
 On Charterhouse moor, then a wild common, 
 once on a day. Sir Walter Scott's grandfather 
 suddenly rode into a large band of gipsies who were 
 carousing in a deep hollow among the bushes. 
 With shouts of welcome they seized the bridle-rein 
 of one who had often been their host, and insisted 
 that it was now his turn to be guest. The guest 
 
 207 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 had too much money about him to make their 
 hospitality wholly welcome, but he entered into 
 the spirit of the thing, dismounted, and sat beside 
 a glowing fire where Jean Gordon was one of the 
 hostesses, and where many a covert, a pigstye, and 
 a hen-roost had been plundered to supply the 
 dainties which the party washed down with illicit 
 waters. Some of the older gipsies warned him to 
 leave as unostentatiously as possible before the 
 mirth became ovei^ fast and furious, and so he 
 escaped a more intimate acquaintance with Jean 
 Gordon, which might have been of a less pleasant 
 nature than that of the Goodman of Lochside. 
 
 As all traditions of the fierce old gipsy go to 
 prove, Jean Gordon was a loyal friend and a cruel 
 enemy. As a robber, she was accomplished and 
 stony-hearted, but she never robbed a friend, nor 
 was guilty of a treacherous deed even to an enemy. 
 Loyalty, indeed, may be said to have been her 
 undoing. When her bread-winners were all gone 
 she had to fend for herself as best she might ; and 
 when, two years after the gallows at Jedburgh 
 had claimed the last of her sons, she got into the 
 clutches of the law and had to appear at the bar 
 of the Circuit Court, her plea was a fairly piteous 
 one. She was an old and infirm woman, she pled ; 
 she had long lain in gaol, and she was quite will- 
 ing to leave Scotland, never to return. Sentence 
 of banishment was accordingly pronounced on her, 
 
 208 
 
MADGE AND JEAN GORDON 
 
 with the stern proviso that if she ever again dared 
 to cross the Border she would be imprisoned for 
 twelve months and scourged once a quarter. 
 Thenceforth she wandered only on the English 
 side of the Cheviots, coming only as near as was 
 compatible with freedom to her native Scotland. 
 
 Jean was a faithful Jacobite, and after the '45 the 
 air of Carlisle was no wholesome one for the friends 
 of Prince Charlie. On a Fair Day there in 1747 
 the old gipsy loudly gave vent to sentiments that 
 roused the antagonism of all the rabble of the town 
 that so short a time before had cringed before a 
 Jacobite army. Ducking in the Eden was the 
 punishment they judged as fitting for her crime, 
 and Jean was laid hold on by strong, cruel, willing 
 hands. She might as well have struggled against 
 Fate as against them, but struggle she did. She 
 was an old woman, but one of magnificent physique, 
 and as they dragged her along, and when they 
 soused her in the chilly waters of the Eden, she 
 fought like a tigress. Each time her head was 
 permitted to come above water she cried aloud the 
 confession of the faith in which she died : " Chairlie 
 yet ! Chairlie yet ! " Her cries were only fuel to 
 the flames of that lust of murder that inflamed the 
 hearts of the brutes who had appointed themselves 
 her judges. " Chairlie yet ! Chairlie yet 1 " — did any 
 one of those who died for him at CuUoden win 
 nobler place on the list of Prince Charlie's heroes 
 
 209 o 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 than did that old gipsy woman ? Again and again, 
 and yet again she was plunged into the water and 
 held down. So did her loyal voice grow faint and 
 fainter, until it was Jean Gordon's murdered corpse 
 that was laid to drip on the river-bank, while those 
 decent citizens of Carlisle who had done her to 
 death slunk silently away. 
 
 Jean Gordon left no stalwart son behind her to 
 perpetuate her name. " The waefu' wuddie " was re- 
 sponsible for eight of the nine, and murder unsanc- 
 tioned by the law of the land accounted for the ninth. 
 
 But on the spindle side she had at least one 
 worthy descendant. Sir Walter writes : *' A gi-and- 
 daughter survived her whom I remember to have 
 seen. That is, as Dr. Johnson had a shadowy 
 recollection of Queen Anne as a stately lady in 
 black adorned with diamonds, so my memory is 
 haunted by a solemn remembrance of a woman of 
 more than female height, dressed in a long red 
 cloak, who commenced acquaintance by giving me 
 an apple, but whom, nevertheless, I looked on with 
 as much awe as the future doctor. High Church 
 and Tory as he was doomed to be, could look upon 
 the queen." 
 
 Madge Gordon was married to a Young — one 
 of the chief families in the gipsy race — but as 
 '* Madge Gordon " her striking personality is still 
 remembered on the Border. 
 
 **She was a remarkable personage, of a very 
 
 2IO 
 
MADGE AND JEAN GORDON 
 
 commanding presence and high stature, being nearly 
 six feet high. She had a large aquihne nose, pene- 
 trating eyes even in her old age, bushy hair that 
 hung around her shoulders from beneath a gipsy 
 bonnet of straw, a short cloak of a peculiar fashion, 
 and a long staff nearly as tall as herself. I re- 
 member her well; every week she paid my father 
 a visit for her awmous when I was a little boy, 
 and I looked upon Madge with no common 
 degree of awe and terror. When she spoke vehe- 
 mently (for she made loud complaints) she used 
 to strike her staff upon the floor, and throw 
 herself into an attitude which it was impossible to 
 regard with indifference. She used to say that 
 she could bring, from the remotest parts of the 
 island, friends to revenge her quarrel, while she 
 sat motionless in her cottage; and she frequently 
 boasted that there was a time when she was of 
 still more considerable importance, for there were 
 at her wedding fifty saddled asses, and unsaddled 
 asses without number." 
 
 Possibly Madge's boast of the friends who would 
 come to revenge her quarrel had something to do 
 with a pardon obtained for two of her kinsmen 
 — Gordons both — convicted of murder. This was 
 obtained for them by the famous Duchess of Gordon, 
 to the exasperation of that uncompromising old prop 
 of the law. Lord Braxfield, prototype of Weir of 
 Hermiston. 
 
 211 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 "It's hard we cannae get a scoonrel hangit," he 
 growled, ** however richly he deserves it, withoot 
 some fule o' a wumman interferin' wi' the job.'* 
 
 It is not many years since there died one whose 
 account of a race between him and Madge Gordon, 
 her elf locks and red cloak flying behind her, and 
 her long staff in her hand, was one well worth 
 listening to. 
 
 Young Andrew Currie, of Howford, up Ettrick, 
 was apprenticed to a wheelwright at Denholm, and 
 on a lonely road between Denholm and Ettrick 
 Water he saw the old gipsy legging it along for 
 all she was worth. He was on the high road, she 
 on a track above it, but in a few hundred yards 
 the roads converged, and into the boy's impish 
 mind there came the notion that he would like 
 to try a walking race with the old woman, without 
 her consent or knowledge. That was, however, a 
 scheme easier to think of than to carry out. Madge 
 Gordon soon became aware that a boy with eyes 
 as dark and gipsy-like as those of any of her own 
 brood was taking the unpardonable liberty of racing 
 with her on the public highway. She shouted to 
 him, and he responded with a boyish jeer. And 
 then the fun began. Madge ran, and the boy 
 ran, and behind Madge came an unexpected rein- 
 forcement of a sturdy young gipsy with an ass 
 laden with crockery. The boy, nearly winded, 
 pounded along the high road. Could he win past 
 
 212 
 
MADGE AND JEAN GORDON 
 
 the spot where the upper path joined the lower 
 there was still hope for him. But he had not calcu- 
 lated on the pace of that fearsome old woman with 
 muscles and sinews of steel. It was like a night- 
 mare. He could run no more, and when a pair of 
 brawny brown hands laid hold on him from behind, 
 he gave himself up for lost. But Madge Gordon 
 was not one to hang even a dog without fair trial. 
 
 " In the first place, whae are ye ? and where do 
 ye come frae ? " she demanded. 
 
 ** WeU then, gudewife, I have come from Den- 
 holm,'* said the boy. 
 
 **And whae do ye belong to at Denholm? I 
 ken everybody there; there's baith gude and bad 
 in't, frae auld Duncan to Sergeant Houston. Tell 
 me at aince, whae are yere folk ? " 
 
 " Have patience, mistress," said Andrew Currie. 
 '*I only said I had come from Denholm. I have 
 only stayed there since last Whitsunday, and I wish 
 to goodness I had never seen it. My native place is 
 in Ettrick, about the Brig-end." 
 
 "Weel, I ken the Brig-end and everybody in't 
 as weel as I ken Denholm, and whae has the mis- 
 fortune to own ye there? Be quick, and nane o' 
 yere dodging wi' me, for I'll hae't oot o' ye, and 
 something else, afore I pairt wi' ye." 
 
 '*Well, well, mistress, ye have a perfect right, 
 for you're the victor, and can impose what terms 
 you like on me. I was born at Howford, and 
 
 213 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 I am Andrew Currie, the son, and the oldest one, 
 of William Currie, who again was the son " 
 
 Amazing was the effect of this intelligence upon 
 Madge Gordon. 
 
 " What's that ye say, younker ? " she asked, and 
 placed her basket down on the road. **Sae nae 
 mair, younker ; I ken yere forebears baith by 
 faither's and mother's side far better than ye do 
 yersel,' and the Lord be thankit that I ken whae 
 ye are, for, to be plain wi' ye, I intended to hae 
 gien you a thrashing that ye wad hae minded to 
 the langest day o' yere life; but syne ye're the 
 grandson o' twae gude men that aince did me and 
 mine a gude turn — saved me and my weans frae 
 starvation i' the dear years— that, of coorse, alters 
 the ease entirely, and I freely forgie ye on their 
 account yere impudent trick on an auld wife. 
 Weel, weel, eneuch said; I see ye're sorry for't, 
 and ye wadna be yere gude-hairted faither's bairn 
 if ye wasna. But here's Matthew, ma son, an' I 
 see he has been knottin' his whup for yere back; 
 but fearna', he sail ne'er lay a finger on ye." 
 
 Up came the scowling Matthew, whip upraised, 
 to avenge the insulted dignity of her who was 
 practically queen of the Yetholm gipsies, but 
 Madge stepped between him and the apprehensive 
 Andrew. 
 
 ** Haud yere hand, Matthew," she said. " It 
 was his grandfaither that saved your life when ye 
 
 214 
 
MADGE AND JEAN GORDON 
 
 was a suckin' bairn, and fed and clothed yere 
 faither and mither at Brownmuir. You and him 
 will stop and crack here till I gae doon and hawk 
 the herd's hoose ; syne I want to hae a crack 
 wi' him as far as we gang thegither, and that 
 wuU be to Hartwoodmyres, I'm thinkin', sae be 
 freends." 
 
 **Freends," too, did the sturdy gipsy and the 
 boy speedily become, the subject of dogs proving a 
 strong bond of union. 
 
 **My mither's very muckle respeckit," proudly 
 spoke Matthew Young, **and sae was her mither, 
 Eppie Faa, amang oor folk, and even by mony o' 
 the gentry. The Shirra, when he was at Ashie- 
 stiel, and huz camped aboot Thornilee, wud hae 
 grannie crackin' wi' him for hoors aboot auld- 
 warld things, and weel read she was in a' kind 
 o' lair and spaein'. They tell me he made a bulk 
 aboot her. Weel, I dinna ken what it was a' 
 aboot, or what they ca'ed the buik; ma mither 
 will likely ken; but I ken this, that he tauld 
 her never to gang by Abbotsford wi'oot ca'ing in 
 and getting a drink o' yill, and a feed for the 
 yaud. He is awfu' gude, is the Shirra, to huz puir 
 bodies." 
 
 When Madge Gordon returned from a successful 
 interview with the herd's wife, half a crown in 
 pocket, the cracks at once began, and young Currie 
 was given many an item in the history of his own 
 
 215 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 family of which he had until then been in ignor- 
 ance. 
 
 " What was the good turn you said my grand- 
 father did to you ? " he asked. 
 
 "Aweel, 111 tell ye aboot that, said the gipsy. 
 " Afore ye was born, there was a famine in the land, 
 and I daursay mony ane perished o' want that 
 winter, what wi' cauld and what wi' hunger, and 
 this near happened to huz — that is, to faither and 
 mither, mysel*, and three bairns — till hunger drave 
 us to tak means to save oor lives, and for that we 
 was mairched up to Selkirk Cross, wi' oor bits o' 
 cuddies, and my auld faither, far gane wi' the 
 trouble that ended his days, harled through the 
 snaw wi' the handcuffs on him, to the jail; and I 
 had to stand at the Cross wi' my greetin' bairns 
 till oor bits o' gudes was sell't to pay expense o' 
 poindin'. I beheve I had it on my lips to invoke 
 a fearfu' curse on some that shall be nameless, when 
 auld John Lang steppit up to me and says kindly, 
 like a ministerin' angel, * Ma gude woman, ye're at 
 liberty to gang awa wi' yere gudes ; a freend has 
 paid the fine for ye, and here's five shillings to get 
 some meat for yersel' and bairns ; after that, ye wuU 
 get lodging at Mr. Curror's, Brownmuir.' Afore this 
 my heart was steeled, but at thae kind words I fairly 
 lost the field and grat till I thocht it wad break, 
 and I saw the gude-hearted auld man turn his back 
 and tak oot his pocket-naipkin to dicht his een. I 
 
 216 
 
MADGE AND JEAN GORDON 
 
 invoked a blessing on him and his, and on yere 
 faither's faither that kept us, and fed us, and set us 
 a gain' again, and that blessing will be felt for time 
 to come; I dinna say in this generation, but tent 
 ma words, Providence wuU yet reward that gude 
 deed. I hae aye ta'en a kind interest in baith the 
 families, and keepit masel' acquent, through my 
 cousin Rachael at the foot o' the Kirkwynd, o' the 
 weelfare o' their bonny family." 
 
 Thus did Madge Gordon shorten for her boy 
 companion that walk to Hartwoodmyres. She was, 
 he knew, a notable spaewife, and yet it was said that 
 her powers of divination were far inferior to those 
 of her grandmother and even those of Eppie, her 
 mother, and so when she spoke to him of his uncle, 
 John Lang, ensign of the 94)th, who was shot as he 
 carried his flag on to the ramparts of Badajos on 
 the night that the town was taken, the boy felt 
 overawed. 
 
 **I was very wae when that young lad gaed 
 sodgering to Spain," she said, **but mair by token 
 they used to come aboot the camp to get their 
 fortunes spaed with my mither, for she was wonderfu' 
 at the glamoury ; and I mind aince, when we were 
 campit on BuUsheugh Brae, and i' the Sunday efter- 
 noon yere grandfaither and his wife, Jean Sibbald, 
 and a' the young folk, cam oot for their walk, and 
 I said to my mither, ' Did ye ever see sic a bonny 
 family ? ' * Sae they are, sae they are,' says she, 
 
 217 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 ' but there's dule, dule for the best and bonniest o' 
 them a.' I didna ken what she meant, and didna' 
 tak muckle heed at the time, but I often thocht o't 
 after when the young sodger was shot through the 
 heid." 
 
 Andrew Currie lived to be an old man and a 
 fine sculptor ; one may see his Ettrick Shepherd at 
 St. Mary's Loch, his Mungo Park in Selkirk, his 
 Edie Ochiltree and others on the Scott Monument 
 in Edinburgh, and other good work in other parts 
 of Scotland. But long ere his race was run, Madge 
 Gordon's wanderings ceased. A degenerate, mongrel, 
 ** mugger" horde has taken the place of the old 
 gipsy race, and the glories of Yetholm have passed 
 away. 
 
 Our " tinklers " whose ancestors came from India 
 have experienced all the benefits of civilisation 
 and of free education, but perhaps in the process 
 they have lost something of the magnificent force- 
 fulness and the splendid loyalty that were such 
 striking features in the two old gipsies — Jean and 
 Madge Gordon. 
 
 218 
 
THE RETURN 
 
 In the days when India was a land of gold, a Tom 
 Tiddler's ground where any deserving — or, for the 
 matter of that, undeserving — lad could pick up a 
 fortune in a few months' time and come home with 
 bulging pockets to spend the rest of his days as 
 an opulent nabob, there lived in North Shields a 
 man and his wife who had to strive hard to keep 
 the wolf from the door. The man was a decent 
 enough fellow, slow and honest, unskilled and strong. 
 His work lay in the harbour. On the hot summer 
 days when the stale smell of stagnant water, of 
 rotting seaweed, of fish and tar suffocated the fresh 
 tang from the grey North Sea, he was carrying 
 great weights on the straining muscles of his bowed 
 back. On the cold winter days when the cordage 
 on the waiting ships was sparkling with icicles, the 
 snow lying deep on the high roofs of the town, and 
 the chill east wind whistling shrewdly through each 
 narrow street and battering itself in vain against 
 the weather-stained gables, he was still to be found 
 in the harbour, blue and pinched with the cold, 
 many a time with an empty belly, but always 
 toiling, labouring, carrying loads on a willing back 
 
 219 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 and getting but little for all his toil. He had a 
 good wife who skimped and saved and laboured 
 even as he did, though her work was mainly done 
 within the four walls of their little house, and 
 with several brace of little ones "amang her feet" 
 as she worked. Eight children of the ten she bore 
 weathered the troublous seas of infancy, when there 
 was often not enough food to go round, nor clothes 
 enough to hide the nakedness of the hungry little 
 ones. One by one as they came of an age to earn 
 money, the eight left the parent nest. The girls 
 went into service. The boys came of the race of 
 those that go down to the sea in ships, and there 
 w^as no gainsaying the call of the sea. One by 
 one they went, until one little lad only was left 
 to keep his parents company — a sturdy, chubby, 
 golden-curled, lusty little fellow, to whom the loss 
 of his brothers' and sisters' society was in reality 
 pure gain. There was always food enough for one 
 little gaping mouth, always clothes enough to cover 
 one plump little frame. 
 
 ** Fatty " the other boys of North Shields derid- 
 ingly called this Benjamin, and "Fatty " he remains 
 to the folk of North Shields even to this day. As 
 Fatty grew up, the call of the sea came to him as 
 it had come to his brothers. As cook-boy on a 
 fishing-coble he made his first venture on the North 
 Sea, and came home brown-faced and manly, with 
 money — but a tiny fortune in truth — ^jingled loud 
 
 220 
 
THE RETURN 
 
 in his pockets before he proudly handed it over to 
 a still prouder mother. The most venturesome of 
 all her brood was this youngest son of the North 
 Shields woman, and in him his parents had a pride 
 such as they had never felt for any of the others. 
 He was generous-handed,, as none of the others 
 had ever been, and as nearly demonstrative in 
 his affection as the reserved coldness of a North- 
 umbrian born could ever permit him to be. His 
 parents, old folk long before their time, with bent 
 backs and faces wrinkled by the cares of a poverty- 
 haunted life, and tanned and beaten by weather, 
 had but few smiles left in them, but Fatty had 
 the power to call these forth when no one else 
 could. And if his jokes were rough and his manners 
 to '* the owd lass " were rude, these were points 
 not likely to strike the world in which he moved. 
 
 Fatty was not long home from his first voyage 
 when a great event took place at North Shields. 
 Amongst the Uttle traders that sought shelter in 
 the harbour one day when the sea from Leith to 
 Whitby was strewn with wreckage and the wind 
 that wailed over the Fames sang a dirge for many 
 a drowned seaman, there came a great East India- 
 man driven far out of her course by the storm. 
 Every lad in the town had to have a look at her, 
 and to them the bronzed sailors with the gold rings 
 in their ears, the shivering Indians who gazed 
 curiously over the bulwarks at the little Northum- 
 
 221 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 brian town, the monkeys and parrots which the sea- 
 men were bringing home, the smell of strange spices, 
 all spelled Romance and invited them to seek their 
 fortunes in the Land of Gold. Fatty ran tempestu- 
 ously into the house at breakfast-time next morning. 
 The Indiaman was sailing at noon, and he with it. 
 The cabin-boy had been washed overboard a few 
 hours before they made North Shields, and herein 
 was a Providence, for the cap'n had hired Fatty to 
 take his place, and when they had discharged their 
 cargo at Hull there would not be long to wait 
 before they were sailing once more for the East. 
 
 " Fine jools I'll bring you, owd mawthaw ! " he 
 said ; " yell be hung wi' rubies an' dimons, an' have 
 a shawl all red an' yalla like a queen. Bags o' 
 gowd I'll bring you, an' the owd man an' you an' 
 me ull nivah do a stroke moah wawk, but we'll live 
 in a castle an' have black men to wait on us, an' 
 we'll smoke our pipes an' chew baccy an' drink rum 
 an eat plum-duff an' good boiled beef all the rest 
 o' our days." 
 
 Off, then, went Fatty, and the days dragged 
 but slowly by for the lonely pair at North Shields 
 through the months that followed. They expected 
 no letter, but when after many weary months two 
 North Sliields men, who had sailed in the Indiaman 
 when the lad went, arrived with the news of the 
 ship's safe return to Hull, they anxiously questioned 
 them as to the fate of their boy. The men could 
 
 222 
 
THE RETURN 
 
 give but little satisfaction to their questioners. The 
 cabin-boy had disappeared, none knew exactly how. 
 He had run his ship, they fancied. They knew 
 naught about him — a wild little reckless divil. 
 
 ** YeVe murdered him ! " cried the bereaved 
 mother. " What have ye done wi' my bonny laddie ? 
 Aye, ye've murdered him an' ye daurna own it!" 
 And mutual curses and recriminations might have 
 led to a serious riot with the half-tipsy sailors if 
 Fatty's father had not come and led his sobbing 
 wife away. 
 
 For many a year thereafter the sight of a brown- 
 faced seafaring stranger in the street would make 
 the mother's heart leap within her. For many and 
 many a night as she lay waiting for the dawn the 
 sound of a footstep drawing near the door would 
 make her hold her breath and sit up in bed, ready 
 to dash to raise the latch and take her boy in her 
 arms. But gradually the anodyne of time deadened 
 the mother's longing, and for both father and mother 
 the question of how to keep the spark of life alight 
 in their own toil-worn old bodies became too urgent 
 for them to have many thoughts to spare for their 
 lost son. An accident in the harbour crippled the 
 man, and of their eight children only one daughter, 
 married to a fisherman, and with seven bairns to 
 fend for, remained in North Shields. The wolf that 
 had so often howled at their door when Fatty was 
 a baby had come to stay. They were hard people, 
 
 223 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 and their lives had been hard lives. The little sum 
 of money they had managed to lay by had gone 
 below the high- water mark of the decent ** burying" 
 they had schemed for both to have, and ebbed at 
 length to the shameful necessity of paupers' coffins. 
 Now and then the old woman got a job of work 
 from a kindly neighbour, now and again a tiny gift 
 of money from one of the few surviving sons or 
 daughters struggling for their living in distant 
 places, but the pittance from the fisherman's wife 
 in North Shields was practically all that stood be- 
 tween the old pair and starvation. 
 
 And in the black times of inaction, of aching 
 hunger, of anger that they who had worked so 
 strenuously all their lives should come to bitter 
 poverty at last, there grew in the hearts of the man 
 and woman an evil passion that made the money 
 that all through the years they had laboured so hard 
 to gain seem to them the one thing worth having, 
 the only thing that might bring them happiness at 
 the last. 
 
 It was a wild December night. Fierce waves 
 dashed high over the harbour walls, and driving sleet 
 drenched the few who dared to face the storm in the 
 dark streets. Over a little fire of driftwood and sea- 
 coal the old man and woman sat silent, listening 
 to the moan of the storm. They could afford no 
 candle nor lamp, and dry bread, and but little of 
 that, had served for their evening meal. In a lull 
 
 224 
 
THE RETURN 
 
 in the storm they heard voices and laughter without, 
 and a loud knock on the door. Ere the woman 
 could rise to open it, it was flung wide, and with wet 
 shawl over her head and dripping rain on the floor, 
 their married daughter walked in. Her cheeks were 
 red with the sleet that had stung them, and her eyes 
 were bright. The look of anxious care that she 
 usually wore had gone, and she looked gay and 
 happy. "I've brocht ye a lodger, mawthaw," she 
 said. ** I ken ye like a' sailors for the sake o' poor 
 Fatty, an' here's a man fresh frae the Indies, askin' 
 to be taen in for the nicht. We've no' a bed in oor 
 hoose to gie him, but I'se warrant ye'U no grudge 
 him shelter." And in a whisper, with a merry laugh 
 — " He'll pay ye weelf' — she said, " Come yere ways 
 in, man." 
 
 The man who stood behind her was a thin, 
 brown-faced fellow, clad in oilskins that shone with 
 the wet, and carried the tramping sailor's usual 
 outfit of handkerchief bundle borne on a stick, and 
 in addition a small, but apparently heavy bag of 
 cowhide. Some paper-covered parcels, too, he 
 carried with him. " I've brought my rations with 
 me, mistress," he said ; " your daughter said the com- 
 missariat might be at low ebb, so if you'll be so 
 good as to cook them we'll have a bite." 
 
 The man had evidently had had more than one 
 dram ere he hove to in North Shields, but he was a 
 pleasant-spoken fellow, and when he had exchanged 
 
 225 p 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 a few words in an undertone with the woman who 
 brought him, and who seemed unaccountably amused 
 at the whole incident, she went off and left him 
 alone with his host and hostess. Speedily he took 
 off his oilskins and sou'wester, dumped his bag and 
 bundle in a corner of the room, and opened his 
 parcels. 
 
 Beefsteak such as had not been seen in that 
 house for years, bacon, eggs, new bread, and a big 
 bottle of rum — luxuries indeed for the old man and 
 woman. The woman was not long in making a 
 savoury fry, and as he praised her cookery — " Haven't 
 tasted nothing half so good since my old mawthaw 
 ran the cook's galley " — he pressed platefuls of food 
 and jorums of liquor upon the old pair. They ate 
 and drank thankfully, and always as the meal wore 
 on the brown-faced sailor grew more and more 
 jovial, more and more friendly. He was several 
 sheets in the wind, and the bottle of rum nearly 
 empty when the old woman cleared away and busied 
 herself in putting clean bedding in the bed the guest 
 was to occupy. " Our youngest lad slept there years 
 agone," she said, *' but he sailed to the Indies an' 
 never came back no more." 
 
 A great joke this seemed to be to the more than 
 half-drunken man. 
 
 " I'se warrant he is comin' home one day with lacs 
 of rupees for ye, old lady," he laughed, '* and with 
 loot from a dozen heathen temples." 
 
 226 
 
THE RETURN 
 
 Then nothing would serve him but that the man 
 and woman should see what treasure he himself had 
 brought. He took off his belt, and showed it to be 
 crammed with gold pieces. His pouch was also 
 full, and when he opened the cowhide bag and the 
 red cotton handkerchief, he tumbled out of them 
 jewels that seemed to fill the dark room with an 
 unearthly lustre and sparkle of blood-red and of 
 gi^een, of the white of icicles with the sun on them, 
 of the blue sea on a sunny day. Finally he fell 
 asleep with his head on the table amongst the 
 gold pieces and precious stones, and it took all the 
 feeble strength of the pair to drag him, staggering, 
 muttering drowsily, and leaning against first one of 
 them, then the other, across the floor into the little 
 inner chamber, where he fell sprawling upon the 
 clean bed, and was instantly fast asleep. They had 
 built up the fire, and it shone on the jewels and the 
 gold that he had so carelessly strewn on the rough 
 deal table. Outside the storm sobbed and whimpered 
 and threw itself against door and window, while the 
 sleet blattered against the glass, and the angry sea 
 could be heard protestingly moaning and waihng, like 
 a wild thing that beat itself vainly against imprison- 
 ing bars. To-night the man and woman had had food 
 and drink and warmth. To-morrow their guest with 
 his wondrous wealth would be gone, and cold and 
 poverty and hunger would again be their lot. Not 
 only that, but to them death must surely come soon, 
 
 227 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 and they who had never begged, never owed the parish 
 anything, would have the burial of paupers, and the 
 public contempt and pity of all the neighbours before 
 whom for so many long years they had made a 
 piteous pretence of never requiring charity. Not a 
 word passed between them, but both sat with eyes 
 fixed on the sparkling heap on the table, while the 
 fire grew lower and yet more low. Some drops of 
 sleet fell fizzing down the chimney, and then the 
 old man arose with a start, hobbled across the room 
 to a drawer in a cupboard, and from it brought out 
 something that gleamed in the firelight. He tried 
 the edge on his thumb, and then at last his eyes met 
 those of his wife. 
 
 " A drucken brute," he muttered apologetically. 
 
 She bowed her head, yet spoke never a word. The 
 door of the bedchamber stood ajar, and she walked 
 steadily forward before her husband and opened it 
 wide. Something familiar in the attitude of the 
 sleeper as he lay with one arm thrown over his curly 
 brown head made her start, and appear as if about to 
 lay her hand on her husband's arm as he came forward. 
 But the fire burned low at that minute and she stood 
 aside. The old man felt about for a moment in the 
 semi-darkness, and then his muscular arm went 
 forward like a snake's head as it strikes its prey. 
 From the bed came a broken sob. The sleeper 
 seemed to shiver as with an ague, there came a long 
 sigh, that might have been the winter wind outside, 
 
 22$ 
 
THE RETURN 
 
 then all was still, but for the sound of a drip, drip, 
 drip on the floor, as though the rain had forced its 
 way through the old roof at last. 
 
 There was wealth for the pair beyond the dreams 
 of avarice. Both of them had quite realised that, 
 and in the grey dawn, when the storm had abated, 
 they dragged the thing they had robbed of life and 
 fortune to a place on the coast well known to them, 
 where the sea greedily seized as plaything the body 
 of yet another sailor-man as it fell from the cliffs 
 right into its insatiable maw. 
 
 The bedchamber was in perfect order, the floor 
 well scrubbed, and every betraying trace of the guest 
 was gone, and yet it was but early when the married 
 daughter of the old pair walked in at the door. She 
 showed the same strange elation and excitement that 
 she had done on the previous evening. 
 
 "Weel, mawthaw, where's your braw lodger? 
 she asked, smiling. 
 
 The old man in his chair by the fireside made no 
 reply, but stared stupidly into the embers. 
 
 " He's awa," said the old woman. " He went 
 early." 
 
 *' Awa ! '^ cried her daughter. " Hoots, wumman, 
 he's never awa ! He canna ha gaen far. He'll be 
 doun at the quay. Has he taen his breakfast ? '* 
 
 " Na," said the old woman shortly. 
 
 " But where's he gaen ? " persisted the other. 
 " Surely he tell't ye where he was gaun ? '*" 
 
 229 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 " He never said naething," said her mother. " I 
 ken naething aboot him. I didnae speir where he 
 was for. He was fou last nicht, an' he sUppit off 
 afore we were oot o' oor beds this morn." 
 
 " But, mother ! '' exclaimed the woman, " did 
 ye no' ken him ? Did he no' tell ye ? " 
 
 ** Tell what, ye fule ? " said the mother fiercely ; 
 " wha was he ? " 
 
 ** It was oor Fatty, mother I an' you no' tae ken 
 your own bairn! He wadna let's let on till ye, 
 for Fatty aye was full o' nonsense." 
 
 With faces like grotesques carved in ivoiy the 
 wretched pair stared at their daughter. 
 
 Then, with a desperate effort, the father spoke. 
 
 " It wasna him," he said. " Ye lee. Div ye no' see 
 ye're frichtenin' your mother ? It couldna be him. 
 Oor puir laddie's been deid these five-an'-tonty 'ear." 
 
 "But it was him, feytherl" she said. "Sure's 
 daith it was Fatty. He cam an' telt iz a' aboot it, 
 and showed iz the belt fu' o' gowd an' a' they graund 
 rubies an' dimons — did ye no' see them ? He's a 
 rich, rich man, an' he's come hame as he promised, 
 to deck mother oot like the finest in the land, and 
 buy her a braw hoose, and gie us a' gowd an' to spare." 
 
 And again she laughed gleefully. " I'se warrant 
 he's no gaen far. He'll be back by denner-time. 
 Fegs but he was a happy man last e'en. He says 
 tae huz yins, * They'll be the richest folk in North 
 Shields, my old feyther an' mither. I've keepit my 
 
 230 
 
THE RETURN 
 
 word, Mag, an' made my fortune in the Indies an' 
 brocht it a' hame tae them.' " 
 
 A terrible cry, like the moan of a wild beast in 
 pain, interrupted her, and the mother fell heavily on 
 the stone floor and lay there as if dead. 
 
 That was a dreary day, and while the daughter 
 helped her father to tend the stricken woman she 
 would murmur, as if to reassure herself as well as 
 herj parents, " He'll come back. Niver fear. He'll 
 come back again." 
 
 The old woman had never spoken since she fell 
 smitten by Heaven to the ground, but when she 
 heard these words she would vainly try to force her 
 twisted mouth to utterance. 
 
 The long day passed at length, and once again, 
 before she returned to her own family, the daughter 
 said, " He'll come back, mither. Niver fear." 
 
 "Hand yer blethering tongue," said the man. 
 " He'll come back nae mair." 
 
 There was no sleep for either man or woman 
 that night. The door was bolted and barred, and 
 the wind moaned down the street and beat against 
 the door in vain. But as the clock struck twelve 
 there entered a visitor that neither bolt nor bar 
 could keep out. The woman was in bed, the man 
 in his chair by the smouldering fire, silent, with 
 wide open eyes, waiting. It was no human form 
 that came to them, but a great black dog that 
 slowly entered, went up to the bed where the 
 
 231 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 mother lay, nuzzled its head against her, and 
 stared in her face with big, sad eyes. Next it 
 went to the old man, laid its head on his knee, and 
 looked up at him with human eyes full of tears. 
 Then noiselessly it slunk away to the little inner 
 bedchamber, and there lay at the foot of the bed, 
 keeping watch, with its great lambent eyes shining 
 red in the darkness as the rubies had shone only 
 so short a time ago. At grey dawn a cock crew, 
 and it sprang up, growling fiercely, and dashed 
 out of the cottage with howls so wild and eerie 
 that all those in the houses near cowered under 
 their blankets in thankfulness that they were safe 
 indoors. 
 
 Each night at the same hour the bolted door 
 moved on its hinges and the dog entered and walked 
 up to the old pair who awaited it. Each morning, 
 at cockcrow, it left them, a mad fury, with howls 
 that made men's blood run cold. 
 
 Gradually the old woman regained the use of 
 her limbs, but her speech never returned, and ere 
 next winter she had pined away and died. In 
 poverty she died, for the wealth that now was 
 theirs could never be spent by the murderers, but 
 remained hidden in the spot where they had placed 
 it on that black December night. A pauper's 
 funeral was hers, for it had been a bad season for 
 the herring-fishers, and there was want in the house 
 of the daughter. 
 
 232 
 
THE RETURN 
 
 Not for many weeks after the day when he 
 watched the deal coffin being dumped into the 
 chill earth and knew himself for a pauper, was the 
 old man left to share the vigils of the midnight 
 hours with that fearsome beast with its human 
 eyes. On his death-bed he unburdened his soul, 
 and his daughter and others listened with horror 
 to the story of the terrible crime. After his 
 death the house was regarded as accursed. The 
 black dog kept its vigils alone, and the folk of 
 North Shields shivered as they heard its dismal 
 howls in the dawning. Gradually the house fell 
 to ruins, but so long as one stone remained on 
 another the dog haunted the place. At last the 
 ground was cleared, and although there are those 
 who say that in Milbourne Place, the high row 
 of houses that now occupies the site of the old 
 cottage, the ghost of Fatty still walks, fain would 
 we believe that the wanderer's homeless spirit has 
 found rest and peace at last. 
 
 233 
 
TREASURE TROVE 
 
 So long as warm red blood and not a tepid 
 and weakly substitute runs in one's veins, the very 
 words "Treasure Trove" must bear with them a 
 fascination. Those undiscovered pots of gold and 
 silver ! Those iron-bound treasure chests that were 
 buried deep by pirate or miser or robber 1 Those 
 bars of gold — those pieces of eight — those glittering 
 heaps of priceless jewels hidden long, long years 
 ago, and found at last by him who knew how 
 to look and who had courage enough to seek and 
 to find! Who has not dreamed of them in his 
 youth ? Who has not even clung to his dreams when 
 of many another delicious youthful possession stern 
 age may have bereft him ? 
 
 Surely every man and woman with any romance 
 in his or her nature is at heart a treasure-seeker. 
 The unearned increment that may come by the 
 route of the Stock Exchange, from the arrival of an 
 unexpected horse at the winning-post, or from 
 the will of an opulent relative, is certainly not 
 without its charms, but what of a monetary nature 
 can possibly touch the imagination as does that 
 delightful dream of the buried treasure that comes 
 
 234 
 
TREASURE TROVE 
 
 with utter unexpectedness and thrilling chink and 
 gleam into one's own exclusive possession ? 
 
 The " ship " that is going to come in one day — 
 the treasure one is going to find — the big fish one 
 is going to land — may the gods grant that Time is 
 not going to bereave us of any of these dear toys 
 before he hands us on to his elder brother, Eternity. 
 
 In all countries there comes, every now and 
 again, an epidemic of the treasure-hunting fever. 
 On the Border the epidemic has cause to be of 
 fairly frequent recurrence, for even within the last 
 hundred years spades and ploughs have turned up 
 things well worth having. The Romans left behind 
 them other valuables besides a half-fledged civilisa- 
 tion when they forsook the Wall and left the 
 Romo-British people to their fate. All along the 
 line of the wall, from time to time there have been 
 rich discoveries of treasure trove. A poor man 
 at Bremenium (now Rowchester) while digging his 
 garden came across enough to keep him out of 
 want for the rest of his days. The recent excava- 
 tions at Newstead, near Melrose, have shown us 
 how much rich archaeological booty has lain all 
 those hundreds of years within easy reach of the 
 spade of any enterprising excavator. A learned 
 professor, only a few years ago, when tramping 
 across the Cheviots near the old ** Maiden Way," 
 sat himself down to lunch and smoke, and, as he 
 smoked, idly prodded with his stick at the earth 
 
 235 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 of an adjacent rabbit-hole. " Clink ! '* fell some- 
 thing to the ground, and again " Clink ! clink ! " 
 as he prodded further. Handfuls and handfuls of 
 copper coins that had come from a Roman mint 
 did he dig out of the home of that unconsciously- 
 opulent rabbit, where Pictish thief or saving 
 legionary had hidden them in the days when Rome 
 still ruled the world. 
 
 More recently, in the autumn of 1910, a plough- 
 man at Mellendean, on the Duke of Roxburghe's 
 Sprouston estate, turned up with his plough a 
 cache of over 500 silver Roman coins, for which 
 he was recompensed by the Scottish Exchequer at 
 the rate of one shilling per coin. Another tale, one 
 that might well serve as illustration for a sermon 
 on the text that " Money is the root of all evil," 
 is that of Thomas Pattison, the Northumbrian 
 quarryman, who in August 1 837 found on Barcombe 
 Hill, near the old Roman station of Borcovicus, 
 a treasure which ruined him. He and some other 
 labourers were quarrying stone when, hid in the 
 cleft of a rock, they came on a skifF-shaped bronze 
 vessel with a circular handle. There was no 
 chance of its having been dropped there — obvi- 
 ously it had been hidden — and when the ancient 
 purse was opened the quarrymen found abundant 
 reason for the care that its owner had taken of it. 
 It contained, closely packed together, sixty-three 
 Roman coins, each one wrapped in green-coloured 
 
 236 
 
TREASURE TROVE 
 
 leather. Three of the coins were gold and the rest 
 were silver, and the excited quarrymen proposed 
 an immediate division of the spoil. Fortunately 
 for archaeologists, but less fortunately for himself, 
 Pattison realised that the find was likely to bring 
 a larger price if kept together than if sold piece- 
 meal, and after some argument the others agreed 
 to entrust the find to him and to share and share 
 alike the proceeds of the sale. The public-houses 
 of Hexham now knew Pattison as a frequent visitor, 
 for many a toper was willing to stand a drink for 
 the sight of the bronze purse with its hoard of 
 Roman silver and gold. Two Hexham gentlemen, 
 a doctor and a solicitor, heard of Pattison's exhibit 
 and asked to see it, and were so much interested 
 that one of them gave him a sovereign for the 
 sight and the other five shillings. In Pattison's 
 mind the value of the coins promptly went up 
 with a rush. A precious treasure indeed was the 
 one of which he was custodian if two knowledgeable 
 gentlemen thought a sight of it worth twenty-five 
 shillings ! No gratis exhibitions now. Some dis- 
 honest spectator might rob him. Thomas Pattison 
 rapidly grew suspicious and grasping. It was with 
 the greatest difficulty, and only after copious libations 
 of brandy and water that he was coaxed to show 
 the find to Mr. Fairless, a gentleman deeply inter- 
 ested in all antiquarian matters. The door of the 
 private room in the White Hart Inn at Hexham 
 
 237 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 where they met had to be carefully locked before 
 Pattison would show his treasure. Treasure it was 
 undoubtedly, but that more from the point of view 
 of the antiquarian than from that of a man who 
 simply wished hard cash, £18 being the market- 
 value of the entire collection. Of the three gold 
 coins one was of Nero, one of Vespasian, and one of 
 Claudius, while the silver coins were of Vespasian, 
 Domitian, Nerva, Trajan, and Hadrian. 
 
 The news of Pattison's treasure was not long in 
 coming to the ears of the agent of the Duke of 
 Northumberland, on whose property the find was 
 made. By the law of treasure trove the coins un- 
 doubtedly belonged to the Duke, and the agent was 
 not slow in informing Pattison of the fact. But 
 Pattison was one of those men whose little amount 
 of wit is accompanied by a dogged, unreasoning 
 obstinacy. He would see the Duke to blazes ere 
 he would part with the coins. If they belonged to 
 the Duke, why, in the devil's name, had the Duke 
 not gone himself long ago and quarried for them ? 
 Good Mr. Fairless came to try and make him listen 
 to reason, and was told by Pattison's sister — Pattison 
 himself being from home — under promise of secrecy, 
 that the coins were hidden at the bottom of the 
 village draw-well. 
 
 The sums suggested by Mr. Fairless and others 
 as compensation for the loss of the find were hooted 
 at by the man whose avarice had long since gone 
 
 238 
 
TREASURE TROVE 
 
 past reasoning point. Eighteen pounds was a mere 
 drop in a bucket. His coins were priceless. The 
 poor fool acquired lazy, roving habits, and when an 
 action at the suit of the Duke was brought against 
 him he tramped off to Wales, handing over the 
 coins to the care of his brother, William Pattison. 
 For some time he was a quarryman in Denbighshire, 
 but there the law sought him out and as he would 
 neither give up the coins nor pay the £18 with costs, 
 which a jury had adjudged to be the proper sum at 
 which to fix the damages to be paid by him as de- 
 fendant in the case, he was promptly lodged in 
 Denbigh gaol. He had been some time there when 
 news of his imprisonment came to the Duke of 
 Northumberland through his brother-in-law. Sir 
 Watkin Wynn, on whose estate Pattison was living 
 when he was taken to Denbigh. The Duke, who 
 knew nothing of it, and who was one of the most 
 generous of men, at once offered Pattison his release. 
 But Pattison, low in intelligence although he was, 
 had learned something of the law while he was in 
 gaol. A statute then in force ordained that twelve 
 months was the maximum length of imprisonment 
 for a prisoner whose debt did not exceed £20. 
 
 So Pattison rejected the Duke's generosity with 
 scorn, treating it, doubtless, as an underhand method 
 of obtaining the treasure. He saw out his twelve 
 months in Denbigh gaol and then returned to 
 Northumberland to live with his brother, and beside 
 
 239 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 his treasure, at a little farm near Blenkinsopp. But 
 as far as his life was concerned, Thomas Pattison 
 might as well have died in a debtor's prison. He 
 never did another day's work, but wandered rest- 
 lessly about the country, a surly, embittered, idle 
 man, who believed that but for the ill-usage and 
 dishonest greed of others he might have possessed 
 wealth beyond the dreams of avarice. He died ere 
 long, and the curse of the Roman coins might 
 have been handed on to the brother who inherited 
 the hoard, had not the combined wisdom of his 
 wife and of a well-known antiquary, Mr. Clayton 
 of Chesters, proved his salvation. Fifty golden 
 sovereigns, fresh from the Mint, and backed by the 
 antiquary's assurance that £18 was the legal price of 
 purse and contents, and the sensible wife's advice to 
 take the money without further palaver, did the 
 deed, and bereft for ever the house of Pattison of 
 the Roman treasure which for twenty-one years had 
 been in their keeping. The Duke of Northumber- 
 land most graciously waived all claim to possession, 
 and expressed his great pleasure that the find was at 
 last in such worthy hands, and in Mr. Clayton's 
 fascinating museum at Chesters — once Cilurnum — 
 on the Roman Wall, the bronze purse and its 
 contents may be seen to this day without any 
 previous bribery, spirituous or otherwise, of their 
 honest custodian. 
 
 Not only along the line of the Roman Wall, 
 
 240 
 
TREASURE TROVE 
 
 however, is the treasure of the Border to be found. 
 At Warkworth, where the clear waters of the 
 Coquet run between opulently wooded banks past 
 the beautiful ruins of the old castle, there was found, 
 many years ago, a buried treasure. The custodian 
 of the castle at that time was a worthy man of 
 whom we know that he was a believer in dreams, 
 that he had a beautiful trust in the honour of his 
 friends, and that his motto obviously was *' Never 
 do to-day what you can put off until to-morrow." 
 Three nights in succession did this man dream a 
 dream. Each night, in his dream, he went to a 
 certain mound and there dug. In his digging he 
 came at length to a curious round blue stone, and 
 this he lifted, and found underneath it a pot quite 
 full of gold pieces. " A lucky dream," he thought 
 the first morning when he awoke, and during the 
 day found himself eyeing with interest the mound 
 in the courtyard. When, next night, he again found 
 himself digging, his interest in the mound during the 
 day was still greater, and when, for the third time, 
 he dreamed of the blue stone and the buried treasure, 
 he had not the shadow of a doubt that a pick and 
 a shovel were all that were necessary to make of his 
 golden dreams golden realities. Not in one sense 
 only the custodian was evidently a dreamer. So sure 
 was he of his fortune that he loved to linger over 
 the delicious anticipation, to build for himself, with 
 the gold that could at any moment become his own, 
 
 241 Q 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 castles whose minarets touched the blue sky. So 
 exquisite a thing it was to him to feel that no longer 
 need his life of hard toil, of pinching and of saving 
 continue, no longer need he dree the weird of the 
 sons of Adam and eat bread only by the sweat of 
 his brow, but could now taste the rapturous enjoy- 
 ment of unearned increment, that he could not keep 
 his happiness to himself but confided the story to a 
 friend. The friend was all sympathy, but, being a 
 practical man, he asked the practical question. Why 
 did the custodian not dig at once and put his dream 
 to the proof? Obviously there was no poetry in the 
 nature of this clod. The dreamer tried to explain. 
 It was too exquisite a thing to grasp rudely, straight 
 off. One must first revel in all the epicurean joys of 
 anticipation. The friend quite agreed. 
 
 A few days passed and the dream did not re- 
 turn, but the mystic three was quite enough for 
 the dreamer. In sleeping and waking dreams he 
 spent one perfect night, and when the morning 
 sun was gilding the old grey stones of the castle, 
 he stole softly out to take the treasure that the 
 kindly fates had given him. But the mound was 
 a mound no longer. Great spadefuls of raw earth 
 lay where it had been — a deep trench gashed it 
 — and on the top of the clay lay a large round 
 blue stone, the stone of his dream. One has no 
 record of what the dreamer said. Probably it is 
 just as well. But at least one is very sure that 
 
 242 
 
TREASURE TROVE 
 
 the feelings of his fellow-dreamer in the Arabian 
 Nights, when he awoke from his reverie to find 
 his entire stock-in-trade lying shattered at his feet, 
 were no more bitter than were those of the custodian 
 of Warkworth Castle. Who can blame him if he 
 sought in haste the only one to whom his secret 
 had been confided ? And who cannot mourn with 
 him in that he lost, on the same fatal morning, a 
 fortune and a friend ? Two curious things were 
 noticed after the digging up of that mound. One 
 of these was that the blue stone gradually became 
 paler in colour. The other was that the custodian's 
 friend had a large fortune left to him by a relation 
 at a distance, of whose existence no one had heard 
 up till then, and became a very wealthy man. If 
 he had any secret, he confided it to no one. Mean- 
 time the Coquet, winding round the castle mound, 
 also possessed a secret, and that it gave up one 
 day when an ancient pot of large proportions was 
 drawn out of it, and the custodian recognised the 
 treasure chest of his dreams. It had been full of 
 gold pieces when he saw it then. Now it was 
 empty as his own pockets. 
 
 Such was the end of the custodian's dream, 
 and still, lying at the side of the Lion Tower — 
 where the lion, the emblem of the Percies, orna- 
 ments the cornice, there is to be seen a very large 
 round blue stone which once hid beneath it a pot 
 of gold. Round the lion's neck is the Percy badge 
 
 243 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 of a crescent, inscribed with the family motto — 
 Hotspur's battle-cry, Espei^ance, But though many 
 a crescent moon shone upon Warkworth after that 
 treasure had been found — and lost — never again 
 could the motto of the family that he served lift 
 up the spirits of the disappointed dreamer. He 
 had no more golden dreams, only the exasperating 
 remembrance of his own procrastination, and the 
 continual reminder of a large round stone, heavy 
 as his own heart. 
 
 In Selkirkshire, as well as in Northumberland, 
 we have tales of still unclaimed, unfound pots of 
 gold. The Earl of Montrose's treasure chest has 
 more than one tale attached to it, and there are 
 those who say that a deep brown pool in the Yarrow 
 still hides what was cast there for temporary con- 
 cealment on the headlong flight from the bloody 
 field of Philiphaugh. Still, too, is tlie gold of 
 Tamleuchar — that desolate bit of Eskdalemuir — to 
 be discovered. 
 
 " Atween the wat ground and the dry 
 The gold of Tamleuchar doth lie." 
 
 They are haunting lines, of an age of which none 
 can speak with authority, though some declare that 
 the golden treasure is not minted metal but gold 
 such as was found in Meggatdale in the days of 
 James V, and that the skeely digger who follows the 
 directions of the old saw is likely to come on veins 
 so rich, that on the Stock Exchange South-Africans 
 
 244 
 
TREASURE TROVE 
 
 will go down with a rush and Tamleuchars come up 
 with a run. 
 
 Up Ettrick, too, we have a tale of a treasure 
 yet to be found, a tale told by old Andrew 
 Currie, the Darnick sculptor, the man who did 
 much fine work in his time, but who might have 
 handed down a great name to posterity had his 
 ambitions been greater, his opportunities more. 
 Andrew Currie's father was farmer of Howford, in 
 Ettrick. It was a serving-lad called William Murray 
 who told him of the trove he himself had come 
 across and who held out glittering prospects of the 
 treasure still to be found. 
 
 William Murray was the son of a tenant of How- 
 ford Mill, and one day when he was about thirteen 
 years of age he was sent by his father to help his aunt, 
 Jenny White, in casting peats in a moss which is now 
 a level meadow near Oakwood Mill. Jenny took her 
 place with the peat-barrow down below a brae, and her 
 sturdy nephew with his " flaughter '* spade was placed 
 above her to cut the peats and throw them down to 
 her. They were working hard when a large stone 
 slab, fairly near the surface, stopped their labour for 
 a little. With some trouble they unearthed it, and 
 William resumed his spade-work,. Two or three cuts 
 only did he make, and at the third or fourth the boy 
 showered down on his aunt a glittering mass of silver 
 coins — about three hundred in all. Jenny promptly 
 took possession but did not hold it long, for the Lord 
 
 245 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 of the Manor — Lord Polwarth — put in his claim, and, 
 with a much better grace than Pattison the North- 
 umbrian, the good woman handed over the find to 
 the descendant of Wat o* Harden — who rarely had to 
 ask twice. Apparently the coins had been in the 
 grave of a Roman soldier, for some bones and rusty 
 armour were found quite near. William Murray 
 was just the right age to fully appreciate the romance 
 and glorious possibilities of Buried Treasure. A 
 spade wielded by his own strong hand had driven 
 through the peaty soil clink into a nest of good 
 round silver coins. The chink of them as they fell 
 was a thing not soon to be forgotten. He kept his 
 thoughts to himself, and in the evenings he went 
 back to the peat moss, armed with an iron rod, and 
 for many an evening prodded in vain near the spot 
 where he came on the treasure. At last his search 
 was rewarded. About fifty yards to the west of the 
 slab he and his aunt had unearthed, he came on a 
 second slab, much larger than the first. It was 
 much too cumbrous for him to move without help, 
 and so, most reluctantly, he had to cover it up again 
 and leave it as it lay. Some inscriptions, deeply cut, 
 were on the stone, and it lay in a direct line between 
 two old trees, one on the south and the other on the 
 north of the moss. 
 
 It was William Murray's dearest dream to dig up 
 that stone and become the possessor of the treasure 
 which, he never doubted, lay beneath it. To this 
 
 246 
 
TREASURE TROVE 
 
 end he confided in his master's son, the little 
 dark-eyed Andrew, who promised to be his accom- 
 plice. But week after week, month after month, 
 thanks to Andrew's procrastination, the project was 
 delayed. And then came another golden dream — 
 one that possessed the mind of many a Briton in 
 those days. Andrew Currie's elder brother was 
 going to Australia to seek the fortune which he un- 
 doubtedly found, and his father's serving-lad joyously 
 went with him to see his golden dreams become 
 realities in that land of gold. Just before he left the 
 Ettrick valley he spoke again to his friend, Andrew, 
 of the buried treasure, and again pointed out the spot 
 where he was so sure that it lay. But Australia was 
 to William Murray what it has been to many — the 
 Land of Never-Never. Shortly after landing he died, 
 and for Andrew Currie the land he remained behind 
 in was a Never-Never Land as well. As a boy and 
 as a lad he had put off from night to night, from 
 week to week, month to month, year to year, that 
 treasure hunt. 
 
 In older days, when Lord Polwarth, to whom 
 he told the story, offered to send labourers to 
 the spot to excavate under his direction, some- 
 how, as he himself confessed, he "never found 
 a suitable time to go." **A singularly dilatory 
 character " he was, according to his own confession ; 
 — a singularly charming character, as all those who 
 were privileged to know him can testify. But, 
 
 247 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 naturally, he died a poor man, not even enriched by 
 the sale of so many hundred Roman silver coins 
 at a shilling apiece! And there, near Oakwood, 
 still remains the undiscovered stone slab with its 
 probable hundreds of coins beneath it, Treasure 
 Trove for him who has the energy — or the romance 
 — to seek it. 
 
 248 
 
BERTHA OF BADLIEU 
 
 Far up the Tweed valley, where the Tweed is 
 still little more than a hill-burn, running between 
 peat hag and heathery knowe, there stands a little 
 white farmhouse known as Badlieu. Near it, on 
 the hill-side, there is pointed out a spot that the 
 country people will tell you is the grave of a 
 murdered girl, her father, and her child, and, 
 with but few variants, all the folk of that dis- 
 trict will tell you the tale of *' Bonnie Bertha of 
 Badlieu " who, in the old, old days, was mistress to 
 a king. 
 
 In those old, old days before Scotland was cut 
 up by railways, seamed with roads, disfigured by 
 hedges and dikes, and scarred by ploughs, it was a 
 land of great forests where every sort of game was 
 to be had for the hunting, and where lochs and 
 swamps and lochans — ^yet unmurdered by drain-pipes 
 — harboured such flocks of waterfowl that no hawk 
 ever needed to go hungry nor any country-man to 
 go without kitchen to his bread. The Wood of 
 Caledon, with its thickets of hazel and birch, covered 
 the Tweed uplands and formed coverts fit for the 
 
 249 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 hunting of a king. Meggatland, Ettrick, and Yarrow 
 provided 
 
 " Hart and hynd, and dae and rae, 
 And of a' wilde bestis grete plentie." 
 
 Somewhere before the year 1000, Scotland's 
 ruler was one named Kenneth the Grim, the son 
 of DufFus. He came to the throne in turbulent 
 times, when violent death was the lot of most 
 kings, and when contending factions were always 
 ready to fly at the throats of those who opposed the 
 claims of their special nominee for the throne. A 
 species of tanistry still existed, and when Kenneth 
 MacDufF was proclaimed king, it was in the face 
 of violent opposition from the partisans of his cousin 
 Malcolm. 
 
 He was known as the Grim — a word that then 
 signified great strength as well as sternness of charac- 
 ter — and as King Grim, or Grimus, he has come 
 down to us by the unsubstantial and rather friable 
 path of monkish legend and oral tradition. Solid 
 history gives us little regarding him beyond the few 
 naked facts of his accession and the place and time 
 of his death, but kindlier legend endues him with 
 all the qualifications of a prince of fairy tale. He 
 was very tall and remarkably handsome, full of 
 tact and with the most courteous and winning of 
 manners, sternly just where stern justice was required, 
 in battle fearless and " grim," in the chase the keenest 
 of the keen. For nearly eight years he ruled in peace 
 
 250 
 
BERTHA OF BADLIEU 
 
 and prosperity, one of the most popular monarchs of 
 his hne, and that was indeed an evil autumn day for 
 him on which he laid aside the affairs of state to go 
 a-hunting near Tweed's Cross. 
 
 Polmood was then a royal hunting-box, and it 
 was not until some fifty years later that Malcolm 
 Canmore handed it over to one Norman Hunter, 
 whose descendants can still exhibit the original 
 charter. This is how it runs : 
 
 " I Malcolm Kenmure King, the first of my Reign, 
 gives to the Normand Hunter of Powmood, the 
 Hope, up and Down, above the Earth to Heaven, 
 and below the earth to Hell, as free to thee and 
 thine as ever God gave it to me and Mine, and that 
 a Bow and a broad Arrow when I come to hunt in 
 YaroWf and for the mair Suith I byte the white Wax 
 with my Tooth, before thir Witnesses three. 
 
 May, 
 Mauld, 
 and Marjorie." 
 
 It was radiant September weather when Kenneth 
 the Grim and a band of courtiers came to make 
 holiday at Polmood. The rowan trees were brilliant 
 with berries of vivid scarlet and amber, and the 
 barberry bushes looked as though each branch were 
 aflame. The heather on the hills and moors had 
 exchanged its royal purple for a more sober hue, 
 and the bracken had lost much of its green under 
 
 251 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 the evening frosts and changed to gold and brown. 
 The eagles that built up at Loch Skene and at Talla 
 Linns were beginning to find their eyries chill at 
 nights, but they were gallant herds of red deer that 
 flocked down the passes of the hills in the gloaming 
 and drank where the brown reeds bent and whispered 
 at Gameshope, or came to Talla, like grey ghosts 
 of the long dead, when the lonely loch was all ebony 
 and silver and the moon came over the Muckle 
 Knowe and mirrored her face in the water. What 
 true sportsman could there be whose blood did not 
 course faster as he traced the slot of a " stag o' nine " 
 on the wet, peaty ground of the moor, and had the 
 scent of the autumn leaves and the crisp, shrewd 
 tang of the autumn air, that blew to him from the 
 hill-tops, singing through his head like wine. 
 
 Day after day did Kenneth the Grim hunt — in 
 Meggatdale, by the wan water of Yarrow, in the 
 dangerous Annandale country where precipices were 
 always ready traps for the unwary. But the precipice 
 he fell over at length was one quite near his home. 
 The morning had been bright, the scent good, and 
 the hunt was keen, but as the day wore on a heavy 
 mist rolled up from the east, blotting out everything, 
 hanging trees and bushes, with grey moisture, deaden- 
 ing all sound. King Kenneth had thought the rest 
 of the hunt close behind him when this chilly veil 
 descended, but he wound his horn and hallooed in 
 vain. Far away he fancied he could hear answei'ing 
 
 252 
 
BERTHA OF BADLIEU 
 
 cries and the baying of the hounds, but it might 
 have been the Phantom Huntsman out with his 
 pack, for he never could come nearer them, and soon 
 the impenetrable drow made it impossible for him to 
 hear any sound less near at hand than the plash of 
 his horse's hoofs on the sodden ground or the trickle 
 of running water. Many a time it was only a hill- 
 burn that his tired steed half stumbled into as he 
 rode through the dense wet twilight across bogland, 
 into the unknown, but at last the murmur of a 
 bigger stream grew louder, and King Kenneth joy- 
 fully reined in his horse where Tweed, only a few 
 miles old, sang between grey boulders and bracken 
 and birches on her way to the sea. It was as though 
 a storm-tossed mariner had come at length to a land- 
 mark on a strange coast, and as he slowly rode to- 
 wards Polmood he saw a little above him on the 
 hill-side, shining through the greyness, a light in the 
 cottage of the herd of Badlieu. Thankfully, and 
 unconscious of the sport he was about to furnish for 
 the gods, Kenneth the Grim rode up to the cottage, 
 and thundered royally at the door. She who opened 
 to him stood for a moment gazing up in silence with 
 parted lips and wide open eyes. The red firelight 
 was behind her, and in her hand she bore a rude lamp 
 that lighted up her face. **An angel," said the 
 king, afraid, and bowed his head and crossed him- 
 self. Many a beautiful woman had he known in the 
 land of which he was king, and his own queen was 
 
 253 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 very fair to see, yet only in his boyish dreams of the 
 saints and the angels had he ever seen one who 
 seemed to him in all ways of so perfect a loveliness 
 as Bertha, the daughter of the herd of Badlieu. 
 When he had learned from her surprise and shy 
 questioning that she was no angel but a very human 
 peasant maid, the king was not long in dismounting 
 and seeking the shelter of the hut. A bower of 
 Paradise it was to him now, since the music of the 
 maiden's voice and the exquisite beauty of her form 
 and face had stolen his royal heart away. The 
 courtiers who came in search of him received much 
 less than Kenneth's usual courtesy and gratitude for 
 their care, and as he rode with them to Polmood he 
 longed for power and majesty no longer. A herd 
 he would fain have been, and not a king, for all 
 the kingdom he desired to rule over was the heart 
 of Bonnie Bertha of Badlieu. 
 
 The hart and roe browsed safely on the days that 
 followed. The wildfowl winged their way un- 
 hindered from moor to moor. The king had other 
 game to hunt, if, indeed, it could be called a chase 
 when the maiden's heart was given to the royal 
 huntsman as speedily and as wholly as his was 
 bestowed on her. 
 
 The maid's mother was dead, and the herd of 
 Badlieu had no qualms in giving his daughter as 
 mistress to his own royal master. Polmood was 
 soon transfigured into a home fit for her whom 
 
 254 
 
BERTHA OF BADLIEU 
 
 King Kenneth loved and looked on as his own true 
 queen, and soon it was not only his courtiers who 
 knew the reason why the forest lodge amongst the 
 Border hills was more often the king's home than 
 his own royal palace. 
 
 Fidelity was a virtue that the queens of those 
 days were unaccustomed to look for in their hus- 
 bands, but soon the wife of Kenneth the Grim came 
 to realise that this rival at Polmood was no light- 
 o'-love, no royal toy to be played with and then 
 tossed away. There was no gainsaying what was 
 whispered at court, and loudly talked of elsewhere 
 by those whose delicacy saw no need to whisper — 
 the king had found his true mate; she who ruled 
 his heart and swayed his councils, and who must 
 do so as long as life should last him, was not his 
 lawful, crowned queen, but the daughter of a Tweed- 
 side herd — Bonnie Bertha of Badlieu. 
 
 It was no pleasant thing for any wife to know. 
 Like poison it ate into the jealous heart of Kenneth's 
 queen. While those who helped him to rule his 
 kingdom grumbled because he neglected the affairs 
 of state, her wounded pride writhed over his neglect 
 of her, and no smile or whisper of those with whom 
 she mingled ever seemed to her to mean anything 
 but the mocking jest," The king goes a-hunting 
 at Polmood to-day." Bitterest of all was it when 
 news reached her ears that the king's prolonged 
 absence at Polmood was because Bertha had borne 
 
 255 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 him a son — a beautiful child, magnificent offspring 
 of so handsome a pair. And when Kenneth came 
 home, bearing himself more proudly than ever before, 
 and yet with a soft look in his eyes that till then 
 they had never known, the queen bit her white 
 hand till it bled, and then longed that- the blood- 
 drops might have been those of the woman that 
 she hated and of her bastard babe. 
 
 The child was still a tiny thing that had learned 
 to smile at his father and play with the great 
 strong fingers of Kenneth the Grim, but was too 
 young even to try to say his name, when the 
 queen's opportunity came. 
 
 The red-prowed boats of the Danes were then 
 not often far distant from the firths and river mouths 
 of Scotland, and an incursion from them sent King 
 Kenneth marching off with his army to repel their 
 attack. The hunting-lodge at Polmood was shut 
 up, for Bertha, her lord and king far away, preferred 
 to go back with her father and little son to the 
 cottage at Badlieu where her childhood had been 
 spent. Kenneth's heart was leaden on the day he 
 parted from Bertha, as he looked back to where 
 his beautiful love with her child in her arms stood 
 trying to smile bravely at him while she waved a 
 farewell. He was no weakling to fear death for him- 
 self, but the two he left behind were more than life 
 to him, and for them he feared he knew not what. 
 The mist came rolling down from the east as on 
 
 256 
 
BERTHA OF BADLIEU 
 
 the day when first they met, hiding them from his 
 eyes, chilling his very heart. For months the Tweed's 
 silver song had been a love song to Kenneth the 
 Grim, but now it sounded dirge-like in his ears. 
 
 Like the galfant soldier that he was, King 
 Kenneth came triumphantly through the little cam- 
 paign. Despatch was necessary. The quicker the 
 victory was won, the sooner the King could return 
 to his little kingdom at Polmood. More than 
 one tawny-haired Dane learned on the day that he 
 encountered Kenneth the Grim why the King had 
 come by his name. 
 
 Victorious, but chafing at the etiquette that 
 compelled him to pay his devoirs to his lawful 
 Queen ere he hastened on to Polmood, Kenneth 
 marched back from the north. He found a court 
 in mourning. The Queen was dead. She had 
 been stricken by a fever, he was told, and had 
 died after a few days' illness, raving mad. They 
 who told him looked one at the others as they 
 spoke, but his thoughts were in full cry on ahead, 
 nor did he notice aught amiss as they spoke of 
 the madness of the Queen. He could not pretend 
 to a grief he did not feel. He had never loved 
 her. Only as one of his daily associates would he 
 ever have missed her, and for more than a year 
 now she had not even been one of his companions. 
 He was free now, he thought — and scarcely could his 
 face conceal his gladness from those around him — 
 
 257 R 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 he was free now to marry indeed. The queen of his 
 heart should now be queen of his throne — Queen 
 Bertha, the fairest monarch Scotland had ever known. 
 The horse that took him across the hills to 
 BadUeu was a weary and over-ridden beast indeed 
 when the King drew rein by the Tweed. The 
 shadow of winter's wings was over the land. 
 The trees were bare, and the water ran chill and 
 black. No blue curl of peat smoke rose above the 
 trees as he drew near what was to him his home. 
 All was still, and chill, and silent. The door of 
 the house stood open, swinging a little in the wind, 
 and Kenneth walked in — no conquering King enter- 
 ing his palace, but a man who loved with all his 
 soul her who made home for him — a lover seeking 
 her whom he loved. He found only a harried nest. 
 Signs of violence were seen on every side — stains 
 of blood — ^torn garments — and one of them his baby 
 son's. Many a hideous scene of carnage had Kenneth 
 the Grim looked on with cold eyes and steadily 
 marching heart. A weak woman might have been 
 stronger than he was now, as he stared at desolation 
 and knew, with certain, hideous knowledge, that he 
 had come too late. As one distraught he left the 
 empty house, and as the winter wind, driving a 
 cruel sleet before it, swept through the leafless 
 branches and soughed round the forsaken nest, he 
 saw an old man — one who had once fed his hounds 
 — coming, shoulders stooped against the blast, slowly 
 
 258 
 
BERTHA OF BADLIEU 
 
 towards him. " Where is she ? " he asked. " My 
 son — where is he ? " 
 
 The old peasant knew without farther ques- 
 tioning what it was that the King required. He 
 shook his head in silence and pointed, and the 
 King followed where he led. A little way up 
 the hillside there were marks of where the mossy 
 turf had been disturbed, and the brown peaty 
 earth lay loose where a spade had not long since 
 delved it. 
 
 " Can you not speak ? " cried Kenneth the Grim, 
 as the old man stood there in silence, the white 
 sleet drifting and lying on his whitebeard. 
 
 " I thoucht ye wad ken," said the herd, " Your 
 queen sent murderers who slew them a' — the auld 
 man, the bit bairn, and bonnie Bertha o' Badlew. 
 They howkit a grave for them here on the hillside, 
 and here they lie. Hark ye to the whaups and the 
 pewits that are murnin' owre them ! " 
 
 " It was the deed of her who was my Queen ? " 
 said Kenneth the Grim. 
 
 *'Aye, and they said the spirits o' them she 
 murdered came to drive her mad and then to slay 
 her, and to drive her soul to Hell." 
 
 *' Curse her soul to Hell," said Kenneth the 
 Grim. 
 
 A spade he got then, and while the winter 
 night descended, gloomy and fearsome, on the 
 Tweedside hills, and the sleet drifted down, cease- 
 
 259 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 lessly, remorselessly, pitilessly, he threw open 
 the grave where Bertha, her son, and her old 
 father had been cast by those that murdered 
 them. 
 
 That night he rode, a mad man, across the hills, 
 while Tweed sobbed her way under the trees past 
 Polmood, and the wind sighed dolorously down all 
 the lonely passes of the hills. 
 
 The heart of Kenneth the man was broken. 
 Kenneth the King was a King no longer. He did 
 not heed what now befell him. He was sunk in 
 deep melancholy, and public affairs were no more 
 than foolish, childish toys to him. No longer did 
 he believe in God as a God of mercy. The 
 Christ was no more a blessed Lord to him. When 
 his cousin Malcolm, profiting by his stricken state, 
 came against him once again to try to wrest the 
 crown of Scotland from his unsteady grasp, Kenneth 
 led his men against him on holy Ascension Day, and 
 on Ascension Day, 1005, he met with dire defeat 
 at Monaghvaird, in Strathearn. He was sorely 
 wounded in the head, and thereafter deprived of 
 his eyes, and in all the bodily and mental anguish 
 that man can know Kenneth the Grim passed out 
 of life. 
 
 Gladly would one think that when the wind 
 whimpers between the hills down the valley of the 
 Hartstaneburn and sighs through the woods of 
 Polmood, and — as some say — the shades of Bertha 
 
 260 
 
BERTHA OF BADLIEU 
 
 of Badlieu and her murdered babe are driven like 
 wisps of mist before it, there is near the piteous 
 ghosts a grim figure that puts fear on the hearts 
 of men — of him whose luckless love cost him so 
 dear — ^the form of Kenneth the King. 
 
 261 
 
PEARLIN JEAN 
 
 " And what of La Belle Jeanne, Monsieur Stewart ? 
 Thou ridest away and leavest the broken hearts 
 behind thee, is it not, little beautiful devil of a 
 Scotchman ! " 
 
 " My faith, yes — la Belle Jeanne ! Let us drink 
 to your successor, my friend." 
 
 " But the poor little one, she will not be so 
 easy to console; she loves thee well, Robert, my 
 wicked one." 
 
 The glasses chinked, the red wine sparkled in 
 the candle light, and the laughter and loud voices 
 were carried out into the stillness of the night — 
 carried out to the woman who stood in the shadow 
 of the doorway, down in the dark street, and who 
 held her cloak closer and shivered as though her 
 heart had been struck by an icy hand. The light 
 that streamed from the window lay like a broken 
 golden column on the black water of the river that 
 went sighing past. A sad river by night, that river 
 of Paris, a river like the Styx, with many a willing 
 Charon to ferry souls to Eternity should the courage 
 
 262 
 
PEARLIN JEAN 
 
 of those sick of life prove unequal to the task of 
 setting afloat their own frail craft. 
 
 The woman was but little more than a girl, a 
 slight creature with pale face and great dark eyes. 
 A lock of brown hair strayed from the lace kerchief 
 that covered her head, and the cloak that she drew 
 round her was of rich black silk. She took a step 
 across the street, towards the water, shuddered, 
 stepped back, and once more listened at the doorway. 
 A voice deeper than those of the three Frenchmen 
 spoke now, slowly, and with an accent that told 
 his race. 
 
 " She is thine, and welcome, De Marne. But 
 give her enough of the lace she loves — the bonny 
 Mechlin and the Valenciennes, and thou'lt buy her. 
 But, my faith, thou must not seek her until 1 have 
 gone in the morn ! My bonny Jean has the temper 
 of a wullcat — as we say in Scotland — and I dare 
 not risk telling her that I return so soon to my 
 own land. Come, my friends ! — to the cartes again 
 — and another bumper 1 " 
 
 His friends laughed boisterously and passed some 
 jokes that caused much merriment. And still the 
 woman in the shadow listened. 
 
 A belated reveller, whose spurs rang on the 
 pavement as he walked, saw her, and paused as if 
 to accost her. The look she gave him from a great 
 pair of dark eyes made him start back as though 
 she had struck him. " Sacred name 1 " he muttered 
 
 263 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 to himself as he hastened on, " I took her for a 
 white lily in the garden, seen in the moonlight — 
 but that face is of one who has walked in Hell." 
 
 And still, as the night dragged by, the woman 
 waited, listening, while the voices in the upstairs 
 room grew louder and until the candles guttered 
 and sent up Uttle trails of smoke that showed black 
 against the grey of the morning that crept coldly up 
 behind the dark spires of Notre Dame, and touched 
 with a silver finger the swift-changing eddies of the 
 Seine. 
 
 One of the players threw down his cards on the 
 table where the white wax that crept down the side 
 of a silver candlestick was checked by a puddle of 
 red wine. 
 
 ** By Saint Denis, 'tis day ! " he cried, and pushed 
 back his chair. " A last drink, Monsieur, before we 
 go 1 A deep drink to give you courage, mon brave ! 
 for on this day you go to wed a Scottish bride — and 
 on this day you say adieu to la belle Jeanne, and see 
 her nevermore ! " 
 
 "Nevermore!" echoed the Scotchman thickly. 
 "Gentlemen, I give you the health of my bonny 
 Jean that I leave behind me for evermore I " 
 
 II 
 
 The day wore on, and there was sunlight on the 
 houses and streets of grey Paris, sunlight on the bud- 
 
 264 
 
PEARLIN JEAN 
 
 ding green trees, sunlight on the yellow-green water of 
 the river. In front of the house where, a few hours 
 past, a woman had waited, a travelling carriage was 
 drawn up. Four liveried men, two of them 
 postilions, watched the bustling servants who carried 
 out the luggage of Monseigneur and strapped it on 
 to the coach, while the horses tossed their heads and 
 jingled their harness, and the little knot of idle 
 bystanders stared admiringly at such a handsome 
 display of money, rank, and fashion. The great 
 boxes, the sword cases, the cases of French wine 
 were all in their places, and the valet of Monsieur 
 Stewart impatiently stood by the carriage door, the 
 fur-lined cloak of his master over his arm, and 
 glanced up at the window above him. He started 
 to attention as a gentleman hastened up, bewigged, 
 gorgeous in brocade and lace, his face still pale 
 from a nuit blanche, voluble curses for those of 
 the canaille who dared to come near to impeding 
 his path falling trippingly from his lips — a very fine 
 monsieur indeed for the waiting crowd to admire. 
 
 " I am in time then, Ribot ! " he said to the 
 valet. "Monsieur is en retard, is it not? What 
 delays your master ? " 
 
 Ribot, half deferential, half impudent, checked a 
 smile in the beginning. 
 
 "He takes farewell of Mademoiselle Jeanne, 
 Monsieur le Vicomte," he said, and cast his eye up 
 to the window. 
 
 265 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 The Vicomte, with raised eyebrows, also checked 
 a smile. This was no joke for his inferiors, although 
 for him a most exquisite jest. He hid his lips with 
 a lace handkerchief and listened to the voices above. 
 Only a murmur was to be heard, and then, with a 
 suddenness that set all the waiting crowd agog 
 with delightful expectation, came a wailing cry from 
 a woman, and then rapid speech in the voice of a 
 woman, frantic and desperate. 
 
 "Thou can'st not marry a cold woman of 
 Scotland — I am thine and thou mine — Robert — 
 Robert ! " 
 
 A man's voice answered angrily : 
 
 "It is done, I tell thee. All is ended — I have 
 given thee money. Be wise, Jeanne." 
 
 Then, high uplifted, the woman's voice again. 
 
 " Thou can'st not leave me ! Thou shall not ! 
 It cannot be! Take me with thee, Robert. See, 
 I humble myself — for thee only I humble myself 
 to my knees. From the ground I beg thee, be 
 merciful — ah, be merciful, well- beloved ! Robert, I 
 love thee ! I have loved thee so . . ." 
 
 Gladly would the eager crowd have listened for 
 more, but the friend of Monsieur Stewart prevented 
 all possibility. The one gesture that he made of 
 drawing his sword on them, accompanied by some 
 furious words of dismissal, had sent them running 
 down the street like scared rabbits seeking a warren. 
 But those who did not run far could hear the 
 
 266 
 
PEARLIN JEAN 
 
 wails again, and some besides the servants had 
 the dehght of seeing the Scottish seigneur come 
 hastily out to his waiting carriage, a black scowl 
 on his handsome face, trying roughly to shake 
 off from his blue velvet coat the clinging white 
 hands of her whom they knew as La Belle 
 Jeanne. His French was forgotten, and his oaths 
 were good, solid curses in the uncompromising 
 Scots tongue. 
 
 '* Ye damned wuUcat, let me gang ! " he stormed, 
 and pushed her furiously from him. " I've given ye 
 the siller ! Have I no tell't ye I'm dune wi' ye — 
 and ye can gang tae Hell for a' I care ! " 
 
 Ribot stepped forward, and deftly threw the 
 travelling cloak over his master's shoulders. His 
 friend, the Vicomte, smiling a little, and with 
 shoulders ashrug, took the chance to speak. 
 
 "These tender leave-takings," he smirked — 
 <* Pardon if I interrupt them, mo7i cher. Perhaps 
 Mademoiselle Jeanne will do me the honour to 
 come for a petit dejeuner with me, and let you depart 
 without further harrowing of your broken heart." 
 
 He bowed low, in insulting mockery, before 
 the girl, but she seemed not to see him. Stewart 
 climbed into his coach and threw himself back in 
 the cushions, while his men banged to the door 
 and mounted to their places behind. 
 
 " Au re voir, De Marne! " he cried to his friend. 
 " She is mad — drag her back, can you not ? " 
 
 267 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 But Jeanne, lithe as a panther, had sprung up 
 on one of the wheels, and again had a fold of the 
 cloak in her grasp. 
 
 "Go! go then if thou wilt!" she said, "But, 
 false coward as thou art, thou canst not escape 
 my love. Go! but I shall be in Scotland before 
 thee — Avantf" 
 
 With an inarticulate exclamation of rage, Stewart 
 pushed the girl back. 
 
 " Ride on ! " he cried to the postilions, " a million 
 devils, can ye not ride on, you fools ? " 
 
 With a jerk, the impatient horses started for- 
 ward, and even as they did so the girl fell from 
 her precarious perch on the wheel. There was a 
 terrible shrill cry — the cry that a wounded hare 
 gives when the dogs are upon it — the coach gave 
 a great lurch, and the frightened horses galloped 
 on. Stewart stood up in his carriage, holding 
 tightly to the back of the swaying vehicle, and 
 looked behind. 
 
 For one moment he saw a white figure, curled 
 up, and looking strangely small, lying on the dusty 
 street. There seemed to be dark stains on the 
 robe of lace, dark stains on the dust. Then, like 
 a swarm of flies that assail a wounded animal, 
 coming from all quarters, surrounding and con- 
 cealing the prone body, a crowd formed, dense 
 and black. There was a great murmur, a threaten- 
 ing sound, and one or two ran out from the crowd 
 
 268 
 
PEARLIN JEAN 
 
 and called, and seemed to make signs for the coach 
 to return. 
 
 Stewart sat down, and wiped a damp, white 
 face with his handkerchief. 
 
 " Monsieur," said his valet, " I fear Mademoiselle 
 Jeanne is hurt. One calls for us to return," and the 
 nearer postilion, hearing the words, turned round and 
 looked at his master inquiringly. Like a furious 
 beast, Stewart roared at the fellows. 
 
 **Go on, you dogs! A thousand thunders, go 
 on! Can I not manage my own affairs without 
 the interference of canaille? Faster! drive faster 
 — in the devil's name ! " 
 
 They were dripping horses ere the first stage 
 was reached, and many a peasant stopped his 
 scythe-work in the flowery meadows that day to 
 watch, amazed, the great blue coach that thundered 
 along the white road from Paris to the sea, leav- 
 ing behind it a cloud of dust like the smoke 
 of a forest fire. 
 
 Ill 
 
 The spring was gone. Some wild months in 
 London had ended Sir Robert Stewart's bachelor 
 career, and he brought with him the lady who had 
 been for a few weeks his bride when, on an autumn 
 day, he drove across the old bridge at Berwick-on- 
 Tweed and once again saw the sun silvering a 
 
 269 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 Scottish river. Seven days only had it taken the 
 heavy traveUing coach to come from London — 
 good going, for half a dozen years later it took the 
 stage-coach from York to London from Monday 
 until Saturday to reach its destination. The good 
 folk of the Border town looked on with admiration 
 as the great carriage with its brilliant coat of arms 
 — the hand holding a scimitar all proper, and the 
 motto " Avant " — clattered next day up the steep 
 street with its high, red-tiled houses, and made the 
 walls of the Scots Gate echo the rumble of its 
 cumbrous wheels and the hoof-beats of its six 
 stout greys. Two servants in livery rode ahead 
 of it, and everyone knew that a gallant young 
 laird of the Merse, who had been finishing his 
 education in foreign parts, had returned to his 
 own, and was bringing with him a well-tochered 
 bride — Jean, daughter of Sir John Gilmour. 
 
 The autumn day was closing in when the laird 
 of AUanbank and his party reached his own lands. 
 In the fading light, the water of the Blackadder 
 looked like a bit of old Sheffield plate — silver, with 
 the copper showing through. Already some of the 
 trees were bare, and the roll of the carriage wheels 
 sounded unnaturally loud in the stillness of the 
 autumn evening, when even the fall of a dead leaf 
 had its own httle whispering echo. Lady Stewart 
 gave a shiver as the coach left the main road and 
 turned up the private drive into the thickly-wooded 
 
 270 
 
PEARLIN JEAN 
 
 policies, where the fallen leaves deadened the beat 
 of the horses' hoofs. 
 
 *' 'Tis not the cheerfullest of homes that you 
 bring me to, Sir Robert ! " she said with a little 
 laugh. " I hope that the house within is more 
 gay than the lands without." 
 
 Sir Robert made no answer. For the latter 
 part of the journey from Berwick he had been a 
 silent man. Little over two years since he left 
 his mansion on the bank high above the Blackadder, 
 and what had not happened since then ? That gay, 
 irresponsible, wholly unedifying life in Paris, with 
 the cartes y and the red wine, and the joyous French 
 girls, beside whom the English seemed so stolid, 
 the Scotch so dour — what a merry time it had been 
 while it lasted. And happiest of all his happy days 
 had been the days that he spent with Jeanne. 
 Jeanne ... his " Bonny Jean." His wife was the 
 Lady Jean, but French Jean — Pearlin Jean — he 
 could see her now in a dress of the lace of which 
 she was so fond — golden lights in her brown eyes 
 and on her brown hair, looking at him tenderly. 
 ^'Je faime, Robert," she said, "Robert . . . bien- 
 aime,'' . . . 
 
 But, no, that was only a beautiful girl, not the 
 same Jean as the furious woman whose eyes burned 
 his as she clung wdth frantic white hands to his 
 velvet coat and poured upon him words of rage 
 and of scorn. ..." Rage and scorn," yes . . . but 
 
 271 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 love was there as well. He had loved her dearly 
 once, but Jean as Lady Stewart — ah, no ! impos- 
 sible. He almost smiled at the thought, but re- 
 membrance killed the smile. The last he saw of 
 her — what was it? That little w^hite figure lying 
 in the dust, with dark stains on the dress and on 
 the street beside it — those folk who screamed 
 on him to stop .... And the letter from De 
 Marne. 
 
 "It was not the gentlest way to do it. 
 Monsieur," he wrote, "nor can I and those who 
 were your friends quite wholly excuse you. Possibly 
 you failed to realise what you had done. The little 
 Jeanne was quite dead. We who had been her 
 friends in her merry days saw that she was buried 
 as she would have chosen to be. Even the lace 
 we did not spare. My compliments the most 
 respectful to Madame your bride." 
 
 A frantic hand-grip on his arm roused him from 
 his excursion into the torturing land of remembrance. 
 He started, as though Jeanne herself had touched 
 him. 
 
 " What IS that?'' asked his wife, terrified, "on 
 the arch of the gateway — see, who is that ? " 
 
 Sir Robert looked up to the archway that the 
 horses were just about to pass through. A slight 
 figure, swathed in white, seemed to be kneeling on 
 the keystone of the arch, eagerly looking down at 
 him and his bride. He saw a white face, head and 
 
 272 
 
PEARLIN JEAN 
 
 shoulders bloodstained, dark eyes that drew his own 
 to meet them. " / shall be in Scotland before thee,' 
 she had said. 
 
 " My God I It's Jean / " he cried. 
 
 It was not only the Lady Stewart who required 
 strong cordial waters to restore her that night, and 
 it was yet early when the gallant laird of AUanbank 
 shrank up the dark-shadowed staircase to his room, 
 looking fearfully behind him, like a frightened child. 
 
 IV 
 
 There was no getting away from the phantom. 
 She had come to stay. These were days when 
 every respectable Christian in Scotland held firm 
 belief in witches and warlocks, in ghosts, in vampires, 
 and in the reality of all spirits and apparitions, and 
 very soon she who had been a fair lady of France 
 had an unassailable place of her own in the mind 
 of every man, woman, and child in the Merse, and 
 far beyond it. By day and by night, and more 
 especially at the midnight hour, doors opened and 
 shut in the mansion of AUanbank when there was 
 no human agency to account for them. In bed- 
 rooms and along passages were heard the rustlings of 
 silks and the patter of high-heeled shoes. Soon there 
 were many who laid claim to having seen Jeanne. 
 
 **Pearlin Jean," — from '*pearlin," the name in 
 
 273 8 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 Scots for the lace which she wore — was the title 
 she went by, and by which she is known in 
 Berwickshire to this day. 
 
 All that man could do, Sir Robert did, to rid him- 
 self of the accusing spirit. He had had her portrait 
 painted in those days when she was still his beautiful 
 divinity, and this, to pacify her, he hung on the wall 
 between a picture of himself and one of his lawful 
 lady. Scarcely pleasant for Lady Stewart, perhaps, 
 and that may have been the reason why it was moved, 
 and the slight increase of peace that had reigned 
 while the portrait hung in the place of honour, gave 
 way to an increase of horrors that made the haunted 
 man start at every little bush of white blossom in the 
 gloaming, and break into a cold sweat when his 
 dog walked across the hall after darkening. Seven 
 ministers were called in at one time to lay the un- 
 happy spirit, but Pearlin Jean was not amenable to the 
 ministrations of the Church of the Reformed Faith. 
 
 The bride that Sir Robert brought home with 
 him predeceased him. She bore him two sons 
 and two daughters, and one marvels that childrens' 
 laughter and the sound of little, merry, patter- 
 ing feet did not lay the phantom at AUanbank. 
 The widowed Sir Robert took to himself a second 
 wife — Helen, daughter of Sir Archibald Cockburn — 
 a brave woman, surely — strong in faith, or much 
 lacking in imagination to become the mistress of a 
 house so notoriously haunted by one, the circum- 
 
 274 
 
PEARLIN JEAN 
 
 stances of whose death, so it was rumoured, were 
 of small credit to her lord. 
 
 When death came at last to Sir Robert Stewart, 
 Jean still stayed at AUanbank. Far off, in Paris, 
 her poor slim little body took its rest, but for her, 
 rest there was none. AUanbank was her home, 
 and at AUanbank she remained. 
 
 As the years went on, it was no longer one 
 with blood on face and shoulders that people saw, 
 but a skeleton clad in the winding sheet covered 
 with costly lace, and yet, when unseen, still rustling 
 silken skirts, and tapping its way, with dainty little 
 feet, along passages, as la belle Jeanne had done in 
 French chateaux when Louis XIV was King. 
 
 Considerably more than a hundred years ago, 
 Thomas Blackadder, a sturdy young labourer on 
 the estate, made an assignation with Jenny, one 
 of the maids in the '' big hoose," to meet one moon- 
 light night in the orchard of AUanbank. True 
 Thomas was first at the tryst, and as he waited 
 impatiently he saw a white figure stealing towards 
 him across the long shadows of the trees. Gladly 
 he ran to meet her, his arms open to embrace her, 
 but, when they should have met, she disappeared, 
 and, terrified, he saw her again at the far end of 
 the orchard, where she vanished like a wisp of white 
 mist in the sun. Jenny came in time to calm his 
 terrors. She had seen nothing, but remembered 
 his fears clearly enough to tell the tale, long years 
 
 275 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 afterwards, to a little boy whose nurse she was, 
 and who became known to the world as Charles 
 Kirkpatrick Sharpe. 
 
 About the year 1790, when the house was let, 
 two ladies who knew nothing of the sinister celebrity 
 of the mansion came to pay a visit to AUanbank, 
 All night long they heard someone in their room, 
 walking backwards and forwards, to and fro, up 
 and down — ceaselessly, restlessly, until the dawn. 
 They spent only one night there, and presumably 
 never returned when they knew who had been 
 their companion through the long, long hours. 
 
 Betty Norrie, a housekeeper of more recent 
 times, during the many years she spent at Allan- 
 bank declared that she constantly heard, and had 
 frequently seen, Pearlin Jean, but said that she and 
 others in the house were so used to the noises that 
 they had entirely lost their terrors for them. 
 
 In 18 — the old house of AUanbank was taken 
 down, and the country people watched its removal 
 with dread. 
 
 " Where will Pearlin Jean gang now, when the 
 house is dishmolished ? I was asking the folks in 
 the hall, but I would like to hear your ain observe 
 upon it." So queried an old woman of the grand- 
 niece of Hume the historian, Miss Hume of Nine- 
 wells. 
 
 The old house exists no longer. Even on the 
 bowling-green which was made on its foundations, 
 
 276 
 
PEARLIN JEAN 
 
 the trees now grow tall and thick. There are but 
 few left of those who were alive when the "new" 
 house which has taken its place was erected, and 
 even the new house has stood for many years un- 
 inhabited. High on the bank above the Blackadder 
 it stands, a big mansion surrounded by great old 
 trees and by thick undergrowth. There is no drive 
 up to it, and they who would make a pilgrimage 
 thither must seek it by silent grass-grown paths. 
 Hares and rabbits will cross the path, and pheasants 
 will dash with a rustle through the deep carpet 
 of dead leaves, indignant at the disturbance of their 
 sanctuary. In autumn the trees, all copper and gold 
 and brown, are reflected in the dark brown water of 
 the river that flows down below, and the little bush, 
 green-leaved and white-blossomed, that more than 
 once has been mistaken for Pearlin Jean, is leafless. 
 In spring it may be more cheerful. At the fall of 
 the leaf its solitude lies heavy on one's heart. 
 
 Pearlin Jean has left a name that is still a house- 
 hold word in that part of the Merse that she haunted, 
 but la belle Jeanne has gone, whither, who can tell ? 
 Haply the poor, restless spirit has found peace at 
 last, yet there are those who still would say, as was 
 said one century ago : — 
 
 " For all the silver in English bank, 
 Nor yet for all the gold, 
 Would I pass through the hall of Allanbank 
 When the midnight bell has tolFd." 
 
 277 
 
HOW JOHNNY WENT TO THE FAIR 
 
 It was the last week of the year. The sky was 
 heavy with grey, watery clouds, the cart-ruts on the 
 road were filled with water, and now and again a 
 petulant little gust of cold wind from the east blew 
 some of the sodden, muddy leaves from the roadside 
 into the puddles. 
 
 The two pairs of horses steamed as they dragged 
 their ploughs up the brae, turning the grey-green lea 
 into soft, dark brown furrows. An elderly man 
 with hard, plain features and a sandy grey beard 
 guided one plough. His face was quite expression- 
 less, and he might have been a mechanical toy as he 
 stopped at the headrig, to beat his chilled red hands 
 against his chest, and in a moment went steadily 
 on as before. At the next rig, jogging along after 
 an old white Clydesdale and a younger chestnut 
 mare, one foot in the furrow, one out, was a short, 
 slight, dark-haired lad in soiled grey tweeds, leather 
 leggings, cloth cap, and with knitted purple comforter 
 wound round his neck. He was a plain boy of 
 eighteen, who, but for his budding yellow moustache, 
 might have passed for three years younger. His 
 mouth hung a little open, and his grey eyes stared 
 
 278 
 
HOW JOHNNY WENT TO THE FAIR 
 
 ahead with a somewhat vacant look. " Wo-hup ! 
 — Wo-hi!" he called occasionally to his horses, 
 in a voice that took surprising excursions from 
 manly gruiFness to a boy's cracked tenor — *' Canny, 
 wumman ! Canny ! " Now and again his eyes 
 wandered to his father's short, thick-set figure, and 
 when they did he looked hastily away, and his vacant 
 look gave place to knitted-browed anxiety. Johnny 
 was thinking hard. It was the eve of a Bannockburn 
 for him, and he was, not unnaturally, nervous. 
 
 Johnny was an only child, the only child of 
 parents described by the biographer of past days 
 as " poor, but pious." His father was a ploughman — 
 an upright, honest, godly, conscientious, pig-headed, 
 mannerless person of high principles and narrow 
 views. He lived too late to earn for himself a 
 martyr's crown as an upholder of the Covenant, and 
 also too late to take the ploughman Burns as a 
 model. Like many of his kind, he would quote the 
 line " A man's a man for a' that " as an excuse for 
 bad manners, but he felt a little affronted if a cheerful 
 friend recited in toto the poem of Tarn o' Shanter 
 at an otherwise decorous social gathering. Euphy 
 Halliday, the wife he was "mairried on" — to use 
 the Scottish expression for the burdensome matri- 
 monial estate — was the most obedient of wives and 
 most devoted of mothers. She was an apple-cheeked 
 little Border belle when he married her, and even 
 after twenty years she still possessed sufficient 
 
 279 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 attractions to excuse her husband for showing her 
 a little occasional tenderness. But John Halliday 
 was a person who never unbent. 
 
 Johnny, ploughing his furrow, while the purple 
 hills grew grey in the twilight, could never remember 
 him as anything but stern. There was one Satur- 
 day, long ago, when John went to the Hiring and 
 brought back with him a little blue-painted wooden 
 wheel-barrow to the overjoyed five-year-old Johnny. 
 The sound of its wheel on the "causey" in front 
 of the cottage, in the early Sabbath morning, brought 
 an indignant, unshaven, shirt-sleeved parent to the 
 door. 
 
 ** Oh, faither, may I no' just gie it ae wee holy 
 hurl?" pleaded the anguished Johnny, and got a 
 skelp for his pains. Through that Sabbath, as he 
 pored over his catechism, his thoughts were with 
 the little blue barrow, shut into the best room as 
 into a gorgeous sepulchre, but he never questioned 
 his father's wisdom. God and his father were to 
 him of much the same nature, both very remote, 
 rather cross, but wholly righteous. 
 
 He was a delicate, ailing child, and one night in 
 his childhood, when he had been, as his father put it, 
 " near by wi't," stood out clear in his memory. To the 
 little lad, tossing feverishly in the stuffy, over- blanketed 
 box-bed, the candle-light picture of the gaunt, black- 
 clad minister standing with closed eyes and uplifted 
 hands in the middle of the room — while a grotesquely 
 
 280 
 
HOW JOHNNY WENT TO THE FAIR 
 
 caricatured silhouette of him moved about on the 
 white wall by the fireplace — pleading with an unseen 
 being — of his mother softly weeping in a corner of 
 her apron — of his father (oh, wonder of wonders !) 
 kneeling by the bed, his face hid in his arms, sobbing 
 great, heart-bursting sobs — was something to be 
 catalogued in his mind with his own ideas and 
 pictures of the Day of Judgment. 
 
 For eighteen years Johnny had been the apple 
 of his parents' eyes. Never had he shown any 
 tendency to manly vices. The little urchins who 
 smoked cutty pipes in the lee of the muckle haystack 
 he gazed at with round grey eyes that were equally 
 horrified by the immature consumption of tobacco 
 and by the hideous physical upheaval that followed 
 it. Any beverage stronger than lemonade he scun- 
 nered at. The concertina, with whose strains he 
 occasionally enlivened "The Raw" — to give the 
 row of white cottages in one of which he dwelt its 
 official title — was, after the very first, when his 
 teacher, who was a frivolous person, taught him a 
 a few worldly airs, devoted to the gasping out of 
 hymns. He worked hard. His sununer evenings 
 were spent in grooming his horses and polishing 
 their harness, in a harmless game of quoits, or in 
 aimlessly strolling along the public highway. In 
 the long winter evenings he sat over the fire in the 
 parental cottage, reading improving books borrowed 
 from the Free Church library, playing the concertina, 
 
 281 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 or joining with his mother in the Psalms and Hymns 
 which she sang with so much spiritual fervour. 
 
 To these musical entertainments John Halliday, 
 senior, who had no ear, gave no word of commenda- 
 tion. A stranger might have thought him callous 
 had he seen him sitting by the fire with morose 
 expression and closed eyes. But to John it seemed a 
 little heaven below, in which he was the ruling elder, 
 and where the angelic choir was second to none. 
 
 Detractors might say that if young Johnny pos- 
 sessed no manly vices, neither did he possess any manly 
 virtues. " A canny chap " was his description by his 
 fellows. Mothers held him up as an example to their 
 sons. Daughters looked askance at him and nudged 
 and giggled at each other as he passed, for Johnny 
 blushed and looked the other way at their approach. 
 When Mrs. Halliday, in a too expansive moment, 
 confided in the mother of a large family of bouncing 
 daughters that Johnny's breeks were her own design 
 and manufacture from beginning to end, the giggles 
 waxed so loud that Johnny was known on occasion 
 to go a mile out of his road to escape his persecutors. 
 In the kirk there was for him no escape. When, in 
 in a pew strait and narrow as the path to righteous- 
 ness, he sat between his parents — a small and nervous 
 criminal between two sturdy moral policemen — he 
 could not raise his eyes without encountering what 
 seemed to his self- consciousness a mocking smile 
 from some impudent girl. It would have been vain 
 
 282 
 
HOW JOHNNY WENT TO THE FAIR 
 
 for him to try to stay away from the ordeal of 
 Sabbath ordinances. He and his parents "sat 
 under" (ominous words) a most powerful preacher 
 of the Word. 
 
 *'JVo' gang to the kirk the day!'" repeated his 
 horrified mother when he once proffered a shuffling 
 excuse, " ah wadna be fit tae face ma Maker, laddie, 
 gin ah were tae let ye miss sic sermons as ye have 
 ilka Lord's Day. They feed the soul, and they 
 nourish the body." 
 
 Quite clearly Johnny could date the day when 
 the society of his parents no longer sufficed him. 
 Vague feelings of dissatisfaction had not unfrequently 
 been his ; unformed doubts as to whether there might 
 not be something more to be found in life than what 
 he practically shared with the common domestic cat, 
 that did its mousing in stackyard and barn by day 
 with conscientious regularity, and spent its evenings 
 purring by the fireside. 
 
 But one spring morning, when the blackthorn 
 bushes were snowy white, the primroses beginning 
 to show under their shelter, and the Uttle burn 
 that ran through the field in which he was at work 
 sparkled and rippled and glinted in the sun, Johnny 
 listened to a song of a blackbird on a budding 
 birch tree, and felt a great melancholy and longing 
 in his heart. All day the longing and melancholy 
 clung to him, and he was a more than ever dour- 
 looking youth as he arrived late that afternoon 
 
 283 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 at the back door of the Big Hoose with two cart- 
 loads of coals. He was backing his horses up to the 
 coal- cellar when there tripped round the corner the 
 one sent by the Fates to rob an honest lad of his 
 peace of mind. Susan' was the new housemaid at 
 the Big Hoose — a slim little person with black eyes, 
 a trim waist, and all the experience of nineteen 
 years and five situations. She was not country bred, 
 and country breeding she regarded with contemp- 
 tuous pity. But the farm-house was four miles 
 distant from the nearest town, and the other servants 
 had each a young man, and so Susan had to make 
 the best of what came her way. Johnny was one of 
 the two unmarried men on the place, and the other 
 young ploughman was already the cook's. There- 
 fore, naturally, when Susan came round the corner 
 she smiled on Johnny — and the deed was done. 
 
 He was not skilful in his wooing. When he 
 told her at dusk by the stable-door that she was 
 " a bonny lass," and she giggled and pushed him, he 
 was bereft of speech for the rest of the evening, and 
 blushed in silence on the parental hearth until it 
 was time for bed. 
 
 His mother's keen eye quickly noticed a change 
 in him. He wore his best tartan scarf on other 
 days than those on which it was lawful — nay, 
 almost part of a religious observance — to do so. 
 He stayed out later in the evenings. Occasion- 
 ally, even, he sang as he ** cleaned himself" when 
 
 284 
 
HOW JOHNNY WENT TO THE FAIR 
 
 the day's work was done, and the song was not 
 a psalm or hymn or spiritual song as in the days 
 gone by. Euphy Halliday watched her son with 
 growing anxiety, but even the observant maternal 
 eye had not seen all. To the suggestion of her 
 neighbour that " Jock was unco taen up wi' yin o' 
 the lasses in the Big Hoose," she had contemptuously 
 shrugged a '' Hoots, wumman, it's naething — nae- 
 thing ava. Johnny's nane o' your lassie kind," and 
 Johnny, passing just then with the concertina care- 
 fully concealed under his coat, the woman had retired 
 to her house laughing at the mother's simplicity. 
 
 The discovery that Susan was a godless girl 
 came upon Johnny as a shock. She frankly told 
 him she did not like going to church. As frankly 
 she told him she loved balls and concerts and the 
 theatre, she was scornful of him because he did 
 not smoke, and she laughed as at a most excellent 
 jest when the cook's young man rapped out some 
 oaths. But she sang with all the music of a thrush 
 in spring — Johnny knew nothing of nightingales — 
 and when in the farm-kitchen of an evening his 
 fellow ploughman interrupted " Robin Adair " with 
 a " Hand yer wheesht, wumman — ye'U gar Johnny 
 greet," he was nearer the truth than he knew. 
 
 So exquisite, so precious, so wholly worshipful 
 and entirely desirable a creature did Susan appear 
 in Johnny's enamoured eyes that criticism became 
 an impossibility. When she commanded a razor 
 
 285 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 and ordained that a "dicky " should be worn not 
 only on the Sabbath, her victim bowed to her will, 
 although the dicky question was regarded by his 
 mother as an outrage, and led to some sharp words. 
 Through spring, summer and autumn, Johnny's love 
 idyll meandered on. And now the year was almost 
 gone, and no longer was Johnny permitted to worship 
 in secret. The village, a couple of miles away, was 
 about to show that not to great cities alone were 
 confined the gaieties of social life. 
 
 The Bowling Club announced a ball —a ball, with 
 refreshments, with tickets that cost ladies and gentle- 
 men alike the sum of eighteenpence. When first 
 it was rumoured that the village was about to hurl 
 itself into this vortex of frivolity there was much 
 rejoicing at the Big Hoose. In the excited hen-like 
 quality of voice peculiar to their kind, the maids 
 joyed aloud over the festivities to come. 
 
 '* Ye'll be taking Susan ? " coming from the 
 cook's young man was the first intimation which 
 came to Johnny of his unavoidable obligations. 
 Obviously no question arose in Susan's mind as to 
 whether she would go, or in regard to a choice of 
 cavalier. 
 
 " You'll have to get a new suit for the ball, 
 Johnny — that checkit one's awful shabby," was the 
 sentence with which she drove home her expectations. 
 
 Johnny was a wage-earning man — although 
 hampered by a maternal purse-bearer — so that with 
 
 286 
 
HOW JOHNNY WENT TO THE FAIR 
 
 some diplomacy on his part he knew the suit to 
 be attainable. But he was aghast at the sudden 
 realisation of Susan's stone blindness to see the 
 moral question involved. A ball — to go to a ball — 
 the people in Torments in the Bad Place had probably- 
 all gone to balls in their time. In the heavenly 
 courts above there might be a repentant sinner or 
 two who, in an unregenerate past, had danced at 
 a kirn, but there must be dooms few. It was 
 hideous to think of what his parents' views on the 
 subject would certainly be. For himself he knew — 
 and the thought braced him into a manliness to him 
 hitherto unknown — he would march up to hell's gate 
 with Susan on his arm and fear nor devil nor minister. 
 For days on end Johnny's thoughts were a torment 
 to him. For nights on end did he toss sleepless 
 in his box-bed, and only in the dawning fall asleep 
 to endure a nightmare of a party for which he could 
 never get " cleaned " in time, or at which he appeared 
 in an unseemly grey flannel night-shirt, and was 
 chased by jeering demons. He might never have 
 dared to lay the subject before his mother had she 
 not herself broached it. 
 
 Johnny's father was out and the lad sat in the 
 firelight, elbows on knees, chin in his hands, his 
 heart torn by conflicting emotions. Euphy was 
 washing up the tea-things with her usual brisk 
 clatter, and when the clatter stopped, her voice broke 
 the stillness. 
 
 287 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 " What's this I'm hearin' aboot a ba' ? " she 
 asked. Johnny, his big grey eyes like a frightened 
 child's, looked up, and felt that all concealment was 
 useless. Little by little his mother extracted all 
 that she wished to know. Of the two tickets he 
 had bought — of the new suit — of the light blue satin 
 tie. Presently Johnny, his fear gone, was talking 
 of it all quite briskly, and wondering how he could 
 ever have dreaded a mother so patient, so sympa- 
 thetic, so encouraging. 
 
 '*The faither'll be in an unco wey aboot it, 
 Johnny," she said at last. ''He was never a dancer 
 himsel', and it seems an unco godless divairsion tae 
 the like o' him." 
 
 " Ah ken that fine," said Johnny despondently. 
 
 Euphy looked compassionately at her lamb. 
 
 " Hoots ! " she said, '' bairns wuU be bairns — an' 
 David himsel' danced afore the Ark — though ah've 
 never thocht the better o' him for't. Faither'll 
 juist hae tae come roond till it. Ance in a wey 
 ah'm no' heedin'. But, laddie" — and her voice 
 was wistful, for assuredly Johnny had wandered 
 far away from the fold in secret paths during those 
 last months — "laddie, can ye dance V 
 
 Johnny grew scarlet. " Ah dinna ken," he said, 
 " Ah've never tried." 
 
 " Megsty me, ma puir lamb ! " cried the mother, 
 " you gaun till a ba' and no able tae dance ! Siccan 
 a like thing. But mind ye, Johnny, ah'm no sorry. 
 
 288 
 
HOW JOHNNY WENT TO THE FAIR 
 
 Ah wadna hae likit ye to be dancing in the Big 
 Hoose kitchen or the onstead at nicht. Na, na, ye're 
 no' the dancin' kind. But ye'U hae tae learn afore 
 ye gang tae the ba." 
 
 *' Whae'U lairn us ? " demanded her son. 
 
 '* Whae'U lairn ye ? Ah'll lairn ye masel." 
 
 " Yersel," repeated Johnny faintly. 
 
 " And what for no' ? " asked his mother. '« Ah 
 was a grand dancer afore I was mairriet on John 
 Halliday, though I wasna as senseless as some o' 
 thae titterin' hizzies at the Big Hoose, Aye, ma 
 bairn, ah'll learn ye masel ! " 
 
 Every night of the week that followed, a strange 
 thing was shadowed on the window-blind of the 
 Hallidays' kitchen when the head of the house 
 went down to the stable in the steading to see to 
 his horses. 
 
 Two jigging forms passed and repassed ; sometimes 
 singly, sometimes together. And when one evening 
 John returned sooner than was his custom, he was 
 amazed to hear a curious clattering noise on the brick 
 floor, accompanied by an odd booming sound in what 
 seemed to him to be his wife's voice. The kitchen 
 table was pushed to one side, and both wife and son 
 were red and hot and dishevelled when he opened 
 the door. 
 
 "What ails ye?" he sternly demanded, and 
 Johnny seized his cap and made for the steading 
 without a moment's delay, while Euphy, with an 
 
 289 T 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 asperity unusual to her, merely replied — in answer to 
 the repeated query " TVkat ails ye ? " — " Toots, nae- 
 thing, mon 1 Tak off your buits. They're a' glaur." 
 
 John, unlacing his boots, grunted once or 
 twice, but made no further effort to solve the 
 mystery. 
 
 " Some folk," he said, *' wad speir the inside oot 
 o' a wheelbarrow, but I'm no' yin o' them. An' I 
 dinna baud wi' speirin' the road ye ken.'* 
 
 Whether he kenned it or did not ken it, Johnny 
 tried hard to discover on that December afternoon 
 when he watched his father's ploughshare making 
 furrows as straight and smooth as if the substance 
 he had to deal with was nothing harder than butter. 
 For the day had arrived at last. That evening 
 Johnny was to escort Susan to the Ball. 
 
 When " lowsin' " time came, Johnny fancied that 
 his father cast a quizzical eye upon him when he 
 showed unusual haste to get home. But surely 
 he must be mistaken. An angry eye, an eye of 
 reproach and of condemnation was what he ex- 
 pected. He had never looked on his father exactly 
 as human, and the Deity that Johnny had mostly 
 heard of from the pulpit was One who was angry 
 with the wicked every day. 
 
 It was impossible for Euphy not to feel a glow 
 of maternal pride when Johnny, his face shining 
 with soap and his hair anointed with oil until it 
 dripped like Aaron's beard, his new suit on, his 
 
 290 
 
HOW JOHNNY WENT TO THE FAIR 
 
 bright blue tie, his boots well blacked, and his 
 dicky snowy white, creaked down the stair and 
 cautiously looked round the corner of the door 
 before going on to the Big Hoose to secure his 
 partner for the evening's entertainment. 
 
 *' Aye, the faither s doon-bye," she said ; " yeVe 
 lookin' unco braw, laddie. But eh, ah'm feared ye'U 
 no' mind your steps when the fiddle begins. Try 
 an' coont to yoursel' — yin, twae, three, hop — yin, 
 twae, three. . . ." 
 
 It was very palpitating to be so braw, but yet 
 more palpitating was it for Johnny when he dis- 
 covered that Susan wore a pink blouse cut a little 
 low at the neck and a string of pearls that looked 
 priceless. Who was he that he should be the Chosen 
 of such an adorable sylph ? He looked with scorn 
 on the other maidens and their escorts. "Susan," 
 he whispered as they went, "linking," down the 
 muddy road, "ye're awfy bonny. Ye're faur the 
 bonniest," and Susan the sophisticated was momen- 
 tarily satisfied. 
 
 The village schoolroom was lit by many a lamp 
 and candle when they arrived. Holly decorated the 
 walls. On an extemporised platform at the end 
 of the room sat the fiddler, who was also the local 
 tailor, "a pairfeck fiend to play, gin ye give him 
 eneuch whusky," according to the cook's young man. 
 Refreshments were spread in the inner schoolroom, 
 and were presided over by Mrs. Trummle who kept 
 
 291 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 the bit shop in the village. Her fitness for the 
 post of caterer was obvious, for in her shop could 
 be purchased twopenny pies, buns, and lemonade, 
 and the provision merchant had this evening risen 
 to the occasion and made ham sandwiches of a 
 size unequalled on any other public occasion by any 
 other public purveyor. 
 
 The party from the Big Hoose was in excellent 
 time, and Johnny, conscious that his tailor had 
 pinched his coat under the arms and that the 
 vest was too tight across the chest, strove to 
 cheer up when Susan, her wraps removed, tripped 
 in at the door and stood by his side. She was 
 quite the prettiest girl there — of that he had no 
 doubt — and his heart swelled within him when 
 he overheard a man behind him ask a friend, 
 "Whae's the lass wi' the pink? Yon's the one 
 for me." " The one for him, indeed ! " — his own 
 Susan, who one day should be Mrs. Johnny. He 
 would have turned to glare at the insolent fellow, 
 but the Master of Ceremonies was in haste to begin. 
 ** Ready for the Grand March ! " he cried, " get 
 baud o' your pairtners ! ' Johnny remembered that 
 the last time he had seen the M.C. was at sheep- 
 dipping time, when bleating flocks and not human 
 beings were herded by him. His voice was just 
 the same voice in which he had addressed the collies, 
 and Johnny had a sudden pang of sympathy for 
 those hustled, excited, foolish sheep that this herd 
 
 292 
 
HOW JOHNNY WENT TO THE FAIR 
 
 had thumped and buffeted and pushed into taking 
 a plunge into that most unattractive water. 
 
 At the very outset Johnny's luck was not with 
 him. *' Gang on a bit quicker, can ye no' ? " shouted 
 the M.C. — "ye're no' at a funeral" — and then, with 
 apology, " Oh I it's wee Johnny 1 gang on, laddie." 
 Susan grew pink and shut her mouth tight, and 
 when the abashed Johnny trod on a frill of her 
 cream beige skirt and the gathers gave an offended 
 little shriek, she looked at him in a way that froze 
 his heart. But in for a penny, in for a pound. The 
 fiddler struck up a lively polka, and Johnny, with 
 the courage born of desperation, laid hold of his 
 partner as though of one with whom he had a mind 
 to wrestle. For two desperate minutes, in fact, did 
 he wrestle with her — and it seemed to him that 
 every man and woman in the room was his enemy. 
 They seemed to charge at him on purpose ; they 
 ran into him ; they kicked his legs ; they trod on 
 his feet. In pairs they hurled themselves against 
 him and Susan. Had Susan been a football and 
 he a Rugby back, facing the concentrated energies 
 of the opposing team, Johnny could scarcely have 
 suffered more. Nor, it is only fair to say, could 
 Susan. Miserably he tried to recall his mother's 
 instructions, "One, two, three, hop — one, two, 
 
 three " but at the hop he landed on Susan's little 
 
 toes, and, with a cry of pain and of anger together, 
 she dragged him scrambling through the crowd. 
 
 293 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 " Mercy on us ! " she said, ** I micht as well dance 
 with a cairt-horse." 
 
 Johnny mumbled unending apologies, and sug- 
 gested refreshments — " A cup o' tea ? or some leemon- 
 ade ? " — and Susan, knowing that Mrs. Trummle was 
 likely to have pins with which to repair her damages, 
 gave a curt assent. The laughter with which she 
 greeted the sandwiches might have led her partner 
 to think himself forgiven, but her biting sarcasm 
 over the thickness of the bread and the solidity of 
 the ham showed that her temper was a little gone. 
 
 " A sangwidge ! Ca' ihae sangwidges ? For 
 pity's sake dinna gang biting at thae muckle pieces : 
 folk'U think ye dinna get your meat at hame." 
 
 Abundance of lemonade and some conversational 
 peppermints slightly mended matters, and when the 
 fiddler began a schottische, Johnny, observing the 
 motions of his fellows, sprang up in readiness. The 
 rough boards of the floor were already getting 
 polished, and he took a quite unintentional skate 
 and cannoned off Susan into a tall young man who 
 stood by the door. 
 
 " Goh ! but it's sluppy ! " he exclaimed. 
 
 "No' sluppy enough, my boy," said the man 
 cheerily, holding him up, and Johnny realised that it 
 was the same person who had said that Susan was 
 the lass for him. He recognised him now, a tall 
 ex-private of the K.O.S.B., the new postman in the 
 neighbouring parish, and saw that he was smiling with 
 
 294 
 
HOW JOHNNY WENT TO THE FAIR 
 
 entire friendship and bold admiration at Susan, who 
 was tittering. 
 
 "Well, Sluppy, are you goin' to dance? for if 
 you're no' sluppier I'll dance wi' your partner masel." 
 
 A skirl of laughter from Susan awoke every 
 slumbering demon in Johnny's breast. All the tales 
 of the postman's sinful past and of his present fond- 
 ness for a dram were recalled to him. 
 
 ** Cway^' he said to Susan, and seized her arm 
 with the mannerless mastery of primitive man. 
 Susan, surprised, and a little shocked, did not for- 
 get her manners. " Gruppit or lowse ? " she queried. 
 " Ah've gruppit ye," said Johnny sternly, and essayed 
 to begin. 
 
 And then once more did those who filled that 
 ballroom seem to rise in enmity against an innocent 
 youth, and this time a worse evil befell him, for 
 first of all a titter like the wind in a plane-tree 
 sounded in his ears above the music, then loud 
 laughter. They were laughing at him. Everyone 
 in the room seemed to him to be mocking and 
 nickering at him like the jeering devils of his dream. 
 
 ''Ye muckle gomeriir' came Susan's furious 
 voice in his ear, "let go; can ye no' sit doon? 
 Ye're making a perfect fule o' us." 
 
 Loosening his clutch of her, he scrambled through 
 the throng. Everyone seemed to be making con- 
 temptible jokes to him about himself. He hated 
 everybody. He hated his mother; she had taught 
 
 295 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 him all wrong. He hated Susan. And when he saw 
 her joyously dancing vis-a-vis to the tall ex-soldier, 
 whose steps were the admiration of the whole room, 
 he understood for the first time in his life the mean- 
 ing of murder. The beastly tailor-fiddler played on 
 and on. The suit he had made was the most uncom- 
 fortable misfit in all the world. Why could not the 
 old brute stay at home and make clothes fit to wear 
 instead of scraping a fiddle and drinking whisky ? 
 
 The schottische came to an end at last, and 
 Johnny, the consciousness that he had paid for 
 Susan's ticket and refreshments and that, in spite 
 of everything, she was his lawful partner for the 
 entire evening upholding him, stepped forward to 
 claim her, his face pale, his hair streaked over his 
 eyes. But the soldier's arm was round her. 
 
 " Hullo, Sluppy," he said — and Johnny hated him 
 yet more for the folly of the name — " been enjoying 
 yourself? Us ones have had an Al dance." 
 
 " Ye'd better have some leemonade," said Johnny, 
 fiercely ignoring him and laying a proprietary hand 
 on Susan's arm. 
 
 "Just what we're going to have, my lad," said 
 the soldier-postman ; and Susan said, " For pity's 
 sake go and sort yoursel'. Your dicky's a' burst 
 open an' your tie's ridden up." 
 
 " Are ye no' coming wi' me ? You're ma pairt- 
 ner," said Johnny in a voice out of which it was 
 impossible to keep a tremble. 
 
 296 
 
HOW JOHNNY WENT TO THE FAIR 
 
 " Certainly not,'' said Susan stiffly, " ye'd better 
 gang hame. Ye're no' fit to be here. Ye ca?ina 
 danced 
 
 And then, to her confusion and to the scandal 
 of the company, Johnny's manhood failed him. 
 With an unrestrained roar of grief he burst into 
 tears, and ran out of the room sobbing like a 
 punished child, out of the heat and the noise and 
 the light, into the kind darkness. 
 
 The days that followed the ball were terrible 
 days for Johnny. He was thankful when his work 
 lay far afield, when he could be all alone with his 
 miserable thoughts and out of reach of the taunts 
 and jeers of his fellows. He had slunk up to bed so 
 quietly on that wretched night that he fancied his 
 parents had not realised his early return. But he 
 knew very well that some variant or other of the 
 tale of his shame was bound to reach them both. 
 So, indeed, it did, but the tale-bearers were not those 
 who scored. Lions protecting their young were 
 mild compared with the Hallidays over a reference 
 to what was supposed to be an amusing incident. 
 
 Quite definitely had Susan accepted her partner 
 at the ball as her young man. Johnny saw her 
 no more. 
 
 The short winter days lengthened out, and once 
 more the blackthorn came into bloom and the birds 
 sang love-songs from budding trees. Johnny's 
 evenings were again spent by the parental fireside, 
 
 297 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 and more conscientiously than ever did he now 
 peruse the improving books of the church library. 
 With the spring a new interest came into his life. 
 There arrived in the village a little band of men and 
 women, most firm and ardent in their belief, most 
 fervent and zealous in their desire to turn many 
 to righteousness — sl sort of little Salvation Army 
 without bands or uniform. They called themselves 
 "Pilgrims," and Euphy Halliday was one of those 
 already godly women who speedily came under their 
 sway. Night after night she attended their meetings, 
 and came home with radiant face to sing lilting 
 hymns all through her work the next day. John 
 Halliday remained at home. 
 
 " Aye, I ken they're guid folk, but I dinna baud 
 wi' thae revivalists. They're faur owre sudden. Ye 
 canna get a guid crop o' neeps withoot a guid braird, 
 an' wi' their wey o' it, braird there's nane." 
 
 Johnny also, at first, stayed at home and silently 
 read opposite his father by the fire, but one evening 
 curiosity lured him to the schoolhouse in his mother's 
 company. It was a place of bitter memories, but 
 there was no holly now, no refreshments, and a little 
 American organ played by an earnest-faced woman in 
 spectacles replaced that hateful fiddle to whose haunt- 
 ing strains the boy's unhappy thoughts had jigged 
 for many a night and day. Amongst the audience 
 were some of those who had danced on that fateful 
 night, but only serious thoughts were theirs now. 
 
 298 
 
HOW JOHNNY WENT TO THE FAIR 
 
 That was the first evening of a fortnight of 
 evenings for Johnny, and towards the end of that 
 time it was rumoured amongst the unregenerate that 
 Johnny HaUiday was " converted." There were 
 very few in that district who saw in the phrase 
 anything to mock at. Rather did they repeat it 
 with awe, feeling that the wind which bloweth 
 where it listeth had touched one of their fellows, 
 and that a mysterious importance consequently 
 enveloped him. To Susan in the Big Hoose the 
 tidings came — and came just after her military 
 friend had been dismissed from his post owing to 
 some irregularity of conduct and had left the dis- 
 trict. "He stands up afore them a','' pursued her 
 informant, "and he pits up a prayer as gude as 
 ony o' them, and he gives testimony." 
 
 Susan's awed amazement was tempered with 
 curiosity. That " Johnny Raw," as the other maids 
 had called him — that lumpish, ignorant ploughboy — 
 it seemed barely credible. She declined to take it 
 second-hand. She must go and see for herself. An 
 excellent chance, too, came in her way. The Pilgrims' 
 last night in the district was to be celebrated by a 
 **Sur-ree," and to this anyone could go who pur- 
 chased the necessary sixpenny ticket. Susan urged 
 on her fellow-servants the necessity for taking 
 advantage of any sort of entertainment that came 
 their way, and all save the cook, who honestly 
 acknowledged that she dreaded the awkward con- 
 
 299 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 sequences of conversion, were ready to follow her 
 lead. 
 
 '* Ye ken fine wha I mean," said the cook : 
 ''her that I was wi' doon near Kelso. We was 
 a' bapteezed in the river, an' I had the snifters for 
 a twalmonth, an' the butler a hoast he never got 
 quit o'. And it was Temperance the next turn, 
 an' a' the champagne and port and auld brandy 
 coupit intil the Tweed, an' I'se warrant the saumon 
 was singin' an' fechtin' when they wan their way 
 into the saumon-nets at Berwick." 
 
 Susan, in modest black hat with white wings, 
 walked into the schoolhouse with two other maids 
 on the evening of the " Sur-ree." She was accom- 
 modated with a seat on a form, and was uncertain 
 whether to preserve the stolid blindness, deafness, 
 and dumbness that was de rigueur in the village 
 church, or to bow smiling recognitions to her 
 friends. Finally she compromised in a smile, 
 smothered, half-born, in gloomy decorum. Not 
 two minutes had she been seated before she became 
 aware of the presence of Johnny. Dressed in the 
 same garments he had worn a bare five months 
 ago, but with a sedate black tie replacing the giddy 
 blue, Johnny showed people into their places like an 
 elder in the kirk. When, the schoolhouse being more 
 than full, tea was served from the ante-room, Johnny 
 carried one of the large teapots and poured out 
 into cups and mugs. He handed currant cake, 
 
 300 
 
HOW JOHNNY WENT TO THE FAIR 
 
 Selkirk bannock, and buttered scones. Obviously 
 he was on terms of equality with all the Pilgrims, 
 and exchanged dignified jokes, provocative of godly 
 smiles, with the chief Pilgrim there and with her in 
 spectacles who led the psalmody and played the 
 organ. Susan watched him, enthralled. When he 
 passed her a plate of cake she caught his eye, 
 and he smiled quite kindly : " Ye'U hae' a piece o' 
 bannock ? " he said, " or I'll can get ye a scone." 
 
 Susan was badly piqued. Her victim was gone. 
 She was at a loss to account for the amazing meta- 
 morphosis. 
 
 1'ea over, they had hymns — ringing, strenuous, 
 zealous hymns. Through them all she could hear 
 Johnny's voice — a surer tenor than when she heard 
 it last. Then came a moment when she knew not 
 whether to titter or to weep. 
 
 " Brother John Halliday," said the chief Pilgrim, 
 *' will now lead us in prayer." 
 
 Johnny prayed, and Susan wept. Addresses fol- 
 lowed — moving, fiery, emotional, unreserved. And 
 then Brother John Halliday gave testimony. No 
 reformed burglar, no rescued murderer, no remnant 
 of human wreckage snatched from the flotsam and 
 jetsam of civilisation could have painted in more 
 lurid, more terrifying colours, his previous case. 
 Johnny Halliday had been a great sinner; no one 
 could doubt it. And now he was snatched from the 
 jaws of Hell — he had passed from Death unto Life. 
 
 301 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 Susan laid her head down on the desk before her 
 and wept bitterly. She could not tell why, and 
 when a female Pilgrim of forbidding exterior came 
 to whisper an inquiry as to whether she would like 
 to remain for the After-Meeting and come to the 
 Inquirers' Bench, Susan gave a hasty and uncon- 
 sidered ''Megsty, na/" and swiftly dried her tears. 
 But she went home to dream of Johnny — Johnny 
 who had gone to Vanity Fair and who had found 
 his way on from there to the Celestial City. . , . 
 The unconscious Johnny was avenged. 
 
 But all that happened thirty years ago. Susan's 
 husband, a worthy carpenter, did not regret her 
 when she left him in company with a dissipated 
 friend. Johnny is a solid, stolid, farm-steward 
 with an active wife and five stirring bairns. He 
 is no longer " Brother John Halliday," nor is he an 
 elder of the kirk, although he goes there with a 
 fair amount of regularity, and he is wedded to a 
 black cutty pipe and has no aversion to a dram. 
 
 But now and again, on a winter evening when 
 he is guiding a plough over the brown loam and the 
 twilight is turning the hills from purple into grey, 
 the remembrance comes to himself of his visit to 
 Vanity Fair, and the horses that are checked 
 suddenly do not know that his smile beautifies an 
 otherwise plain face. Nor do they understand the 
 subtlety of the one word that he says. 
 
 ' * Goh I " he exclaims. That is all. 
 
 30? 
 
THE DOCTOR 
 
 "The old order changeth." The parish priest of 
 to-day is a product of the twentieth century. The 
 parish priest of past days is almost forgotten. And 
 because we would seek not to forget one of the old 
 order, whose " ways were ways of pleasantness " and 
 all of whose "paths were peace," we write of him 
 now. 
 
 To us he was always the " Doctor." Once on a 
 time a certain university bestowed on him the title 
 of D.D., for no other reason that anyone could 
 discover than that for which some schools give 
 a prize for general excellence and good behaviour. 
 It was equivalent to a D.S.O. in worldly warfare, 
 and we have never met anyone who grudged him 
 his title. 
 
 In these days it may not be considered a great 
 thing to have been the minister of a sleepy little 
 country parish for more than half a century, yet to 
 anyone who has lived for any time in a country 
 parish it must, indeed, seem a great thing to be able 
 to say that during the fifty years he lived and 
 laboured there his name was never touched by the 
 breath of scandal — and, like a green bay tree, does 
 
 303 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 scandal flourish in peaceful country parishes ; that 
 he was never found to fail in his duty ; never heard 
 to say anything uncharitable of anyone, nor known 
 to give anyone cause to say anything against him. 
 To go for fifty years steadily on one's way, doing 
 one's work honestly, faithfully, unselfishly, accepting 
 any hardships or troubles that come in one's path 
 as part of the daily service — what manner of man 
 must he be who can attain to this ? If the Doctor's 
 prayers were extra long, and his sermons bafflingly 
 doctrinal, and more than a trifle prosy, what then ? 
 ** There maun aye be a something," as the mother of 
 the bride said to the clergyman at the conclusion of 
 the marriage ceremony, and went on to explain that 
 her daughter " couldna thole the man." 
 
 It was very hard to pick a fault in the Doctor, 
 so that the captious, naturally, gladly welcomed the 
 error of his wig. Undeniably he wore one, once of 
 a rich brown, in tint and texture far removed from 
 anything human. Had we ever considered the wig 
 to be the outcome of personal vanity we might have 
 thought that here, at least, we had found a weak spot 
 in his harness. But we very well recognised the 
 truth. The Doctor had a sister, chubby and kind, 
 and blessed with perennial youth. To her, age was a 
 pain, and not only did she obviously feel it her duty 
 to keep the Doctor's manse an example of polished 
 rectitude to the whole parish, but she felt it right to 
 make her brother wear a wig and dye his whiskers 
 
 304 
 
THE DOCTOR 
 
 purple. Many a time did we deeply regret that she 
 should have let her sense of duty go so far astray ; 
 yet to blame the Doctor would have been an out- 
 rageous thing. We knew full well that he might 
 have appeared a venerable and commanding figure 
 with bald head and white whiskers, had it not been 
 for pure obligingness and brotherly love. As it was, 
 his whiskers, at regular intervals, appeared a rich 
 blue-black, fading from that to a sage green of the 
 "High Art'* period. When in one's unregenerate 
 youth one went to church, eagerly expecting them to 
 have arrived at a vivid grassy green, one's hopes 
 were dashed at the sight of a colour that once more 
 vied with those of the churchyard yews. 
 
 The Doctor's pony-carriage was, during nearly all 
 those fifty years of his labours, in a continuous state 
 of disrepair. " Donald," his pony, in the later days 
 when we knew him, with his shaggy, ungroomed 
 coat, clumsy legs, and steady trot, matched it well. 
 
 One summer, when the manse w^as let to a family 
 rich in children, and Donald had every day, in direct 
 defiance of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty 
 to Animals, to drag out a father, mother, aunt, 
 nurse, and a large assortment of olive branches, the 
 carriage — a low four-wheeled basket vehicle — re- 
 belled to the point of disruption, leaving the nurse, 
 parents, and most of the children sitting on the road 
 as well as they were able to do on a seat and 
 two well-worn wheels; Donald trotted sturdily on 
 
 305 ^ 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 with the wheels that remained and the rest of the 
 cargo. 
 
 There was no better-known equipage in all our 
 county — ^nor, indeed, in the two adjacent ones — in 
 the Doctor's day than that much-mended phaeton 
 and its patient steed. In rain and in storm, when 
 the roads were *' siling wat," according to John, the 
 minister's man, or heavy with snow or with mud, 
 the Doctor and Donald were at their duty. Like 
 the Gracious Lady who ruled when he was here, the 
 Doctor was always " on the spot." In condolences 
 and congratulations none could forestall him. News 
 of accidents and of illnesses reached him with a speed 
 that seemed little short of miraculous at a time when 
 there were no telephones or motors, and when tele- 
 grams were little used. No matter the hour of day 
 or night, the Doctor was sure to be on the scene of 
 action, ready to " pit up a prayer " with the sufferer 
 or the bereaved. In his prayers he dealt largely in 
 detail, and left no room for misapprehensions. 
 
 " Lord, be with that member of this congrega- 
 tion who I did not hear until yesterday was ill, and 
 whom I consequently could not see until last night." 
 In such terms have we heard him pray. 
 
 A member of his congregation, in handing on 
 after service an interesting item of local gossip to a 
 Dissenting friend, explained that he had " got it in 
 the Doctor's first prayer — ye get a' the clash o' the 
 pairish in the Doctor's first prayer." 
 
 306 
 
THE DOCTOR 
 
 But the Doctor's *' clash " was never of a nature 
 unfit to be retailed to the Almighty. He had re- 
 ceived, to a marvellous extent, *' that most excellent 
 gift of charity," and in deed and in word was the 
 gift unfailingly shown. It was an ill thing to 
 have earned a stern rebuke from one whose mercy 
 was boundless, whose courtesy was perfect. Equally 
 courteous was he to the countess who occupied the 
 big square pew with its flamboyant coat of arms in 
 his church every Sunday, and to the half-crazed, 
 evil-tongued woman who bore the local notoriety 
 of being a witch, and never came to church at all. 
 For his feeUngs of horror with regard to the old 
 woman, whose appearance, without any further 
 evidence, would have hurried her to the stake had 
 she lived two centuries earlier, the Doctor blamed 
 himself. 
 
 " I cannot bring myself to pray with her," he said 
 regretfully — "at least, not yet. I can only pray 
 for her." 
 
 A casual parishioner of his who was always ready 
 to give testimony to the excellence of the Doctor's 
 manners was the rag-and-bone man, born in a ditch 
 just within the parish bounds, and baptized by the 
 minister. Many a meal, many a suit of shabby 
 black, had this incorrigible tramp received from the 
 manse. Two days, not more, was the period during 
 which "Jock" looked like a mourner of dissipated 
 countenance or a waiter out of a situation. Then, 
 
 307 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 once again, was he seen in his famiUar tatters, and 
 the ministerial garments had vanished, whence no 
 one knew. It was through Jock that the Doctor 
 once put a real affront on the pride of the parish. 
 He had been " pittin' up a prayer " for a sick woman 
 whose cottage lay five miles from the village, and 
 came out into drifting rain to find Donald con- 
 tentedly cropping the wet grass by the roadside. 
 But the phaeton was not, as he had expected to find 
 it, empty. A large sack full of whitening stood on 
 the seat, and beside it sat Jock, his little pock-marked 
 face calm and inscrutable as usual. 
 
 " How do you do, John ? " said the Doctor ; ** it 
 is long since we met. " 
 
 « I'm fine," said the tramp ; *' ye'll gie's a lift ? " 
 
 " Certainly, John," said his friend, and, to the 
 scandal of the onlookers, he picked up the reins, and 
 Donald jogged off with the ill-assorted pair, whiten- 
 ing sack and all, for all the world to see. 
 
 Ten years later Jock expressed his thanks. 
 
 It was a chill October day, with white mist driv- 
 ing from the hills, and a smirr of fine rain falling, 
 when the Doctor went last into his old grey church, 
 with its ivy -covered gables. 
 
 But he was carried by men whose hearts were 
 heavy, and when the prayers had been said over one 
 whose warfare was ended, he was laid to rest under 
 the old plane trees whose leaves lay deep round the 
 grave. Seated in a dark corner of the church was 
 
 308 
 
THE DOCTOR 
 
 a little misshapen, chilly figure, clad in shabby 
 " blacks," very much too large. From what pawn- 
 shop in what corner of the kingdom Jock had 
 retrieved them, who can say ? The large assembly 
 of mourners passed into the graveyard, and still, in 
 his dark corner, he sat, his eyes fixed on the spot in 
 front of the pulpit, where only one or two broken • 
 white blossoms remained to show what had lain 
 there. The earth was thudding down on the coffin 
 when he slouched away into the rain. The Doctor 
 had baptized him, and who can say to what other 
 grace had he called his soul ? 
 
 More than one good parish priest has occupied 
 the Doctor's pulpit since then. They are of the 
 school described by the outraged old lady as having 
 " a saft hat, a dog-collar, and nae Hell " ; and bicycles, 
 trim dogcarts, and motors have displaced old Donald 
 and the basket-phaeton. Jock died long since of 
 pneumonia in a casual ward. Only we old, grey- 
 haired people remember clearly what manner of man 
 was he whose name we read on a gravestone where 
 stains of time and weather have taken the sharp edge 
 from off the letters. There is green moss in those 
 that run across the stone, low down, where dead leaves 
 huddle against it, but we can still trace the words, 
 " a workman needing not to be ashamed." 
 
 309 
 
HOW THE PLAGUE WAS BURIED 
 
 " Mark, in yon vale, a solitary stone. 
 Shunned by the swain, with loathsome weeds o'ergrown I 
 The yellow stonecrop shoots from every pore, 
 With scaly, sapless lichens crusted o'er : 
 Beneath the base, where starving hemlocks creep. 
 The yellow pestilence is buried deep." 
 
 Leyden. 
 
 " The Plague,'' — what do the two words mean even 
 now in countries where the population is as dry 
 tinder waiting for the microbe of pestilence to strike ? 
 What was it in our own land in days when its 
 advent was like that of the Destroying Angel on 
 the Passover night in Egypt ? But in Britain no 
 houses were passed over, nor were they only elder 
 sons who died. An icy hand struck father and 
 mother, son and daughter, the peer in his castle, the 
 hind in his hovel. Hand in hand the Plague and 
 Death stalked through crowded streets, crept through 
 the fetid alleys of great cities, and brought horror 
 to lonely cottages amongst the hills. There was no 
 gainsaying them. They were guests who forced 
 their way through every door. In Scotland the 
 Plague was late in coming. Long after England's 
 population had been decimated by **The Black 
 Death," the sister country was still immune. 
 
 310 
 
HOW THE PLAGUE WAS BURIED 
 
 "Gode and Saint Mungo, Saint Ronayn, and 
 Saint Andrew, schield us this day fro Gode's grace, 
 and the foul death that Englishmen dien on" was 
 the prayer of the Scots in days before the " foul 
 death " had found its way over the Cheviots. But 
 it came at last. 
 
 In the fourteenth century a Scottish army 
 marched across the Border, thinking to profit by 
 the fact of England being plague-stricken. Terrible 
 was the enemy that greeted their advance. Five 
 thousand of them were slain by the Black Death, 
 nor did it leave them then, but went with the 
 retreating army — an invisible, omnipotent, grimly 
 merciless foe — to their own homes, there to claim 
 its toll of victims from amongst those that the 
 Scottish soldiers held most dear. 
 
 In 1637 and again in 1644 the Plague returned, 
 and there are those still alive who can tell of the 
 year when " The Cholera " came to the Border and 
 swept off whole families at but a few hours' warning. 
 In some of the Border churchyards vast mounds are 
 pointed out as the graves of those who died in one of 
 those years of Plague, and whose bodies were huddled 
 together under one grassy barrow. Other mounds 
 there are, marking the site of the *'Deid houses" 
 where the corpses of those who were smitten by the 
 pestilence were brought before interment, and which 
 were afterwards demolished ; and now and again a 
 yet more grisly explanation of these mounds is given. 
 
 311 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 In a wild part of Teviotdale such a grassy hillock 
 is to be found, gloomiest of all gloomy graves in 
 which the victims of the Black Death lie, for here, 
 tradition tells us, '' the Plague was buried." 
 
 In olden days a shepherd's cottage stood where 
 the mound now is, and although their neighbours 
 were few, and the distance between their cottages 
 great, the herd and his wife and bairns lived together 
 in happiness and contentment through the long, 
 bright summer days, and the short, chill days of 
 winter. Not many strangers found their way between 
 the treacherous peatholes across the miles of rough 
 moorland, and great was the excitement in the 
 cottage when one did come. 
 
 It was an August day, and a blazing sun was 
 drawing the fragrance out of the billowing purple 
 sea of heather on the moor. There was no sound 
 but the hum of the bees, or an occasional crow from 
 a grouse on the hillside. A couple of collies dozed 
 in front of the cottage door, enjoying a well-earned 
 rest, while two yellow-haired bairns played quietly 
 beside them. The housewife within was busy with 
 her daily tasks. She and her husband were simple, 
 honest, hardworking, kindly folk, who had no enemies 
 to fear, and so, with fearless heart, she hastened to 
 the door when loud barking from the dogs and the 
 hasty entrance of the children proclaimed the arrival 
 of a stranger. Innocent visitor enough he seemed. 
 Who could have told that a jolly -faced, glib-tongued 
 
 312 
 
HOW THE PLAGUE WAS BURIED 
 
 English pedler, with not a hint of black tragedy 
 about him, brought with him to the little cottage 
 the enemy, Death? There was joy and interest 
 indeed in the household when the pedler unslung 
 his pack and displayed his wares. Not from one 
 year s end to another did the goodwife see a shop, 
 and here was a shop brought to her door, with all 
 sorts of delightful things to be bought for each one 
 in the house. Something for her goodman and for 
 every one of her bairns did the good woman purchase 
 with her carefully hoarded bawbees. 
 
 Then — " And what for yourself, mistress ? " asked 
 the man. " Too young and bonny by far you are 
 not to be caring for braws. A braw string o' the 
 blue beads, now ? a lace collar like w^hat the ladies 
 in London are wearing ? No ? — then what of a 
 cap ? a cap with cherry ribbons to match your own 
 fair cheeks ? A bargain it was — a gift almost. 
 Would the goodman look and see how fair a wife 
 he had?" 
 
 The cap was placed on the woman's head and 
 arranged by the pedler's clever fingers, and while 
 she blushed and looked shy, and the bairns gaped 
 in amazed admiration, the pedler vowed she looked 
 like the lady of a laird, and the herd himself thought 
 he had never seen anyone to compare with his own 
 bonny wife. His hand sought his pocket, and the 
 jingle of money drove the pedler to further efforts. 
 
 ** A bargain indeed ! Worn only once by a lady 
 
 3^3 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 of quality and sold by her because the cherry ribbons 
 made her face look pale. Second-hand, if you please, 
 and therefore sold cheap — dirt cheap. What said 
 the goodman ? " 
 
 The bargain was easily concluded, and the pedler, 
 well paid and well fed, went whistling across the 
 moors, leaving a happy household behind him. 
 
 Only one day later, the woman fell ill. Burning 
 fever, icy cold shivers, torturing pains and sickness 
 came upon her, and she had to leave her work to 
 the elder children and creep into bed. 
 
 But not only upon her was the Plague's cruel 
 hand laid. The "lady of quality," victim of the 
 Pestilence and first owner of the cap with cherry 
 ribbons, had handed on poison enough to slay many. 
 One by one the children were smitten, and it was a 
 white-faced, wild-eyed man who arrived at the nearest 
 farm-house one morning as the sun was beginning to 
 glorify the Cheviots, and frantically begged for help. 
 
 The people of the place heard the news with 
 terror. There was no eye to pity, no hand to save. 
 The tidings were sent speeding to all the nearest 
 homesteads, and soon there assembled in that lonely 
 place a band of men, fierce and strong of purpose — 
 as ready to deal with the raids of this invisible and 
 most foul enemy as they would have been with a 
 band of reivers from the English side. Their judg- 
 ment was unanimous. One family must be sacrificed 
 for the sake of many. The Plague must he hurled. 
 
 314 
 
HOW THE PLAGUE WAS BURIED 
 
 A body of stern executioners, they rode down 
 the glens and over the moors, dumbly disregarding 
 the herd's horrified entreaties. They shut the cottage 
 door, and with the spades they had brought with 
 them they proceeded to throw earth over the little 
 house. For half a day they worked, until it was 
 buried full five foot deep, and all through these hours 
 the cries of the helpless victims rent their ears, if 
 they did not tear their hearts. The shepherd, as one 
 demented, shrieked his prayers for mercy and cried 
 to Heaven to save his wife and little ones, but the 
 men laboured on, paying no heed. At last a big turf 
 was laid over the chimney, and the wailings from 
 inside were heard no more. 
 
 Like a mad thing, tearing with shaking hands at 
 the clods of earth, vainly striving to work a way in, 
 the herd continued to scream prayers and curses. 
 But, like a mad thing, he was hounded off. He, 
 too, was unclean, a menace to his fellows. They 
 saw him rushing over the heather that the setting 
 sun was staining as if with blood, his arms thrown 
 up, his ghastly face uplifted to the Heavens that 
 had not listened to is prayers, and, dead or alive, 
 they never saw him more. 
 
 And upon the grassy mound under which the 
 cruel Plague lies imprisoned, the Teviotdale breezes 
 blow sweetly, and the daisies grow. 
 
 315 
 
A BORDER SAINT 
 
 Many a year before good King David founded 
 Melrose Abbey, there stood, three or four miles 
 farther down the river Tweed than where the ruined 
 abbey now stands, another monastic building, known 
 as the monastery of Melrose. It was founded by 
 Aidan, Bishop of Northumbria, a disciple of the holy 
 St. Columba, and when he and his missionary monks 
 from lona first came there, they gave the place its 
 name of Mailros — from maol ros, the naked headland 
 in the wood. Just opposite the red scaurs of Bemer- 
 syde, within a stone's throw of the Tweed, the 
 monastery was builded, where the trees still grow 
 in magnificence. Still do the Eildons almost over- 
 shadow it, and still Tweed goes murmuring past, but 
 the names of Old Melrose and of Monk's Ford are 
 all that are left to speak to us of what was once the 
 most important monastery between lona and Lindis- 
 farne, and '* a wheen banes," dug up occasionally in 
 a neighbouring garden, are all that testify to its 
 having been a burial-place of the Northumbrian 
 kings. 
 
 It was during the reign of a Northumbrian 
 abbot, Eata, a pupil of St. Aidan, that Cuthbert, 
 
 316 
 
A BORDER SAINT 
 
 greatest of the Border saints, came there to claim 
 his saintship. 
 
 At Wrangholm, a hamlet not far from Smailholm 
 Tower — as entirely non-existent now as is the 
 monastery of Old Melrose, and with its site marked 
 only by a few rugged old ash-trees — Cuthbert was 
 born. From his childhood, his was a striking person- 
 ality. He was a very handsome child, very strong 
 and active, and excelling in all games and sports, and 
 his face was a beautiful one that in later years was 
 described as the face of an angel. He grew up as 
 the child of any peasant was likely to grow, leading 
 a healthy, open-air life, seeing all the beauties of 
 nature round him, wrestling, running, jumping, and 
 "delighting in mirth and clamour." "Frequently," 
 a biographer tells us, " when the rest were tired, he 
 alone would hold out, and look triumphantly around 
 to see if any remained to contend with him for 
 victory." Yet, quite unconsciously, perhaps, that 
 monastery across the river was influencing the merry 
 little lad. He lived near enough Mailros to see the 
 monks as they started on their dangerous journeys 
 amongst the heather — the worshippers of the cruel 
 old gods — who dwelt high up in the passes of the 
 Cheviots and in the Wood of Caledon. Many a tale 
 he must have heard of their saintliness and their 
 heroism, and sometimes the tinkle of their bell and 
 the music of their deep voices chanting were borne 
 to him, up there on the wooded heights, across the 
 
 317 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 murmuring river. The sight of men tonsured from 
 ear to ear, wearing white tunics and coarse cloaks of 
 undyed wool, and armed only with a pilgrim's staff 
 and the invisible power of an almighty God, setting 
 forth on perilous journeys that would probably end 
 in martyrdom, must have stirred the imagination 
 and fired the zeal of a naturally intelligent and 
 spiritually-minded boy. Even as a child, we are 
 told, he strove to imitate the monks of Mailros, 
 praying and keeping vigil in the night-time. 
 
 When he was still a Uttle boy, according to his 
 ingenuous biographer, his first call came to him. 
 He and some others were amusing themselves with 
 the light-hearted folly of their age, when a child of 
 three came to Cuthbert and begged him not to be 
 so foolish. Cuthbert answered him jestingly, where- 
 upon the little fellow threw himself on the ground 
 in a passion of tears, and to Cuthbert, who strove 
 in vain to comfort him, he sobbingly said : 
 
 " Wherefore dost thou, the holy Cuthbert, elder 
 and bishop, thus contravene thy nature and high 
 calling ? It becomes not thee, whom the Lord hath 
 appointed to instruct in virtue thine elders, to be 
 thus playing among babes I " 
 
 When Cuthbert's second call came, his heedless 
 days were over. Like other shepherds of old, he 
 was watching his flocks by night when there came 
 to him a heavenly vision. The shepherds of those 
 days had ever to be fighters, as well as guardians 
 
 318 
 
A BORDER SAINT 
 
 of their flocks. Spear in hand, they kept their vigil 
 through the live-long night, with much to fear 
 both from man and from beast. In the forests the 
 wolves howled, and many another beast of prey was 
 constantly ready to snatch a victim from a care- 
 lessly tended flock. Down from the lonelier parts 
 of the land, too, came wild men, ready to steal, 
 and ready to slay. So Cuthbert, the shepherd lad, 
 was wide awake that August night, up on the 
 hillside above the Leader whose murmur and plash, 
 far down below, he could hear mingling with the 
 million nameless sounds of the silent night. Miles 
 down the valley, at Mailros, the monks kept vigil, 
 and Cuthbert, up on the hillside, also kept vigil and 
 spent the midnight hours in prayer. 
 
 A far cry it is from Melrose to the Holy Island 
 in the North Sea, where foaming breakers crash un- 
 ceasingly against the rocks, and that night the holy 
 Aidan lay there a-dying. And as Aidan's spirit 
 passed away, a wonderful vision formed itself before 
 the eyes of the shepherd boy on the heights of the 
 Leader. Through the darkness of the sky broke a 
 long shaft of light, and down the glorious path angels 
 descended, received amongst them " a spirit of sur- 
 passing brightness," and with him speedily winged 
 their way heavenwards. In prayer and exaltation 
 Cuthbert spent the remainder of the night. When 
 morning came, he gave his flocks into the care of 
 their owners and set out for Mailros. He knew that 
 
 319 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 at Lindisfarne there were many saintly men, but 
 " the great reputation of Boisil, a monk and priest 
 of surpassing merit," drew him to the monasterj'^ he 
 had known from his childhood. 
 
 When he had forded the Tweed, and reached the 
 monastery, he sprang from his horse, handed his spear 
 to an attendant, and was about to enter the church to 
 pray. At the door stood Boisil the prior, who came, 
 open-armed, to greet him : " Behold a servant of the 
 Lord," he said, and welcomed Cuthbert with glad- 
 ness. To him Cuthbert told his vision and how he 
 had come to enlist as a servant and soldier of Christ. 
 And Boisil, knowing that the lad had seen St. Aidan's 
 soul leaving the earth where he had worked so faith- 
 fully, and realising that great things must indeed be 
 in store for him to whom had been vouchsafed so 
 miraculous a vision, speedily introduced Cuthbert to 
 the Abbot, and thereafter took him under his own 
 tuition. St. John's Gospel was the book he took 
 most pains to teach him perfectly, and perfectly did 
 Cuthbert learn the lesson taught by the Apostle 
 whose doctrine was that of love to his fellow-creatures. 
 The story goes, that long after Cuthbert's education 
 was at an end, the book from which he learned was 
 left at Durham, and ''was held in such reverence, 
 even by the moths, that none of them ever ventured 
 to set a sacrilegious tooth in it." 
 
 A few days after his being received into the 
 monastery Cuthbert received the tonsure and was 
 
 320 
 
A BORDER SAINT 
 
 enrolled among the brethren, and from that day 
 onward he worked indeed as a worthy member of 
 the Milites Ch?isti. Very soon his power began to 
 make itself felt upon all with whom he came in 
 contact. 
 
 *' He had such grace and skill in expression, such 
 persuasive zeal, and such an angelic face and counten- 
 ance, that no one presumed to lock up the secrets of 
 his heart from him." As in his boyhood, he was a 
 wrestler and a fighter, but he wrestled now with 
 *' spiritual wickedness and with the rulers of dark- 
 ness." Even as he had excelled in sport, he now 
 excelled his fellow-monks in all the self-denials and 
 austerities of the monastic life. ** In reading, work- 
 ing, watching, and praying, he fairly outdid them 
 all." He was, so Bede also tells us, ** of a robust 
 frame, unimpaired strength, and fit for any labour 
 which he might be disposed to take in hand." Well 
 for him that his constitution was of iron, for nothing 
 less than iron would have withstood the appalling 
 severity of the discipline to which he subjected him- 
 self during his ten years at Mailros. When the trees 
 on Tweedside were leafless, the brown reeds, silvered 
 by hoar-frost, shivering in a chill night wind, and the 
 water, of steel and ebony, almost ice-bound, Cuth- 
 bert would go at nightfall to the river, and wading 
 deep into the stream, would stand there, chanting 
 the Psalms of David from beginning to end. When 
 the yellow morning light was beginning to creep 
 
 321 X 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 over Bemersyde Hill, he went back to the monas- 
 tery, to return, night after night, so that the flesh 
 might be mortified, the fires of passion extinguished. 
 His novitiate over, Cuthbert's work as evangelist 
 was carried on with the same magnificent zeal and 
 whole -heartedness which had always characterised 
 him. Aidan did not know the speech of the 
 Borderers and required an interpreter. Cuthbert 
 was himself a Borderer and knew both the tongue 
 and the character of the people with whom he had 
 to deal. Sometimes on foot, sometimes on horse- 
 back, he went from village to village. His fiery 
 zeal, his simple, boundless belief in the faith he 
 preached, his fine oratory, and his own powerful, 
 magnetic personality, were irresistible compelling 
 forces, and the heathen of the Border hills were by 
 him won over to Christianity. For weeks on end 
 the monastery would not see him, while he carried 
 on his missionary work with that splendid enthusiasm 
 that was so striking a part of himself. He " fre- 
 quented most those places, preached most in those 
 villages which lay far in the high and rugged moun- 
 tains, which others feared to visit, and which by 
 their poverty and barbarism repelled the approach 
 of teachers." Far up the valley of the Tweed he 
 penetrated, deep into the Wood of Caledon, and 
 founded Chapel Kingledoors by a lonely mountain 
 burn. To the shores of the Solway, where Kirkcud- 
 bright (the Kirk of Cuthbert) bears his name, to 
 
 322 
 
A BORDER SAINT 
 
 the Forth, and even as far as Strath Tay, his love 
 for the souls of men led him. 
 
 For a short time the scene of his labom'S and 
 form of his work were changed, for as hospitaller, or 
 guest-master, he went with Abbot Eata and some of 
 the brethren to a monastery at Ripon. There, we are 
 told, he entertained an angel unawares — a guest who, 
 on departing, gave Cuthbert a gift of three loaves, 
 " such as the world cannot produce ; excelling lilies in 
 whiteness, roses in perfume, and honey in sweetness." 
 
 His stay at Ripon was a short one. Between 
 the Roman and the Celtic Churches there had 
 always been a difference with regard to the form 
 of tonsure and the date of holding Easter, and con- 
 troversy between those whose religion came from 
 Ireland, by way of lona, and those who got it direct 
 from Rome, had occasionally waxed very hot. Now 
 that the Celtic Church had dared to penetrate as 
 far south as Yorkshire and find a footing there, the 
 Roman party felt that strong measures must be 
 taken, and Eata and his monks were therefore driven 
 out by ecclesiastical jealousy and sent north again. 
 
 When, in 664, Prior Boisil — patron saint of St. 
 Boswells — was cut off by the Yellow Plague, a 
 terrible pestilence which was then raging, Cuthbert 
 was appointed Prior in his stead. Besides bringing 
 him the duties of Prior, the Plague meant many 
 extra labours for St. Cuthbert. He himself was 
 smitten, but the constitution that could withstand 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 nightly immersion in an ice-cold river was not one 
 that collapsed before a pestilence. The coming of 
 the Plague seriously shook the new-found faith of 
 the Borderers. If Christianity was not going to 
 save their own bodies and those of their women and 
 children from this dire scourge, then surely it was 
 of but little avail. Most surely, too, the Plague 
 came as vengeance from their discarded gods, and, 
 at all costs, they must be propitiated. They quickly 
 lapsed from the new religion and sought safety in 
 the use of charms and of amulets, and of all the 
 pagan rites, in the efficacy of which they had once 
 believed. But Cuthbert, still haggard and weak, 
 and bearing in his body traces, which he never lost, 
 of his terrible illness, fought those lapses of faith as 
 he had fought the Plague. The people of Northum- 
 berland, of Merse and Teviotdale, of Tweeddale, of 
 the Wood of Caledon — the half-savage people in the 
 hill-country, the rough fisher-folk of the eastern 
 coast — none dared look in the face of St. Cuthbert 
 and hope " to conceal from him the secrets of their 
 hearts." Again they listened, moved and ashamed, 
 to his compelling oratory, and in penitence put away 
 their reinstated gods. 
 
 It was while he was Prior at Mailros that he 
 went to visit St. Aebba, Abbess of Coldingham, in 
 her monastery up on the cliffs, high above the 
 nesting sea-birds' dolorous clamour, and the crash 
 and boom of the North Sea billows 
 
 324 
 
A BORDER SAINT 
 
 Here, as at Mailros, the Saint subjected his body 
 to a cruel disciphne. While those in the monastery 
 and the Httle village below lay asleep, he walked 
 down the steep rocky path to the shore, returning 
 only in time for morning prayer. An evil-minded 
 monk — there were not a few of them at Coldingham 
 if tradition be true — having seen the Prior of Mailros 
 leave the monastery in the night, was minded to spy 
 upon him. Down the path, across the short, sea- 
 bitten grass, he followed him, to the stony beach 
 where the tide laps over rocks, brown and slippery 
 with clinging sea-weed, and restless waves break 
 against rugged boulders round which has floated 
 the flotsam and jetsam of many a wreck. But 
 where the cold water lapped the shore, St. Cuthbert 
 made no pause. He strode on, until the icy water 
 was breast-high, and there halted. All through the 
 night, until the chilly dawn, the monk could hear 
 St. Cuthbert's voice rising above the wash and moan 
 of the waves, singing praises to God. The monk, 
 cowering behind a rock, watched and listened in 
 shamed amazement, and, in still greater shame and 
 more adoring amazement, saw, when the first pale 
 golden streaks showed where grey sky ended and 
 grey sea began, St. Cuthbert wade ashore, followed 
 by two otters, that tenderly came and rubbed them- 
 selves against his wet feet, and dried them with 
 their fur. 
 
 " A miracle," say those who believe in such things. 
 
 325 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 *'A ridiculous monkish legend," say others. But 
 what greater miracle is it than that beautiful 
 '* miracle " of nature that teaches the birds and the 
 beasts to know those who love them, and that, 
 even with the wild creatures, is able to drive all 
 fear away? Undoubtedly, too, there are men who 
 possess a magnetic power over animals, and it may 
 have been that to him who was once a shepherd 
 lad, wise in woodcraft, this power was known. 
 
 On one of his journeyings, when he and the boy 
 who went with him to serve the Mass had no food 
 left and were faint with hunger, it was an eagle that 
 ministered to him. It dropped at the Saint's feet 
 the fish it had just caught, and the boy eagerly 
 seized it. 
 
 " Is our fisherman to be allowed no share ? " 
 asked St. Cuthbert. So the fish was cut in two, and 
 the eagle soared aloft with its lawful half. 
 
 In 664, at a Synod at Whitby, King Oswy 
 decreed that the Roman date of Easter and the 
 Roman tonsure were those that were to have,* the 
 royal support, and the Columban clergy wiped the 
 dust of Northumbria off their feet and went away in 
 a body. The two who remained behind, Eata and 
 Cuthbert, were probably the flower of them all. 
 The dates of Church seasons and the forms of tonsure 
 were but little things to men who laboured day and 
 night to save the souls of men alive, and so they 
 conformed to the Roman rule. 
 
 326 
 
A BORDER SAINT 
 
 In that year Cuthbert was made Prior of Lindis- 
 farne, and left the opulent woods by the silvery 
 Tweed for the flat, rocky, treeless reach of Holy 
 Island in the bleak North Sea. 
 
 At Lindisfarne he found party spirit and dis- 
 sension rife. The camp was divided into Romans 
 and Culdees, and each party had that delightful and 
 unshakeable certainty that one observes with admir- 
 ing amazement in those who quarrel on subjects of 
 Church Government, that their side was absolutely 
 and perfectly right, and the other utterly and 
 shockingly wrong. Much tact and infinite patience 
 did it require to handle those quarrelsome breth- 
 ren, but Cuthbert possessed both of these qualities 
 in marked degree. When brotherly love seemed 
 wilting in the tropical heat of discussion, the Prior 
 would apply the closure, always with the same calm- 
 ness of mien and ''placidity of countenance" that 
 made his biographers marvel. Inside and outside his 
 monastery his influence was equally strong. He 
 who was to himself so harsh, was always just, but 
 always infinitely merciful and tender to others. " No 
 one went away from him without consolation ; no 
 one took back with him the sorrow of mind that he 
 had brought." 
 
 For twelve years he laboured as Prior of Lindis- 
 farne, keeping peace, teaching by his own simple, 
 unconscious, daily example the beauty of selflessness 
 and of perfect charity. Nor did he confine his 
 
 327 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 labours to those who lived on Holy Island and the 
 neaijj^mainland, but frequently went on long mission- 
 ary journeys into the Border hill-country and such 
 other parts that knew almost nothing of civilisation 
 and less still of Christianity. Yet at the end of 
 those arduous, strenuous years of self-discipline and 
 work for others, St. Cuthbert deemed himself so 
 far from holiness, because of '* the luxury and ease " 
 of his monastic life that he felt he must in another 
 way seek peace for his soul. At the age of thirty- 
 nine he went to live the life of an anchorite on the 
 largest of the Fame Islands, that we can see lying 
 beyond Lindisfarne, purple black, far out among the 
 waves. 
 
 It is still a favourite haunt of the sea-birds, that 
 rise with shrieks of deafening discord from their nests 
 on the rocks, when boats go near the island, but in 
 the Saint's day it was reputed to be haunted not only 
 by sea-birds but by evil spirits. Soon, however, so 
 his ingenuous recorders tell us, he drove out the 
 devils and tamed the screaming gulls and sea-mews 
 and eider ducks. When some of the birds began to 
 devour the little harvest of the tiny patch of grain 
 he had sown, he solemnly preached them a sermon 
 from the text, " Thou shalt not covet another's 
 goods," and apparently drove his points so con- 
 clusively home that from that day on, his barley was 
 untouched. When two thievish crows, presumably 
 banished from the mainland because of their lawless 
 
 328 
 
A BORDER SAINT 
 
 ways, rudely tore some of the dried grass from off his 
 roof in order to line their nests, he *' cited them 
 personally to appear before him, and so sermonised 
 and documented them, and rendered them so 
 penitent, that they lay prostrate at his feet for 
 absolution, and the next day brought him a piece of 
 pork to make him satisfaction." One can but hope 
 that the pork was honestly come by. 
 
 So did the Saint make friends for himself amongst 
 the only living creatures on his island, and the eider 
 ducks which rest on the Fames are called ** St Cuth- 
 bert's ducks " to this day. 
 
 With his own hands Cuthbert built for himself 
 a little hut of stones and turf, thatching it with 
 dried grass, with a partition between tiny oratory 
 and tinier living-room. In the best of weather 
 St. Cuthbert's island is a wind-swept, storm-beaten, 
 barren rock ; but, when gales blow, it is the play- 
 thing of the waves which break against it, driving 
 their drenching spray and tufts of salt foam from 
 east and north, for the breakers on west and south 
 to meet and fling back again yet more furiously. A 
 hut of turf was an easy prey for the tempests, and 
 soon the walls had many a chink and crevice for the 
 shrewd winter blast to whimper through. When 
 Cuthbert's island knew him no more, the hermit 
 monk who succeeded him nailed a calf-skin on the 
 inner wall, to cover the many holes and to keep out 
 wind and wet. But such luxury did not enter St. 
 
 329 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 Cuthbert's mind, and he stopped the chinks as best 
 he could with mud and wisps of hay. For nine 
 years he lived the life of an anchorite, praying and 
 fasting, practising the presence of God, far from the 
 world and the disputes of men. But a prophecy, 
 made by his early master, St. Boisil, as he lay dying, 
 had yet to be fulfilled. 
 
 " Thou shalt be Bishop," he had said to the 
 young monk, and from the cares and responsibilities 
 that the pontifical post demanded, Cuthbert had 
 always shrunk. 
 
 To the see of Lindisfarne he was elected by the 
 Synod of Alne. 
 
 A deputation waited on him and returned with 
 the tidings that the Saint rejected the nomination 
 and would not be persuaded to leave his cell. Then 
 Ecgfrid, King of Northumbria, himself, with a 
 gallant escort of nobles and church dignitaries, and 
 with many of the brethren of Lindisfarne, sailed over 
 to the Fames. On their knees they besought Cuth- 
 bert to come, and Ecgfrid's tears and entreaties pre- 
 vailed. Before his consecration at York, Cuthbert 
 revisited Mailros. Many a strange path had he trod 
 since his little playfellow prophesied his future great- 
 ness at that vanished little hamlet on the heights 
 above the Tweed. 
 
 On Easter Day, 685, St Cuthbert was conse- 
 crated at York in the presence of the King and 
 seven bishops, and ''in testimony of the love and 
 
 330 
 
A BORDER SAINT 
 
 reverence they bore him," King Eegfrid and the 
 metropolitan Theodorus presented to the church of 
 Lindisfarne "all the land from the walls to the 
 Church of St. Peter in York, to the west gate of the 
 city, and from the same church to the city wall on 
 the south ; also the village of Craike, with territories 
 there, not less than three miles in circuit, that the 
 bishops might have a house of rest as they should 
 pass to and from York," and also added Carlisle, 
 with a large district, to the see. 
 
 Pride of place had never been known to Cuth- 
 bert, and as bishop he worked with even greater 
 humility and yet more unsparing devotion than 
 he had done before his hermit days had carried 
 him further still on the path to Holiness. Angles 
 and Picts, Scots, Saxons, and Britons he minis- 
 tered to, for, as of old, no place was too remote, 
 no people too barbarous to be sought out by him. 
 In time of plague the Bishop laboured as might 
 have done the humblest novice who sought after 
 sanctity. 
 
 " Is there anyone here to whom we have not yet 
 ministered?" he would ask his chaplain when they 
 had visited a plague- stricken village. *' Or have we 
 now seen all the sick here, and shall we go else- 
 where ? " 
 
 For two years only did St. Cuthbert toil and 
 labour as Bishop of Lindisfarne. Then, feeling that 
 the end was coming very near, he asked to be re- 
 
 331 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 lieved of his episcopal duties, and allowed to return 
 to his hut by the sea. He made a farewell visitation 
 of his diocese, admonishing and consohng all the 
 faithful, and on Christmas Day, 686 a.d., took fare- 
 well of the brethren and returned to Fame. As he 
 stepped into the boat that was to take him there, 
 the monks crowded round him, sorrowing as those 
 who sorrowed when St. Paul left them to go to what 
 was to be his martyrdom. 
 
 "Tell us, Lord Bishop," asked one, "when we 
 may hope for your return ? " 
 
 "When you shall bring my body back here," 
 replied Cuthbert. 
 
 For two months only, the two cruellest months 
 of the year on that bleak coast, St. Cuthbert lived 
 in the retreat that he loved. As often as might be, 
 the brethren visited him, but sometimes, for many 
 days on end, storms would prevent them from 
 crossing to the island. 
 
 Once, after a five days' absence, they found him 
 lying in the little hospice he had built for them 
 by the landing-stage, too weak and ill to move. 
 They asked him what he had had for food as 
 he lay helpless and untended. He showed them 
 five onions, one of them partly eaten. " This," 
 he said contentedly, " has been my food for five 
 days, for whenever my mouth became dry and 
 parched with thirst, I cooled and refreshed myself 
 by tasting these. 
 
 33^ 
 
A BORDER SAINT 
 
 Very soon afterwards the end came. On a March 
 day in 687, thirty-seven years after the shepherd boy 
 saw the vision of angels on the heights of the Leader, 
 St. Cuthbert gained his rest. Lying on the floor of 
 his little oratory, opposite the altar, he gave his last 
 messages to the monks of Lindisfarne. He asked 
 that his body might be rolled in a linen sheet that 
 St. Aebba had given to him. ** Bury me by the 
 Cross," he said, referring to the wooden cross he had 
 erected near his hut. *' I would fain rest here where 
 I fought my humble fight for the Lord." 
 
 But even in that he was content to give up his 
 own will and consent to their wish that he might lie 
 at Lindisfarme. 
 
 When they asked him for his valedictory com- 
 mands he spoke to them of humility and of peace. 
 
 '' Keep peace," he said, " one with another, and 
 ever guard the divine gift of charity. Maintain 
 concord with other servants of Christ, and do not 
 think yourselves better than others." 
 
 All through a wakeful night he prayed, and 
 having very early received the Eucharist he raised up 
 his folded hands in prayer and gently passed away. 
 
 The monks at Lindisfarne were chanting matins 
 when, on a high rock on the Fames, two little lights 
 sprang up. The monk who watched for the signal 
 knew that it was one of the brethren on Cuthbert's 
 island, with a candle in either hand. He ran to the 
 church with the news. Cuthbert, saint and bishop, 
 
 333 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 at the age of fifty years, had gone forth upon his 
 last journey. 
 
 From the Fames to Holy Island they rowed 
 his body and buried it, with great pomp, in the 
 cemetery of the old church, and afterwards, when 
 the cathedral was rebuilt, on the right side of the 
 High Altar. Immediately after his death, a fabric 
 of miraculous legend began to be woven round his 
 name. Miraculous cures were produced by him. 
 Sailors who prayed to him in storms were brought 
 safely to land — his crosier used as a rudder. When he 
 had been eleven years entombed, the monks opened 
 his grave to secure his bones for their museum of 
 sacred relics, but they found the Saint lying just as 
 he had died, peacefully asleep, rather than dead. 
 Small wonder that the body of the Saint was one 
 of the most precious relics possessed by the Nor- 
 thumbrian church. When, in June 793, the Danes 
 descended on Lindisfarne, overthrew its altars, plun- 
 dered it, and defiled its holy places, those monks 
 who succeeded in escaping, carried with them the 
 body of St. Cuthbert. For seven years they bore 
 it from place to place, hunted men. As in life, so 
 in death, St. Cuthbert went from wild moorland 
 and deep forest to the lonely places amongst the 
 hills. In Yorkshire, Lancashire, Cumberland, Nor- 
 thumberland, and many another county, he found 
 only a temporary resting-place. His journeyings may 
 
 334 
 
A BORDER SAINT 
 
 be traced still in the churches and crosses that bear 
 his name. At Mailros, for a little, the body found 
 peace. 
 
 " O'er northern mountain, marsh, and moor. 
 From sea to sea, from shore to shore. 
 Seven years St Cuthbert's corpse they bore. 
 They rested them in fair Melrose ; 
 But though, alive, he loved it well, 
 Not there his relics might repose ; 
 For, wondrous tale to tell ! 
 In his stone coffin forth he rides, 
 A ponderous bark for river tides. 
 Yet light as gossamer it glides 
 Downward to Tillmouth cell." 
 
 Under the magnificent shelter of Durham 
 Cathedral, " in a fair and sumptuous shrine," he was 
 laid at last, and when, in the reign of Henry VIII, 
 the grave was opened, the Saint was found still to 
 be lying as he died, secure from the ugly part of 
 mortality, asleep, in peace. 
 
 The monastery at Holy Island is in ruins, 
 and St. Cuthbert, his rest well won, has been 
 dead these twelve hundred odd years. Yet he 
 who plods across the wet sand between the island 
 and the mainland when the tide is low, may 
 find on the shore curious fossils that are known as 
 St. Cuthbert's beads, and that are said to be a sure 
 protection against the spirits of evil. And there 
 are those who say that even now the Saint is 
 unable to cease from his labours and his care for 
 
 335 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 the souls of his fellow-men, whom he so dearly 
 loved, and that, if you go to Holy Island on a 
 moonlight night and happen on the right little 
 bay, you may hear above the surge and splash of 
 the waves the faint " Tink, tink " of a hammer on a 
 rocky anvil, and may see St. Cuthbert's happy face 
 in the silver beams, as he contentedly forges the 
 beads that are to keep the children of his bishopric 
 from all that can hurt their bodies or harm their 
 souls. 
 
 336 
 
BAWTIE'S GRAVE 
 
 Those who sail the watery ways own many land- 
 marks — here a high cliff, there a reef with a boil of 
 surf over it, here a seaweed-covered rock of strange 
 shape, to tell of a path leading to certain death 
 beyond, there a rock with a tossing buoy. On the 
 Border we, too, can guide ourselves in weather when 
 hounds have run wide and a Liddesdale drow or a 
 North Sea ^ haar is turning the whole countryside 
 into a blurred grey haze, by a lofty sentinel stationed 
 at wide intervals from east to west, but having out- 
 lines that are unmistakable. There is the Dunion, 
 there Ruberslaw, there the lighthouse form of 
 Penielheugh. The three Eildons, like the three 
 weird sisters, seem able to penetrate almost any mist. 
 Smailholm Tower has a shape that one cannot fail to 
 recognise, and above all the flat country of the Merse 
 we can see, from far away, the long, low block of 
 Home Castle, queen of Border towers. 
 
 Many a tale of a noble fight could the stones of 
 the castle tell. Full many a time has she looked 
 down from her throne there up on the hill, at the 
 spilling of gallant blood. 
 
 In the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries the house 
 
 337 Y 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 of Home was the most powerful family in Ber- 
 wickshire. During the minority of James V, the 
 Earl of Home and two of his brothers had been 
 treacherously done to death at the instigation of 
 the Regent Albany. But in the popular mind the 
 Regent was not so much to blame as was the man 
 who had whispered distilled poison into his ear, had 
 compassed the death of three innocent lads, and had 
 thereby attained to the power which he coveted 
 When Alexander, third Lord Home, was exe- 
 cuted on a charge of treason in October 1516, the 
 man who was appointed his successor was Sir 
 Anthony d'Arcy, Seigneur de la Bastie — " Governor 
 of Lothian and Warden of the Eastern Marches" 
 were his titles, and upon him were bestowed the 
 estates and castles of Home and of Dunbar. 
 
 The " Seigneur de la Beauts " was the name by 
 which Anthony d'Arcy was known in his own 
 sunny land. So remote are we from those days 
 when his personal beauty and personal charm won 
 hearts that we are incompetent to judge whether 
 he was, after all, a good man and a true, fighting for 
 La Belle France, or a gentleman adventurer with but 
 little honour to lose. But La Beauts — " Bawtie "-^ 
 with his love-locks is a picturesque figure that cannot 
 be forgotten in Berwickshire even in this most 
 prosaic twentieth century of ours. 
 
 It is a far cry from the Merse to the Valley of 
 the Is^re, but thither we must journey do we wish 
 
 338 
 
BAWTIE'S GRAVE 
 
 to see the chateau where Anthony d'Arcy was 
 born. 
 
 Not far from the railway lines from Paris to 
 Turin and from Paris to Marseilles, but itself off the 
 mainline, in a sleepy hollow between wooded hills, 
 lies the little town of Allevard. Just a peep of 
 snow mountains is to be had from it here and there, 
 and a steep climb is necessary before it is possible to 
 look down on all the wide-spreading, opulent glories 
 of the vine-clad valley, through which the stately 
 Is^re glides in gentle, silvery curves, like a magnifi- 
 cent serpent that has no cause to hurry. A smoky 
 blue haze from its iron factories hangs over Allevard 
 every evening, but high above the smoke, on a little 
 hill at the foot of the mountain of Brame-farine, to 
 the west of the town, are the ruins of the Chateau 
 de la Bastie. Only a fragment of stonework is now 
 to be seen, for trees and thick undergrowth have 
 triumphed over its ruins. It would be hard to tell 
 that once on a day it was as stout a little fortress 
 as any in France, and the eyrie of as fierce a horde 
 of brigands as ever terrified the land they lived in 
 by fire and robbery, rape and bloody murder. 
 
 The Seigneurs de la Bastie were rapacious thieves, 
 merciless reivers who were at constant war with 
 all their neighbours, highway robbers who were the 
 terror of all who travelled to Italy by way of Mont 
 Cenis. No lonely farm, no inoffensive traveller was 
 safe from them. They were the scourge of the Savoie 
 
 339 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 and of the whole valley of the Is^re. Their unhal- 
 lowed memory is still green among the peasants 
 of the district in which, so many long years ago, 
 they lived their unedifying lives, and, to this day, 
 these peasants will relate with solemn faces what 
 were the happenings that led to the destruction of 
 this corby's nest. 
 
 One very dark night, they say, a terrible storm 
 swept over Allevard. The thunder sounded as 
 though all the war- chariots in Heaven and in Hell 
 were being driven furiously, and all the mountains 
 shook. At the end of a terrific peal, a wonder was 
 seen. From the sky, wrapped in fire, descended 
 ** Messire Satan " himself, and lighted down on the 
 highest tower of the Chateau de la Bastie. As the 
 terrified peasants gazed, they saw the castle rock, 
 then topple down in ruins. At once fierce red flames 
 rushed, roaring, up through the night, and when 
 morning broke the mighty castle lay a mere heap of 
 charred wood and blackened stone. 
 
 Such was " Bawtie's " ancestral nest, and as one 
 of a race of reivers he was probably well fitted to 
 deal with the turbulent Border folk. But Bawtie 
 had stolen Home Castle and all that pertained to it 
 from the clan Home, and he had to pay his price. 
 
 " All men groaned at so miserable a slavery 
 under a foreigner. Themselves were insulted ; the 
 very Scottish nation was held in contempt by the 
 French for so easily yielding to the yoke, and so 
 
 340 
 
BAWTIE'S GRAVE 
 
 submissively obeying a foreigner, and he, too, none of 
 the most illustrious. The very common people were 
 enraged at this, and lamented the degeneracy of the 
 nobles, first, for setting over them such a man, and 
 then for so peaceably obeying him. AVhat increased 
 their indignation was their lost liberty, and nobody 
 appearing to vindicate it." So writes Hume of God- 
 scroft, but the Homes were only biding their time. 
 
 On a September day in 1517, when bracken is 
 golden-brown and the beech trees are reddening, De 
 la Bastie was peacefully riding homewards to Dunbar 
 from a court held at Kelso. As to James IV, so 
 to him, says tradition, one from another world 
 came to warn him that he must avoid the crossing 
 of Corneyford (now known as Pouterlynie), a way 
 by the narrow stream which divides the parishes of 
 Duns and Langton, did he wish to elude a dismal 
 fate. Presumably his visitant was more substantial 
 than legend allows, — a friend won by the French 
 knight's fair face. Be that as it may, " Bawtie " de- 
 spised the warning and took the forbidden way, and 
 not far from Duns an ambuscade of the Home clan 
 fell upon him. 
 
 De la Bastie was one who always valued the pomp 
 and panoply of earthly things. He rode a fine horse 
 belonging to the lately-executed earl, but the horse was 
 encumbered by heavy and costly French trappings. 
 Over the moor of Duns galloped the Seigneur. He 
 well knew that he raced with death, and he spared 
 
 341 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 neither whip nor spur. But on the lands of Broom- 
 house, in the parish of Edrom, his horse stumbled and 
 fell. That day a "little foot page," a kinsman of 
 Home of Wedderburn, had joined the hunt without 
 permission, and liad commandeered, as a mount for 
 his impertinent little self, one of his master's best 
 horses. As La Beauty's horse stumbled in a bog, 
 the boy rode up. La Beaute fell with his horse and 
 was held prisoner under it as it rolled back and 
 forward in the black bog mud. Two of the house 
 of Home rode close behind, and while the boy 
 threatened his noble prey with his knife they came 
 up, and the chase was ended. His head — the Greek 
 head to which many a woman across the seas had 
 sacrificed a bleeding heart — was hacked off. 
 
 David Home of Wedderburn seized it. And 
 ** because his Hair was long, like Womens, and plat 
 on a Head-Lace, David Home of Wedderburn knit 
 it on his Saddle-Bow." Through the streets of 
 Duns rode Home the avenger, his bloody trophy 
 dangling before him. At Duns, finally, the head was 
 stuck upon a pole for all the enemies of the house 
 of Home to gloat upon. 
 
 The autumn and winter winds of that year and 
 the next bleached it as it grinned upon the battle- 
 ments of Home Castle. The headless body is buried 
 where the Seigneur fell, on the lands of Broom- 
 house. 
 
 Until well on in the last century, a moss-covered 
 
 342 
 
BAWTIE'S GRAVE 
 
 cairn marked the place. Unfortunately the stones 
 caught the eye of a person who had a contract for 
 repairing the roads and the ancient landmark was 
 carted away, yet, to this day, " Bawtie's Grave " 
 is the name given to the spot where rests Anthony 
 d'Arcy, Seigneur de la Bastie, of the Valley of the 
 Isdre. 
 
 343 
 
ST. BOSWELL'S FAIR 
 
 July 18th 
 
 " Oh dear, what can the matter be ? 
 Johnny stays long at the fair." 
 
 So mourned the wives and maidens of past centuries, 
 but now they have to find other causes for complaint. 
 Johnny does not stay long at the fair because there 
 are so very few fairs at which to stay, and these are 
 probably not within the reach of Johnny. 
 
 The railways are responsible for the death of 
 many things, and they have practically killed the 
 fairs. No longer is ** BSsil's Fair " the Mecca 
 towards which all agricultural eyes on the English 
 and Scottish Border are turned from one July to 
 another. No more does the brisk young herd tryst 
 his fair one to meet him on ** Bosil's Green " when 
 the sheep are sold. 
 
 " The morn's the fair, an' PU be there. 
 Me an' ma lass wi' the curly hair ; 
 I'll meet ma lass at the fit o' the stair 
 An' gie her a glass, an' a wee drap mair." 
 
 Such was wont to be the chant of all little Border 
 boys in the early days of July, to the annoyance 
 of all decent householders. 
 
 344 
 
ST. BOSWELL'S FAIR 
 
 The herd now brings his flocks by rail to the bust- 
 ling Httle junction known as St. Boswells Station, 
 where trains from north and from south puff and 
 scream, and, some other day when he is less full of 
 affairs, he takes Amaryllis a " cheap trip" to Edin- 
 burgh. There they wander wearily through streets, 
 museums and waxworks, boredom in their souls. 
 Thankfully they relax the mental strain on the 
 homeward journey when they squeeze themselves 
 into a third-class "smoker," already over filled by 
 their fellow - sufferers, and silently eat stale and 
 crumbling cakes and sticky sweets out of paper 
 bags. They are almost able to fancy that they have 
 enjoyed the day, when they get out at their home 
 station and go "linking" along the country road 
 together in the exquisite freshness of the caller 
 evening air. 
 
 But old institutions die hard, and in spite of the 
 emphatic fact of the North British railway and of 
 the decline of many a glory, Bosil's Fair still fights 
 for its life. 
 
 Sheep and lambs come by rail and mingle their 
 bleatings with the puff and snort of trains and the 
 jar and clang as their couplings go together. By 
 road, too, they travel in patient processions, their 
 plodding little feet laying the ways by which they 
 come deep in red dust, ready to be roused into 
 furious dust-storms by the first motor that follows 
 them. But they never reach " The Green " that lies 
 
 345 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 in the centre of the English - looking little village 
 under whose brae-heads flows the Tweed. Within 
 sound of all the modern noises of the railway that 
 have diiven them and their attendant collies half- 
 demented since they left their peaceful pasturage in 
 Tweeddale or Teviotdale, they are hustled into the 
 whitewashed pens of the auction marts, to meet 
 the fate that comes to them with the tap of the 
 auctioneer's hammer. 
 
 Those who live in that district will tell you with 
 scorn that the place where the trains shunt and the 
 sheep are sold is no more St. Boswells than Leith is 
 Edinburgh. It is only Newtown. aS^. Boswells is 
 the village on the Green, a full mile away, an 
 aristocrat amongst villages. So old is it that "St. 
 Boswells " may be said to be the name it acquired 
 comparatively recently, although it dates back 
 twelve hundred years and more. What the village 
 was called when Watling Street — the road of the 
 Romans — ran near it, and when Roman centurions 
 reared their altars to Jove under the shadow of the 
 Eildons, we know not, but in the seventh century it 
 was known as Lessudden. Aidan, Bishop of Lindis- 
 farne, lived there for a time, we are told, and gave 
 to it his name — Lis- Aidan, from Lis, a Celtic word 
 meaning residence. Another ingenious interpreta- 
 tion is given of the name, for we are told that when, 
 in 664, Boisil, Prior of Melrose, died of the Yellow 
 Plague — a periodic scourge in Scotland in past days 
 
ST. BOSWELL'S FAIR 
 
 — he died " All-o -a-sudden.'" To St. Boisil (for he, 
 being " a priest of great virtue and of a prophetic 
 spirit," was canonised), a French monk, the teacher 
 of St. Cuthbert, and one of the holiest of many holy 
 men who taught the Gospel of Christ to the heathen 
 of the Scottish Border, St. Boswells owes its present 
 name. In Sir David Stewart Erskine's Annals of 
 Dryburgh we are given a curious little sketch of him. 
 
 '* Who is that tall priest, pray, in white. 
 Who in a book did just now write ? 
 He looks as if from France he came, 
 So thin and tall, he looks so wane. 
 As if soup maigre was his food 
 Since the old time of Noah's flood. 
 
 That is the great Saint Boisille, 
 He came from Franca Abbeville, 
 Upon the south burn built a cell. 
 Just by the sainted holy well. 
 A church now stands upon the place. 
 He ran a sainted holy race. 
 
 The green he blest, and there a fair 
 Is held for sale of horse or mare, 
 A mule or cow, or crinkum crack, 
 Or a good coat to buy for back. 
 Saint Boisille died on gay May day. 
 On Eildon top — where he did pray." 
 
 A charming little account of the life and death 
 of a saint, but perhaps scarcely to be regarded as 
 history. 
 
 347 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 After the days of St. Boisil, his village remained 
 a place of considerable importance, and when, in 
 1544, it was burned by that hammer of the Scots, 
 Sir Ralph Evers — to whose body the hospitality of 
 seven feet of ground in Melrose Abbey was accorded 
 by his generous slayers — it contained sixteen strong 
 bastel-houses, or peel towers. 
 
 Before Lammas Fair, once held on the slope of 
 the western Eildon, close to Melrose, eclipsed it, 
 St. Boswell's Fair was the most important in the 
 south of Scotland. Sheep, black cattle, horses and 
 wool were sold at it, even as late as 1866, and the 
 gipsies drove a roaring trade in crockery. We owe 
 to the minister of the parish, the Rev. John Scade, 
 an account of the red-letter day of the Calendar at 
 St. Boswells. " Great flocks of sheep of all denomina- 
 tions,'' he says — and the flippant mind wonders if de- 
 nominational distinctions are confined to the sheep, 
 while the goats are just goats with no subtle differ- 
 ences — *' are brought from all parts of the adjacent 
 country, and generally find so ready a market as to 
 be disposed of early in the morning, at latest in the 
 forenoon. Black cattle are also numerous ; and the 
 show of horses has usually been so fine, that buyers 
 come from many places, both of England and Scot- 
 land. Linen cloth is another article. Great numbers 
 of people throughout the neighbouring country 
 employ themselves during the winter in spinning; 
 they endeavour to get their webs ready against the 
 
 348 
 
ST. BOSWELL S FAIR 
 
 fair, where they are pretty sure of a market, though 
 not always of a sufficient recompence of their ex- 
 pences and labour; nevertheless, upon the whole, 
 they get such prices as encourage them to be indus- 
 trious in the same line. The prices, according to 
 the quality of the cloth, are from lOd, to 1^. to 3^ 6d. 
 4fS,, and 4^. 6d, per yard. Some provide themselves 
 with linen at this fair, alledging that they can 
 furnish themselves better and cheaper than they 
 could do by manufacturing it at home. This may 
 possibly be true ; for in genteel families the expence 
 of maintaining the workers will be higher than the 
 spinster in a cottage, while the skill and care bestowed 
 upon the work are equal." Times and manners have 
 changed indeed since the Rev. John Scade's day, 
 and " genteel families " have learned to emulate the 
 lilies of the field. The worthy minister goes on to 
 speak of the "Booths." *' Booths^ (or as they are 
 called, craiins) containing hardware and haberdashery 
 goods, are erected in great numbers at the Fair, and 
 stored with such articles as suit the generality. The 
 money turned in the course of the day at this fair 
 is guessed to be from £8000 to £10,000 stg. The 
 Duke of Buccleuch receives a certain rate, or toll, 
 upon sheep, cattle, and all other commodities brought 
 into the fair for sale. Old sheep pay one merk 
 Scots per score, lambs half a merk, and so on." 
 
 . The people of St. Boswells, in 1794, were, says 
 their minister, "in general of a sober and frugal 
 
 349 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 turn, both of mind and manners." Nevertheless his 
 righteous soul was sometimes vexed by them, for 
 St. Boswell's Fair happening on a Saturday or a 
 Monday '*is very justly thought to occasion much 
 inattention to the religious observance of the Sabbath. 
 The evil has been complained of, but no remedy has 
 yet been applied." Who can doubt that the con- 
 scientious shepherd of souls compelled his flock to 
 listen to many an hour's pious exhortation on the 
 subject of the laxness occasioned by their yearly 
 festival ? 
 
 The bodies, as well as the souls of the people of 
 St. Boswells must have been handsomely nourished 
 in those days, for salmon of 28 lb. were frequently 
 caught in the reaches of the Tweed close to the 
 village, while fish of 6 lb. to 8 lb. were thought 
 nothing of. He who caught, kept, and the salmon 
 was sold at 2d. to Sd, a pound. " So that, at the 
 proper time, the neighbourhood is seldom at a loss 
 for a small salmon, which proves a great con- 
 veniency to families." And yet we have the 
 assurance to talk of " modern conveniences " 1 Who 
 would not gladly exchange the plumber and all his 
 works for a ** conveniency " so undeniable, and 
 nowadays so churlishly overlooked by riparian 
 proprietors and their keepers and water- bailiffs ? 
 
 The supply of fuel was then the outstanding 
 difficulty in the simple lives of the people of St. 
 Boswells. "This necessary of life we are obliged 
 
 3SO 
 
ST. BOSWELL'S FAIR 
 
 to procure at an expence which with difficulty we 
 are able to afford," says the Rev. John Scade. 
 The coals they burned were brought from Stal 
 coal-hill in Northumberland, or from the collieries 
 of the Lothians. "But," writes our reverend 
 instructor, "the greatest part of what is used here 
 is brought by the returning carts, which carried 
 from home oatmeal or grain to Dalkeith market. 
 A cart with two horses commonly brings 14 cwt. of 
 coals, which cost the purchaser 16*. the cwt., and yet 
 the driver is said to have but poor profits. From 
 this almost insupportable expence, which is more 
 likely to increase than decrease, perhaps nothing 
 can deliver this part of the country, unless the 
 canal which has been spoken of as intended to come 
 to Ancrum Bridge should be carried into effect." 
 But good Mr. Scade's scheme for the welfare of 
 his parish came to nothing. The profane and 
 quarrelsome bargee never penetrated the Sabbath 
 peace of the village of Ancrum, nor has there come 
 to pass the prophecy of an aged inhabitant of the 
 neighbouring village of Bowden — "Gie's another 
 fifty 'ear, an' I'se warrant ye I'd see Bowden a 
 flourishing seaport town." Fifty years have gone 
 since old John was laid in his grave within sound 
 of the trickle of Bowden burn, yet the sea remains 
 where it was. 
 
 Even thirty-eight years after Mr. Scade's account 
 of it, St. Boswell's Fair had greatly declined. A 
 
 351 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 gazetteer of 1832 insultingly describes the village as 
 ** consisting of little else than a single public-house " 
 and talks of the great falling-ofF of the fair. Still, 
 however, the fair was '* the resort of many salesmen 
 of goods, and in particular of tinkers." Earthenware, 
 horn spoons, and tin cooking utensils were their 
 chief goods. "They possess in general horses and 
 carts, and they form their temporary camp by each 
 whomling his cart upside down, and forming a lodge- 
 ment with straw and bedding beneath. Cooking is 
 performed outside the craal in gipsy fashion. There 
 could not perhaps be witnessed in the present day 
 in Britain a more amusing and interesting scene, 
 illustrative of a rude period, than is here annually 
 exhibited." Even in those degenerate days the Fair 
 was still officially proclaimed open by officials re- 
 presenting the Fair's overlord, his Grace the Duke 
 of Buccleuch. At the door of a barn, adjoining 
 the present blacksmith's house, a representative of 
 the firm of Messrs. Curie & Erskine, Melrose, the 
 Duke's lawyers, took his stand. A few yards in 
 front of him were two men, also supplied by the 
 lawyers, each carrying a halberd, and between them 
 came a drummer, gorgeous in knee-breeches, buckled 
 shoes, green coat with brass buttons, and a lofty 
 "lum hat." The last to hold the honourable post 
 of drummer, and to hold it for many years, was an 
 ex-soldier, David Stoddart by name, but better known 
 as ** Black Davie." From Nisbet, near Ancrum, 
 
 352 
 
ST. BOSWELL'S FAIR 
 
 (for five shillings and his " denner ") Davie tramped 
 to the Green in his gorgeous attire as each 18th of 
 July came round. Punctually at 8 a.m. he appeared 
 on the Green, and with all the dignity befitting a 
 drummer of the Duke of Buccleuch he marched to a 
 house in the east end of the village, where the long- 
 shaped drum that had done duty for generations 
 rested on all other days of the year. Back again 
 to the barn he solemnly processed, and, having taken 
 his place between the halberdiers and in front of 
 the lawyer, he beat a loud tattoo, and in a voice 
 to be heard above all the din of buyers and sellers, 
 he made the official proclamation of the opening of 
 the Fair. Round the Fair then marched the ducal 
 quartette, stopping six or eight times amongst 
 craims and horse- coupers to beat the drum and to 
 make a solemn proclamation in a voice to overawe 
 all rowdy tinkers and quarrelsome Border folk. 
 
 Not always did the crowds on the Green readily 
 make way for the representatives of law and order, 
 and a fifth man was usually enlisted at St. Boswells to 
 clear the way for the official procession. For many 
 years this duty fell upon " Chairlie " Lamb, who died 
 in 1893 at a ripe old age. Chairlie acted as precentor 
 in the Parish Church, and he was a very much be- 
 wildered member of the congregation who, Fair Day 
 having fallen on a Saturday some fifty years ago, 
 woke up to find himself no longer in a tent on the 
 Green but in a straight-backed pew and yet with 
 
 353 z 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 Chairlie*s familiar face in front of him. How he 
 had arrived in church with decency and decorum 
 it is hard to say, for sleep had speedily marked him 
 for her own, and the whisky of yesterday still con- 
 fused his brain. Painful alike for minister and for 
 congregation was it when the awakened sleeper 
 addressed himself to the precentor in a bawl of 
 anxious inquiry : '* Chairlie^ are the tents a' doon 
 yet ? " he asked, only too late to realise that he was 
 a day behind the Fair. 
 
 The barn from whence the officials started in 
 procession was a most important part of the Fair, 
 for half of it was partitioned off for the banking 
 business of the market, while the other half was used 
 as a dining-room. 
 
 One who knew the Fair in those days — although 
 it is forty years since the last of the drummers beat 
 his last tattoo on the Green — says that roast lamb 
 and green peas, gooseberry tarts, and all the liquids 
 that any thirsty man could desire, were carried over 
 from the " Buccleuch Arms " to the barn, and that 
 gorgeous indeed was the feast that was always pro- 
 vided. The five officials, as was natural, were the 
 honoured guests at the feast, and even the solemn- 
 visaged representative of the law, as well as all the 
 others, is said to have "turned awfu' cheery." 
 
 For outsiders who became over cheery, and for 
 those whose tempers or honesty could not stand 
 the strain of the long day's festivity, the stocks 
 
 354 
 
ST. BOSWELL'S FAIR 
 
 stood in readiness, on the knowe close to the barn. 
 They could accommodate eight offenders, lying 
 alternately head to heels, and up till 1870 they were 
 still exhibited as a terror to evil-doers, although 
 for twenty years or so before then they had gaped 
 in beseeching emptiness. 
 
 One well versed in all old Border lore, and more 
 particularly in the lore of his own village of St. 
 Boswells, and to whom we are indebted for much 
 interesting information, writes that "at one time 
 rowdies at the Fair were tried and sent on to 
 Jedburgh by cart, for a few days." Probably those 
 were the days when there was much cracking 
 of skulls amongst representatives of rival Border 
 towns and amongst gipsy septs with vendettas 
 between them. How often have the cries of 
 " Teribus ! " of " Jethart's here ! " sounded on the 
 Green ? How often have the Kelso folk insulted 
 those from Jedburgh with the shouted taunt of 
 ** Pride and Poverty," to have hurled back at them 
 the insult, only to be wiped out by blood, of *' Doo 
 Tairts an' Herrin' Pies!" And when a party of 
 lads from Selkirk noted a party of lads from Gala 
 shiels and chanted aloud the horrible insult — 
 
 " Galashiels herons, lockit in a box, 
 Daurna show their faces 
 For Selkirk game cocks/' 
 
 who was to blame if many a Selkirk face was un- 
 showable for weeks to come ? 
 
 355 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 It was in 1849 that a lively argument between a 
 Scotchman and one of the Irish navvies, who were 
 then engaged in making the railway that took the 
 place of Mr. Scade's projected canal, led to grim 
 tragedy. An Irishman, mad-drunk, was arrested by 
 the police, but some thirty or more of his navvy 
 friends effected a rescue. It was at a late hour in 
 the afternoon, when whisky had overcome discretion, 
 and although the " muggers," one and all, kept dis- 
 creetly aloof, the villagers and the herds at once 
 threw in their lot with the police. Soon there were 
 " wigs on the Green." The combatants knocked 
 down the craims and smashed the legs off them 
 to take the place of shillelaghs. Out of Ireland a 
 better riot was never seen. 
 
 But suddenly the fight came to an end, and half- 
 tipsy men, and others swiftly sobered, with black 
 eyes, broken heads, and bleeding faces, slunk away 
 from the field of battle as quickly as might be. For 
 a Scottish herd, a man named Lauder, lay dead on 
 St. Bos wells Green, and that black word " Murder " 
 penetrated even the tipsiest intelligence. One who 
 strolled along the road to St. Boswells that evening 
 heard, afar off, sounds that made him wonder what 
 could be happening at the Fair, and soon met 
 men and women, white-faced and horror-struck, 
 hurrying homeward like the frightened fugitives of a 
 defeated army. 
 
 Next day a company of dragoons from Edin- 
 
 356 
 
ST. BOSWELL'S FAIR 
 
 burgh came clattering up to where the huts of the 
 Irish navvies stood above a cutting, arrested some 
 of the ringleaders, and took them off to Jedburgh, 
 There they were tried, and one of them, protesting 
 his innocence to the end, was the last of all the 
 victims to " Jethart Justice" — the last man publicly 
 hanged at Jedburgh. Years later one of his fellow- 
 countrymen, dying in America, confessed that it 
 was he himself who should have swung for that evil 
 day's work at " Bosil's Fair." 
 
 Even in our own degenerate times there are 
 still fights and drunken men to remind us that the 
 good old days are not yet quite gone, and that 
 whisky is still the national beverage, but there 
 are no longer sheep and Iambs and black cattle, 
 and the horses for sale are neither in number nor 
 in quality what once they were. Eight hundred 
 to a thousand horses were frequently at the Fair, 
 but in 1911 their numbers were down to five 
 hundred. Ten years ago the valued rental of " The 
 Customs of St. Boswell's Fair," was £4, 4^. 9rf., 
 and the ** tenant" — ^the Duke of Buccleuch being 
 proprietor — held the right of putting a chalk mark 
 on the forehead of each horse, mule, or pony 
 brought within the Fair ground for sale, and 
 charged its owner twopence for doing so. The 
 rent may have been reduced since then. If not, 
 Basils Fair Day must be an anxious one for that 
 special tenant of the Duke. In Parson Scade's 
 
 357 z 2 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 day, as much as £53 was paid by the tenant for 
 the day's rent of the *' Customs," and presumably 
 it was an investment that paid him handsomely. 
 
 The class known by respectable cottagers as 
 ''ganging folk" are now the chief patrons of the 
 Fair. '' Muggers," as the degenerate, hybrid de- 
 scendants of the gipsies are called, are all still, 
 like their more worthy forbears, thorough-bred 
 horse-coupers, and gallop their sorry crocks out 
 with much noise and a running accompaniment 
 of blasphemy. Brown-faced lads clatter their steeds 
 along the highway as though they were riding a 
 Derby finish, to the terror of all quiet foot-passen- 
 gers. A few broken-down cart horses, dejected and 
 drooping-headed, looking as though their destina- 
 tion should be that Home for the horse whose day 
 is done — the Duke's Kennels on the Green — are 
 chaffered for by carters and gipsy folk. A string 
 or two of horses brought forward by a Cumberland 
 horse-couper probably slightly raises the dismal 
 average of horseflesh displayed. 
 
 There are still craims, but linen, hardware, 
 and even crockery are no longer the wares sold 
 there. Gimcrack watches, ** swagger sticks," toys, 
 and ornaments, and sweets of rich aniline colours are 
 the chief commodities on the stalls. The " kisses " 
 of one's youth — dumpy, three-cornered things like 
 pincushions, striped in pink and white, or in more 
 sober cream and brown — have given place to modern 
 
 358 
 
ST. BOSWELL'S FAIR 
 
 confections. No longer can they aid the bashful 
 ploughman to make his declaration, and he has 
 to trust to "reading sweeties" (whose amatory 
 conversationalism possesses none of the subtleties 
 or symbolisms of the triangular confection of olden 
 days) to do his love-making for him. Gingerbread 
 horses and horsemen, speckled with coloured cara- 
 way seeds, or richly gilded, no longer abound. 
 The lover and his lass are forced to exchange 
 tokens of affection of a less edible nature. 
 
 In a Roxburghshire family there is a tale of a 
 virtuous married lady of property who, being near 
 death, caused a relation to disinter from amongst 
 the most sacred of her Lares and Penates a ginger- 
 bread man on horseback. He and his steed were 
 pale and attenuated with age, and much of the 
 gilt was rubbed off. But, for the dying lady, the 
 gilding still remained. Many years had passed since 
 the young lover who first rode into her heart — the 
 man she did not marry — ^brought it to her from 
 St. Boswell's Fair. Many fairs had come and gone 
 since he was laid in his grave, yet for her the 
 gingerbread cavalier still remained the symbol for 
 Love's young dream. 
 
 Vendors of potato chips and of penny ices now 
 ply a busy trade. Shooting galleries and Aunt 
 Sallies — " Penny a throw, gentlemen ! Penny a 
 throw ! " — enliven the proceedings. Merry - go - 
 rounds, their pawing horses all a-snort, driven by 
 
 359 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 steam, and urged on in their mad career by the 
 raucous strains of a gramophone, gladden youthful 
 hearts. Swinging - boats, like their rivals the 
 Channel steamers, take on board rosy - cheeked 
 '*bondagers" and their swains, and eject them 
 after a brief but stormy passage, during which the 
 pea-hen quality of the fair passengers' screams have 
 made even the gramophone appear pianissimo. They 
 are pallid past recognition, but their courage is 
 dauntless. Half an hour for recovery, and back 
 they come. 
 
 Now and again, at the fringe of the Fair, 
 one may come on a fortune-teller — "An Epping 
 gipsy, my lady" — who, in the privacy of her 
 exquisitely clean caravan, will tell the blushing 
 maiden all about the dark man who wants to marry 
 her, and the fair man that she loves; the dark 
 woman who wishes her ill, the fortune coming 
 across the seas, and the fourteen children that are 
 to crown her joys. But the Law is down on 
 fortune-telling, and those who wish to pry into 
 the future may hunt amongst the brown-faced 
 families who are eating savoury, onion-scented 
 stews by the fires in front of their caravans, and 
 find never a man, woman, or child who has ever 
 heard of a gipsy fortune-teller. Occasionally, but 
 by no means always, the gift of a shilling may 
 accelerate the search. The decadent ** mugger " 
 knows no necromancy. His conjuring tricks are 
 
 360 
 
ST. BOSWELL'S FAIR 
 
 of a lower order, and are confined to the acquisi- 
 tion of unconsidered trifles and to the safe disposi- 
 tion of mixed bags of game brought to him by 
 his lurcher, which is a member of the criminal classes, 
 a dog entirely devoid of morals. 
 
 Most popular of the entertainments on the Green 
 is probably the Penny Music Hall. Up steps and 
 down again, while a drum is thumped and a gramo- 
 phone brays, we walk into a tent where there is 
 barely standing room and where we are fairly seethed 
 in heat. It is there that we find the evergreen lady 
 with very red cheeks and very golden hair, with whom 
 all the callowest amongst the young hinds and shep- 
 herds are in love, as their fathers were before them. 
 When she has sung the very latest popular song — 
 and she pioneers the vocal fashions of London — and 
 has received an encore fit to warm the most hardened 
 diva's heart, she picks kisses from her mouth and 
 throws them at the audience with such force and 
 with such an appearance of their being something 
 hard and tangible, that her admirers intuitively duck 
 their heads. Her voice may not be of the same order 
 as that of Madame Tetrazzini, but she sings with 
 all her might. Moreover she is audible, much more 
 than audible, to the children who bestride the horses 
 of the merry-go-round in the immediate vicinity and 
 who take their giddy exercise to the strains of 
 " Stop your ticklin', Jock," delivered by the most 
 brazen and unabashed of gramophones, and she 
 
 361 
 
NORTH AND SOUTH OF TWEED 
 
 wears short skirts, and delightful high-heeled boots, 
 and flowers in her hair, and can do clog dances. 
 What more would you ? In the same variety 
 entertainment we have the trapezists and low 
 comedians. The carping might say the very low 
 comedians, but they have measured the wit of 
 their audience, and a very red-painted nose gives 
 a point to the flattest of jokes. 
 
 " D'ye mind yon yin at Codlin's last Bosil's Fair ? " 
 asks one ploughman of another during the ensuing 
 winter, and the cachinnation that follows, throws 
 even the tale of old Grouse in the gun-room into the 
 shade. The jest is probably no broader, if as broad, 
 as those of the royal jesters who in bygone days set 
 courts a-roar. 
 
 Such a jester rode through St. Boswells on a 
 September day in 1310, when Edward II of Eng- 
 land marched across the Border, by way of St. 
 Boswells and Selkirk, on his way to humble Robert 
 the Bruce, bringing his court fool and tame lion 
 in his train. But the Bruce it was who, four years 
 later, humbled the English king, and the Eildons 
 looked down on haggard fugitives falling before 
 the iron-tipped Jethart staves of the men of the 
 Border. 
 
 They have looked down on many a shifting scene, 
 have those three crests that rule the Border plain. 
 The march of civilisation has gone steadily on, and 
 old things have been swept away as the advancing 
 
 362 
 
ST. BOSWELL'S FAIR 
 
 tide sweeps the fragments of stick and seaweed on 
 the shore. St. Boswell's Fair is there still, but the 
 lap of the waves is very close to it. In another 
 couple of generations, perhaps even in one, the 
 place that knew it shall know it no more for ever. 
 Sic transit gloria muiidi. 
 
 Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson 6* Co. 
 -ija Edinburgh 6^ London 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 A LAND OF ROMANCE 
 
 THE BORDER 
 ITS HISTORY AND LEGEND 
 
 By jean LANG 
 
 (Mrs. John Lang) 
 
 WITH SIX PLATES IN PHOTOGRAVURE 
 FROM PAINTINGS BY TOM SCOTT, R.S.A. 
 
 SECOND IMPRESSION 
 
 "This is one of those historical books which 
 attracts lovers of the past by its inviting pages 
 with large and open margin, its fair quarto shape, 
 and its freedom from any forbidding apparatus of 
 learning. There are few writers who can handle 
 place-history written in this spirit better than Mrs. 
 Lang. . . . The illustrations are few but good, 
 which gain rather than lose in poetic suggestion 
 by the absence of colour." — The Times. 
 
 " In brief, Mrs. Lang has produced a fascinat- 
 ing volume of history and tradition, tingling with 
 emotion. No one will be able to rise from a 
 perusal of her vivid pages without feeling prouder 
 than ever of the Border, and especially of that 
 stretch of it lying to the north." — Glasgow News, 
 
 Square 8vo, cloth gilt, 7s. 6d. net. 
 
 Edinbuegh & London: T. C. & E. 0. JACK 
 
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