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Convey a kiss from his dear mouth,
And tell me how he fareth!
"But in the glen strive armed men;
They've wrought me dole and sorrow;
"As she sped down yon high, high hill,
She gaed wi' dole and sorrow,
And in the den, spied ten slain men,
"She kissed his cheek, she kaimed his hair,
"Now, haud your tongue, my daughter, dear!
Than him ye lost on Yarrow.'
"O haud your tongue, my father, dear! Ye mind me but of sorrow;
A fairer rose did never bloom,
Than now lies cropped on Yarrow.'"
As we proceed downwards from the Dowie Houms of Yarrow, the banks of the river contract, and the scenery becomes more picturesque, and nothing can be more romantic than the old place of Hangingshaw, for ages the property of that ancient family the Murrays of Philiphaugh, but now belonging to Mr. Johnstone of Alva. The castle, which stood on a commanding terrace, about half-way up the hill on the left bank of the river, was unfortunately burned by accident about seventy years ago, when Miss Murray of Philiphaugh, sister of the present laird, the lady who was afterwards mother of the present Sir John Murray Nasmyth, of Posso, was saved from the flames as a child, by being extricated through a small window. Nothing now remains of the ruins but a few feet of the wall and some outhouses. There was great grief in the country in consequence of this misfortune, as the proprietor and his family were much beloved for their many virtues-virtues which have not been lost in the person of his present representative, the brother of Lady Nasmyth, whom we have had for some years the advantage of knowing and respecting, as one of the most honourable, upright, and straightforward gentlemen This with whom we have ever been acquainted. was certainly the building which is so pointedly noticed in the old ballad of the Song of the Outlaw Murray," who was an ancestor of the present family. The ballad itself is too long for entire quotation, but thus it begins :
"Ettricke Foreste is a fair foreste,
In it grows manie a semelie trie;
There's the picture of a knight, and a ladye bright,
His merryemen are a' in ae liverye clad,
O! gin they lived not royallie!"
This bold and gallant knight was in no other
"The king was coming through Cadon Ford,
They thought it awsome for to see."
But the king, unwilling to proceed to extremities with a knight who appears to have been of noble and gallant courage and character, expresses a desire to treat, and at last, after much negotiation, he grants such terms, at Murray's request, that he cannot refuse to accept of them, and so he at once becomes a faithful and powerful vassal
of the crown.
"Thir landis of Ettricke Foreste fair,
"All the nobilis the king about,
Said pity it were to see him dee-
"I'll give the keys of my castell,
Wi' the blessing o' my gay ladye,
"Wilt thou give me the keys of thy castell,
I'll make thee sheriffe of Ettricke Foreste,
Murray, with great honour to himself, then pro-
We never can forget that delicious day of idleness which we spent amidst the shades of Hangingshaw. The umbrage of the timber is magnificent, and what we most rejoiced in were the Scott tells us that Mr. Plummer, the sheriff- rows of grand old yew trees, which are such as depute of Selkirkshire, had assured him, that he are rarely to be met with. The scene is altowell remembered the insignia of the unicorns ex-gether a woodland one, and it exhibits the reisting on the old Tower of Hangingshaw.
"There an outlaw keepis five hundred men; He keepis a royalle cumpanie!
mains of symmetrical gardening, run, by neglect, into wildness. How we wished to have been able to have reared up the old house again, as if with
the wand of a magician, even if the consequence had been that we should have been compelled to drink off the famous "Hangingshaw Ladle" full of that potent ale which, whilst the ancient family flourished here, always stood on tap to slake the thirst of all comers whatsoever.
growing, natural oaks, and overgrown with the richest herbage of plants that artist could desire, whilst the stream itself rushes fiercely and precipitously along, boiling, eddying, and sparkling among the rocks and stones, producing the utmost animation and variety. A walk conducts along the right bank, and the whole forms a part of the grounds of his Grace the Duke of Buccleuch's hunting seat of Bowhill, which, with its extensive plantations, may be said to fill the whole
Passing the modern place of Broadmeadows the situation of which, on the left bank, is very charming, we come next to Newark Castle, on the right bank-perhaps the most interesting object on the whole stream of the Yarrow, whe-space lying within the point of junction of the ther we consider its picturesque effect, its ro- Ettrick and Yarrow. mantic situation, or the many interesting associations that are connected with it. Its name of Newark seems to have been given to it to distinguish it from a much more ancient castle which once stood so where in this neighbourhood, called Auld Wark, which is said to have been founded by Alexander III. Both were originally designed for the residence of the sovereign when he went to hunt in Ettrick Forest. It scens to have been held by the celebrated outlaw | Murray, and to have at that time formed part of the property regarding which he negotiated with James V. In later times it was granted to the family of Buccleuch, who made it an occasional residence for more than a century. Here, it is said, that the Duchess of Monmouth and Buceleuch was brought up, and it was probably for this reason that Sir Walter Scott chose to adopt it as the scene in which the old harper is made to chaunt the "Lay of the Last Minstrel" for her amusement.
"He passed where Newark's stately tower
A horrible association is attached to the courtyard of this castle, for here it is said that General Leslie, the conqueror at Philiphaugh, did summary military execution on some of the prisoners taken there, and we do not shudder the less at this cruelty, that we happen to have his blood in our veins.
On the opposite bank of the river stands an humble cottage, nestled among the wood; but hvely and unpretending as its roof may be, it may well claim to be noticed among the proudest of the objects of which this highly favoured Yarrow can boast. Here it was that the justly celebrated and enterprising Mungo Park first saw the light. The name of the farm is Fowlshiels.
We know of few rivers, cither in the Highlands or Lowlands, which afford more beautiful rocky scenery than the Yarrow does here. Its steep banks are fringed with the most elegant, free
A little way below Newark, but on the left bank of the river, is the Harehead wood, where Mr. Murray, of Philiphaugh, has built himself a very pretty residence. And still lower down than this, lies the extensive battle-plain of Philiphaugh, opposite to the town of Selkirk. Before crossing to Selkirk we shall hastily touch on some of the circumstances connected with the battle. It appears to be most strange that Leslie could have advanced with his small army by so long and circuitous a route towards Philiphaugh without Montrose, who was living in Selkirk, having been made aware of it. But the fact is, the Marquis was so hated by the people about here, that no information was allowed to reach him. On the other hand, every one seems to have been ready to assist Leslie, and certain willing and faithful guides whom he fell in with, conducted a portion of his small force, round by a circuitous path, in such a way as to place it directly in rear of the Royal army. The surprise was sudden and fatal, and Montrose himself was so little prepared for it, that he had hardly time to reach the field of battle, so as to participate in the defeat. We have seen a curious silver locket, found on the field of Philiphaugh, and now in the possession of Mr. Graham of Lynedoch. It is heart-shaped-on one side there is carved a long straight heavy sword, and below it a winged heart, showing probably that it belonged to a Douglas-on the other side is a heart pierced through with darts, with the motto, "I live and dye for loyaltye." On opening it, there is engraven on the inside of the lid, "I mourne for Monarchic," and the locket contains a most beautiful minute alto-relievo likeness of Montrose. Now let us sing
"Up wi' the sutors o' Selkirk." for honester or baulder fellows are nowhere to be found. We, for our part, shall never forget the circumstance of our being invited by them to a large meeting, which was got up expressly in our honour, and where we had the satisfaction of being listened to with great attention by them and the good and true men of Galashiels, who likewise appeared there, whilst we unfolded to them some of our liberal doctrines. These were the descendants of those brave men who marched to Flodden, and perished in that fatal field. That exquisitely beautiful song, the "Flowers of the Forest," as it is now known, was composed by a lady in Roxburghshire many years ago, to the ancient tune of the old ballad, the words of which are now almost en
"I've heard them lilting, at the ewe milking,
Close to Selkirk is one of the most lovely and unique spots which is anywhere to be found we mean "The Haining." We never shall forget the wonderful effect of this scene when we were first introduced to it as a juvenile angler. It appeared to us rather like some dream of the fancy than anything real. And, alas! we cannot, without deep grief, recal our last visit to this spot of fairy-land, which took place a short time previous to the death of our friend, Mr. Pringle, of Clifton, the late proprietor. The house, of large size and, in some respects, somewhat Italian in its style, is found standing on a long architectural terrace, hanging over one of the most beautiful
and peaceful-looking lakes that ever was seen. The banks of the lake, as they recede from the eye into the deer-park, are lawny, and charmingly wooded. The terrace is ornamented with fine statues, and, in short, the tout ensemble is like a scene freshly imported from Italy. And at the time we last saw it, as already alluded to, it was, indeed, altogether Italian; for the heat was so intense that we could not exist in the house, and, accordingly, our evenings were spent sitting listlessly on the terrace, watching the gamekeepers fishing from the boats with their nets, and in the enjoyment of the lovely scene and balmy air, and occasionally puffing a cigar, or imbibing a refreshing draught of hock and soda-water. Alas! our amiable and kind host is now no more!
Below Selkirk, the valley of the Ettrick widens, . and the river presents few objects of interest until its junction with the Tweed, which we have already had occasion to notice, takes place immediately below Sunderland Hall.
BY THOMAS DE QUINCEY.
Ar a very early age commenced my own inte- | defying radical extirpation. What I heard read rest in the mystery that surrounds secret socie-aloud from the Abbé gave that dreadful cancerous ties; the mystery being often double-1. What they do; and 2. What they do it for. Except as to the premature growth of this interest, there was nothing surprising in that. For everybody that is by nature meditative must regard, with a feeling higher than any vulgar curiosity, small fraternities of men forming themselves as separate and inner vortices within the great vortex of society, communicating silently in broad daylight by signals not even seen, but if seen, not understood except among themselves, and connected by the link either of purposes not safe to be avowed, or by the grander link of awful truths which, merely to shelter themselves from the hostility of an age unprepared for their reception, must retire, perhaps for generations, behind thick curtains of secrecy. To be hidden amidst crowds is sublime to come down hidden amongst crowds from distant generations, is doubly sublime.
character to the plot against Christianity. This plot, by the Abbé's account, stretched its horrid fangs, and threw out its forerunning feelers and tentacles into many nations, and more than one century. That perplexed me, though also fascinating me by its grandeur. How men, living in distant periods and distant places-men that did not know each other, nay, often had not even heard of each other, nor spoke the same languages-could yet be parties to the same treason against a mighty religion towering to the highest heavens, puzzled my comprehension. Then, also, when wickedness was so easy, why did they take all this trouble to be wicked? The how and the why were alike mysterious to me. Yet the Abbé, everybody said, was a good man; incapable of telling falsehoods, or of countenancing falsehoods; and, indeed, to say that was superfluous as regarded myself; for every man that wrote a book The first incident in my own childish expe- was in my eyes an essentially good man, being a rience that threw my attention upon the possibi- revcaler of hidden truth. Things in MS. might lity of such dark associations, was the Abbé be doubtful, but things printed were unavoidably Baruel's book, soon followed by a similar book of and profoundly true. So that if I questioned Professor Robison's, in demonstration of a regu- and demurred as hotly as an infidel would have lar conspiracy throughout Europe for extermi- done, it never was that by the slightest shade I nating Christianity. This I did not read, but I had become tainted with the infirmity of sceptiheard it read and frequently discussed. I had cism. On the contrary, I believed everybody as already Latin enough to know that cancer meant well as everything. And, indeed, the very starta crab, and that the disease so appalling to a ing-point of my too importunate questions was child's imagination, which in English we call a exactly that incapacity of scepticism-not any cancer, as soon as it has passed beyond the state lurking jealousy that even part might be false, of an indolent schirrous tumour, drew its name but confidence too absolute that the whole must from the horrid claws, or spurs, or roots, by which be true; since the more undeniably a thing was it connected itself with distant points, running certain, the more clamorously I called upon underground, as it were, baffling detection, and people to make it intelligible. Other people,
when they could not comprehend a thing, had often a resource in saying, "But, after all, perhaps it's a lie." I had no such resource. A lie was impossible in a man that descended upon earth in the awful shape of four volumes octavo. Such a great man as that was an oracle for me, far beyond Dodona or Delphi. The same thing occurs in another form to everybody. Often (you know)-alas! too often-one's dear friend talks something, which one scruples to call " rigmarole," but which, for the life of one (it becomes necessary to whisper), cannot be comprehended. Well, after puzzling over it for two hours, you say, "Come, that's enough; two hours is as much time as I can spare in one life for one unintelligibility." And then you proceed, in the most tranquil frame of mind, to take coffee as if nothing had happened. The thing does not haunt your sleep; for you say, "My dear friend, after all, was perhaps unintentionally talking nonsense." But how if the thing that puzzles you happens to be a phenomenon in the sky or the clouds-something said by Nature? Nature never talks nonsense. There's no getting rid of the thing in that way. You can't call that "rigmarole." As to your dear friend, you were sceptical; and the consequence was, that you were able to be tranquil. There was a valve in reserve, by which your perplexity could escape. But as to Nature, you have no scepticism at all; you believe in her to a most bigoted extent; you believe every word she says. And that very belief is the cause that you are disturbed daily by something which you cannot understand. Being true, the thing ought to be intelligible. And exactly because it is not exactly because this horrid unintelligibility is denied the comfort of doubt-therefore it is that you are so unhappy. If you could once make up your mind to doubt and to think, "Oh, as to Nature, I don't believe one word in ten that she says," then and there you would become as tranquil as when your dearest friend talks nonsense. My purpose, as regarded Baruel, was not tentative, as if presumptuously trying whether I should like to swallow a thing, with an arriére pensée that, if not palatable, I might reject it, but simply the preparatory process of a boa-constrictor lubricat-ments, which I really sorrowed over and bemoaned, ing the substance offered, whatever it might be, towards its readier deglutition; that result, whether easy or not easy, being one that followed at any rate.
chronological relations to myself, used greatly to puzzle me; because, as the interval between us had diminished, within the memory of man, so rapidly, that, from being five times younger, I found myself less than four times younger, the natural inference seemed to be, that, in a few years, I should not be younger at all, but might come to be the older of the two; in which case, I should certainly have "taken my change" out of the airs she continually gave herself on the score of "experience." That decisive word "experience" was, indeed, always a sure sign to me that I had the better of the argument, and that it had become necessary, therefore, suddenly to pull me up in the career of victory by a violent exertion of authority; as a knight of old, at the very moment when he would else have unhorsed his opponent, was often frozen into unjust inactivity by the king's arbitrary signal for parting the tilters. It was, however, only when very hard pressed that my fair antagonist took this not fair advantage in our daily tournaments. Generally, and if I showed any moderation in the assault, she was rather pleased with the sharp rattle of my rolling musketry. Objections she rather liked, and questions, as many as one pleased upon the pourquoi, if one did not go on to le pourquoi du pourquoi. That, she said, was carrying things too far excess in anything she disapproved. Now, there I differed from her: excess was the thing I doated on. The fun seemed to me only beginning, when she asserted that it had already over-stepped the limits of propricty." Ha! those limits, I thought, were soon reached.
The person, who chiefly introduced me to Baruel, was a lady, a stern lady, and austere, not only in her manners, which made most people dislike her, but also in the character of her understanding and morals-a s—an advantage which made most people afraid of her. Me, however, she treated with unusual indulgence, chiefly, I believe, because I kept her intellectuals in a state of exercise, nearly amounting to persecution. She was just five times my age when our warfare of disputation commenced, I being seven, she thirty-five; and she was not quite four times my age when our warfare terminated by sudden separation, I being then ten, and she thirty-eight. This change, by the way, in the multiple that expressed her
But, however much or often I might vault over the limits of propriety, or might seem to challenge both her and the Abbé-all this was but anxiety to reconcile my own secret belief in the Abbé, with the arguments for not believing; it was but the form assumed by my earnest desire to see how the learned gentleman could be right, whom my intense faith certified beyond all doubt to be so, and whom, equally, my perverse logical recusancy whispered to be continually in the wrong. I wished to see my own rebellious argu
knocked down like ninepins; shown to be softer than cotton, frailer than glass, and utterly worthless in the eye of reason. All this, indeed, the stern lady assured me that she had shown over and over again. Well, it might be so; and to this, at any rate, as a decree of court, I saw a worldly prudence in submitting. But, probably, I must have looked rather grim, and have wished devoutly for one fair turn-up, on Salisbury plain, with herself and the Abbé, in which case my heart told me how earnestly I should pray that they might for ever floor me, but how melancholy a conviction oppressed my spirits that my destiny was to floor them. Victorious, I should find my belief and my understanding in painful schism: beaten and demolished, I should find my whole nature in harmony with itself.
The mysteriousness to me of men becoming partners (and by no means sleeping partners) in
But the particular motive relied upon by the stern lady, as the central spring of the anti-Christian movement, being obviously insufficient for the weight which it had to sustain, naturally the lady, growing sensible of this herself, became still sterner; very angry with me; and not quite satisfied, in this instance, with the Abbé. Yet, after all, it was not any embittered remembrance of our eternal feuds, in dusting the jacket of the Abbé Baruel, that lost me, ultimately, the favour of this austere lady. All that she forgave; and especially because she came to think the Abbé as bad as myself, for leaving such openings to my inroads. It was on a question of politics that our deadliest difference arose, and that my deadliest sarcasm was launched; not against herself, but against the opinion and party which she adopted. I was right, as usually I am; but, on this occasion, must have been, because I stood up (as a patriot, intolerant, to frenzy, of all insult directed against dear England); and she, though otherwise patriotic enough, in this instance ranged herself in alliance with a false anti-national sentiment. My sarcasm was not too strong for the case. But certainly I ought to have thought it too strong for the presence of a lady; whom, or any of her sex, on a matter of politics in these days, so much am I changed, I would allow to chace me, like a foot-ball, all round the tropics, rather than offer the least show of resistance. But my excuse was childhood; and, though it may be true, as the reader will be sure to remind me, that she was rapidly growing down to my level in that. respect, still she had not quite reached it; so that there was more excuse for me, after all, than for her. She was no longer five times as old, or even four; but when she would come down to be two times as old, and one time as old, it was hard to say.
a society of which they had never heard; or, | may be a stronger force for action than any motive again, of one fellow standing at the beginning of of hatred, however rational, or grounded in selfa century, and stretching out his hand as an interest. accomplice towards another fellow standing at the end of it, without either having known of the other's existence-all that did but sharpen the interest of wonder that gathered about the general economy of secret societies. Tertullian's profession of believing things, not in spite of being impossible, but because they were impossible, is not the extravagance that most people suppose it. There is a deep truth in it. Many are the things which, in proportion as they attract the highest modes of belief, discover a tendency to repel belief on that part of the scale which is governed by the lower understanding. And here, as so often elsewhere, the axiom, with respect to extremes meeting, manifests its subtle presence. The highest form of the incredible, is sometimes the initial form of the credible. But the point on which our irreconcilability was greatest, respected the cui bono of this alleged conspiracy. What were the conspirators to gain by success? and nobody pretended that they could gain anything by failure. The lady replied that, by obliterating the light of Christianity, they prepared the readiest opening for the unlimited gratification of their odious appetites and passions. But to this the retort was too obvious to escape anybody, and for me it threw itself into the form of that pleasant story, reported from the life of Pyrrhus the Epirot-viz., that one day, upon a friend requesting to know what ulterior purpose the king might mask under his expedition to Sicily, "why, after that is finished," replied the king, "I mean to administer a little correction (very much wanted) to certain parts of Italy, and particularly to that nest of rascals in Latium.” “And then—” said the friend: "and then," said Pyrrhus, "next we go for Macedon; and, after that job's jobbed, next, of course, for Greece." "Which done," said the friend: "which done," interrupted the king, "as done it shall be, then Thus I had good reason for remembering my we're off to tickle the Egyptians." "Whom first introduction to the knowledge of Secret Sohaving tickled," pursued the friend, "then we' cieties, since this knowledge introduced me to -"tickle the Persians," said the king. "But the more gloomy knowledge of the strife which after that is done," urged the obstinate friend, gathers in clouds over the fields of human life; "whither next?" 66 'Why, really man, it's hard and to the knowledge of this strife in two shapes, to say; you give one no time to breathe; but one of which none of us fail to learn-the perwe'll consider the case in Persia, and, until we've sonal strife which is awakened so eternally by settled it, we can crown ourselves with roses, and difference of opinion, or difference of interest; the pass the time pleasantly enough over the best other, which is felt, perhaps, obscurely by all, wine to be found in Ecbatana." "That's a very but distinctly noticed only by the profoundly rejust idea," replied the friend; "but, with sub-flective, viz., the schism-so mysterious to those mission, it strikes me that we might do that just now, and, at the beginning of all these tedious wars, instead of waiting for their end." "Bless me!" said Pyrrhus, "if ever I thought of that before. Why, man, you're a conjurer; you've discovered a mine of happiness. So, here boy, bring us roses and plenty of Cretan wine." Surely, on the same principle, these French Encyclopédistes, and Bavarian Illuminati, did not need to postpone any jubilees of licentiousness which they promised themselves, to so very indefinite a period as their ovation over the ruins of Christianity. True, the impulse of hatred, even though irrational,
even who have examined it most-between the