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FAITH AND HOPE;

OR, THE HIGHLAND CABIN.

LOUD howl'd the wind; keen swept the blast
Along that bleak, wild, Highland moor ;
Whilst leaden clouds stooped down to cast
Thick flakes around each cabin door,
Until the low peat walls became

Half buried 'neath their drifting load;
And all things seemed enwrapped the same,
Nor trace of pass, or path, or road.
Ah madness 'twere to venture forth
To brave that mighty, wint'ry gale;
Dark rushing from the chilly north,
'Twill bring of wreck and death a tale!
Such was the scene without; but yet

Within that hut 'twas gloomier far;
For there grim Want his foot had set,
A happy home to blast, to mar:
A stinted fire still marked the hearth,
(Or, rather heaped upon the floor),
Whilst from the smould'ring blocks of earth
The thick brown smoke in volumes pour,
As if the vapour strove to shade

The drooping forms by anguish bent;
For there a meek, young face did fade,
Whilst raised to Heav'n her pray'r upwent,
So deep, so fervent, that she seemed

Like to some virgin saint of old;
As Faith and Hope around her gleamed,
Or sighs, half-checked, of suff' ring told.
Then ever and anon she turned

With anxious eye tow'rds one more lone;
One whom the voice of comfort scorned-
An aged, helpless, stricken crone.

The dame she rocked her to and fro
Within her wicker chair;

Her mutt' ring voice breathed sounds of woe,
Her eye bespoke despair ;

Her very life seemed turned to gall,
And thus her boding accents fall :-
"Howl on! howl on, ye dismal winds!

Such tones are meet for scenes like this,
Where gnawing famine refuge finds,

And death can scarcely come amiss! Four score twelve years have come and gone (A little space now that 'tis sped) Since first earth's dawn upon me shone,

But now 'tis night-aye, joy hath fled!
And was it on this very day,

Three score and ten short years ago,
That Donald fetched his bride away
To share his chequered lot below?
The bagpipe called a festive band,

Re-echoing up yon Highland glen;
For plenty smiled upon our land,

And rustic hearts were blithesome then! Yes, yes, these very clay-built walls

Seemed all a paradise to me; More prized than e'en our chieftain's halls, For, Donald, they were shared with thee! Years rolled apace, and with them came

Fresh blessings, for a smiling crew
Of urchins clustered round their dame;
Nor want we felt, nor discord knew.
Ah me! such bliss could never last;
Ay, sorrows came to press us sore;
Till, one by one, those dear ones past,
And left me, to return no more!
All vanished! whilst this heart was torn
With anguish-widowed, seared, and chilled.
Oh better had I ne'er been born,'

Since bitter dregs my cup hath filled!
Nay, chide me not with mute caress.
Poor orphan fain thine eyes would say,
That one at least my soul should bless
Ere that it bursts its house of clay.

Yes, Janet, all that I have known

For years of good is due to thee; Thy well-tried love, dear child, I own, Hath soothed me 'midst my penury; Thy father was my first-born pride,

The first to lisp a mother's name; He sank beneath the stormy tide

To fill his vacant place you came. Yes-bless thee, sweet one-half the tears I shed but now were for thy sake! For death a darker aspect wears

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Since mine must thee more lonely make.
Thou bid'st me hope, and pray, and trust,'.
But who will shield thee, Janet, then-
As this worn frame doth turn to dust?
Ah! sad must be the moment when,
First driven from this old roof-tree,
A wand'rer thou art forced to flee!"
The maiden's ruddy lip had pressed
In silence that wan withered cheek,
Then crouching at her side to rest,

In gentlest tones she turned to speak:
"Dear mother, cheer thee! better hours
Will come again; let us endure
This trial whilst misfortune low'rs;

For have we not the promise sure-
That God's own hand will prop and stay
The widow, orphan, in their need?
Drive, then, such dark'ning thoughts away,
For he will still the hungry feed;
The humble lily owns his care-

Why should his children shrink with dread? The faithful, too, his bounty share ;

'Lord, give us still our daily bread!'"'
The dame repeated, faint and slow,
Those sacred words; then, whisp'ring low,
She seemed as one constrained t' impart
The terrors of her stricken heart.
"Our daily bread!-'tis all but spent,
Though piously thou would'st conceal
That with a morsel thou'rt content
So long as I'm reserved a meal.
Ah can I watch without a pang

That pallid cheek and sunken eye?
Worse to endure than famine's fang;
For oh! 'tis mental agony!"

"Hush! mother, hush! I cannot bear
Desponding sighs from one so dear;
Our fellow-men have not forgot
The scourge that desolates this spot.
'Tis God's decree; yet we'll receive
Succour from those who such can give."

"And hath it come to this, that I
Must live on charity, or die?
That thought my very soul doth crush;
Child, ours was once a mighty clan,
That onward to the charge did rush,
Obedient to one high-born man
(Our chief)-and why? Strong ties of blood
Ran through each vein; each hardy Gael

Might gladly look to him for food;

Whilst his did last, ours ne'er could fail. But oh! those olden ties are rent

Those faithful hordes are scattered wide; A princely fortune, reckless spent,

Hath ruined all this country side.
No more the pibroch wild shall call
Each clansman on to victory;

A Southron claims our chieftain's hall.
(Sad, sad, I close my history.)
These broad lands teem with guarded game

(The badger slumbers in his dens)

We know of justice but the name---
They're barring up our very glens.
The deer-herds through their forest range-
For man alone is found no space!
Child, marvel not I feel the change,
Or that I hate each stranger face.
More, I our cabin homes have seen
Demolished, levelled with the ground;
Marked now by spots of vivid green,

Where once the peasant's hearth was found.
The autumn brings our new-made lord;

Our Gaelic tongue salutes his ears Like to some foreign harsh discordHow can he understand our fears? Far, far from us he may be kind,

Gen'rous, and true; but still our cry Can scarce his southern mansion find

Lost on that wailing blast 'twill die."

"Oh! why dwell on a theme so sad?

The darkest storm at length must cease, Dear mother mine. So Nature glad

Looks forth to smile on earth in peace. Have we not seen this mountain wild

In heather decked of brightest hue, As Summer kissed her northern child,

And fragrance breathed through mist and dew?

Those blossoms scarce were dried and gone
Ere kindling swift to wreaths of fire,
Each hill begirt with flaming zone,

Glowed like to some enormous pyre t
Yet each seared root will freshly spring
With double vigour. So this scourge
Will blessings to the humble bring.

Our very sufferings must urge

Our cause. Yes! hands that grasped before
Will learn to raise their brethren poor."

"Trust on, sweet child, for surely ne'er
Did young heart throb mid scenes more drear;
Youth buoys thee up; and that bright guest
Would bid thy soul securely rest.

'Tis well, for he to whom thou'st sworn
Thy faith is tardy of return.

I like it not, for well I ken,

Vows slightly bind the wills of men.

Allan may seek for other ties,

Some English home, 'neath softer skies,
Unmindful that the mountain flower

Blooms sweetest through misfortune's show'r."

As when the traveller, awed, doth gaze,
Watching the sun's declining rays

Where Mont Blanc tow'rs, midst endless snows,
Ilis monarch head-first like the rose,

*In travelling through the Highlands, last autumn, we remarked, in several places, patches of verdure much brighter in hue than the fields of which they formed a part. On inquiring the cause, we were told that each of those vivid spots marked the locality where a cabin had been razed to the ground. Numbers of the inmates thus ejected proceeded to Canada, and, we rejoice to find, have prospered in their new homes. (See "Hochelago," &c.) If, indeed, some method cannot be devised of providing remunerating employment for this class at home, it seems greatly to be desired that many more families should be similarly disposed of. Canada, and the fertile and rising colonies of New Zealand and Australia, can yield bread to more than the thousands now languishing or dragging on a miserable existence at home.

+ When watching (during clear frosty nights) the burning of wide tracts of heather, we felt that nothing could exceed the grandeur and beauty of the forms taken by the sheets of flame. Once, in particular, when the hill-side above Gare-Loch-Head suddenly seemed to ignite and take the appearance of an enormous palace, illumining the mountains behind, and then reflected in the calm loch beneath; yes! like to a fairy dream, the whole scene assumed the aspect of enchantment, such, indeed, as to baffle all description.

'Tis glowing flushed; then mark the change-
A death-like hue around doth range.
'Tis past th' unrivalled sight is gone,
Leaving that glorious, pure, white throne.
Such tints the maiden's cheek suffused,
As on her mother's words she mused.
A tear had trembled on her lid,
Then back the doubting drop was chid,
For Allan's name for her did sound
The dearest chord that earth had found.
Foreboding thoughts from her did fly
As thus she framed her meek reply :-
SONG.

"Our vows were softly spoken;
We asked no earthly token;
For love so true

Fades not in hue—

Once plighted, ne'er 'tis broken.

"His eye sought mine so fondly;
His voice was tuned so sweetly;
Such sounds are dear

To woman's ear-
They're treasured ever deeply.

"Hope lulls me when I'm sleeping;
She greets me when awaking;
Like angel bright

She glads my sight,

With flowers my pathway strewing.

"If there's a joy enduring-
A pleasure worth securing,
Sure it must prove
In mutual love
To one our all confiding.

“Like pure white heather blooming,
Where northern skies are glooming,
So shall e'er be

My love for thee-
Oh! tarry not in coming!"

She ceased her soft, wild, rustic air;
The dame's lips moved as if in prayer.
Perhaps that well-loved voice prevailed
Where words of comfort all had failed.
The door on noiseless hinge had turned,
The peats again more brightly burned,
Whilst through the cabin's smoky screen
A manly form was dimly seen.
Perchance the wand'rer's foot had stayed
To listen to that mountain maid;
For, shining by the flick'ring light,
His dark eye glistened with delight.
His shepherd's plaid of ample fold
Was cast aside. My tale is told-
Yes! thrilling was the cry that rung
As Janet to her lover clung,
Until her blushing face did rest,
Half hidden, on his throbbing breast.
Then came, in trembling accents broken,
Each dear loved name-half hushed, half spoken;
Proving, when with emotion fraught,
Sounds faintly shadow forth each thought.
But pass by love's still endless theme
To where the dame beheld the scene;
Nor long ere Allan sought her seat,
With kindly words her car to greet :-

"Mother, this blessed hour repays
The toil of many weary days.
See these bright pieces, how they shine-
They're Janet's, therefore they are thine.
Yes! I may claim that dear girl's vow;
Two children, dame, will watch thee now!
The fury of the storm is spent,
My heart reposes here content;
For well I know my Janet still
Will woman's holiest task fulfil.

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fishing in perfection; and, from the information we have had, we understand that the gentlemen, who pay a large rent for the angling, are most liberal in the manner in which they grant permission when they are properly applied to.

FROM the confidential habits that have grown | these will have every chance of enjoying salmonup between our courteous reader and ourselves, during the progress of this long undertaking, we scrupled not to tell him that it was written with the pencil. A like consideration induces us now to inform him, that since our last fasciculus went to press, we have been compelled, in consequence of what we hope will prove a merely temporary malady in our eyes, to discontinue writing altogether, and to avail ourselves of an intelligent amanuensis, to whom we may dictate the matter that we have to produce. The reader will perceive an obvious inconvenience in this, which, however, chiefly affects ourselves, and which we are not aware has in any degree injured the stream either of narrative or description.

Like a gentleman of large fortune, who has just received a great accession to it, the Tweed, having been joined by the Teviot, leaves Kelso with a magnitude and an air of dignity and importance that it has nowhere hitherto assumed during its course, and which it will be found to maintain, until it is ultimately swallowed up by that grave of all rivers-the sea. A few miles bring it to the confines of Berwickshire, and in its way thither it passes through a rich country. The most important place upon its banks is that of Henderside Park, the seat of our friend Mr. Waldie, who has a large estate here. But before coming to his residence, we cannot help noticing a small place, merely for its name. It is called Sharpitlaw, and it furnishes a strange proof how Sir Walter Scott must have treasured up such names for his particular occasions, since we find this most appropriately applied to the procuratorfiscal in his "Heart of Mid-Lothian."

In regard to the angling here, we find, on reference to Mr. Stoddart, that "immediately below Kelso commence the Sprouston fishings, rented, along with the ferry, a couple of miles down the river, by Thomas Kerss, a relative of Old Rob's at Trows, for about seventy pounds per annum. These, in connexion with the salmon casts belonging to John Waldie, Esq., of Henderside Park, embrace the following streams and pools:-Hempside Ford, the Bank, the Grain, Winter Cast, Mill-stream, Mill-pot, Butter-wash, Bushes, Scurry, containing the well-known Prison Rock, Dub, Mile-end-falls, Eden-waterfoot. Mr. Waldie's fishings begin at the Millstream and terminate along with the Sprouston casts." We believe that any gentleman getting permission to have a day's angling on any of

Just before quitting the confines of Roxburghshire, the Tweed receives the classic stream of the Eden, which enters it from the left bank. This river rises from a part of Berwickshire; and, passing through Mellerstain, the fine old residence of George Baillie, Esq., of Jerviswood, and through a richly-cultivated country, it enters the parish of Stichell, belonging to our friend Sir John Pringle, Bart., where it produces a pretty little romantic scene, by throwing itself over a precipitous rock of considerable height. The spot is called Stichell Lynn. The right bank is here occupied and ornamented by the beautiful pleasure grounds of Newton Don, one of the most charming residences in this part of the country; and the mill, miller's house, and other buildings which stand close to the fall on the left bank, combine to produce an interesting picture. Alas! there is a tale of woe attached to this scene, the occurrence of which we are just old enough to remember. The late Sir Alexander Don, of Newton Don, had two sisters, whom we recollect as beautiful blooming girls, full of the highest life and spirit. They were just of an age to be brought into fashionable life, of which they would unquestionably have been ornaments. We remember them in Edinburgh under the charge of their mother, Lady Harriet Don. Having gone to spend the summer and autumn at Newton Don, they took with them a young lady, Miss Ramsay, a friend of theirs, as a companion. The three ladies, on their return from a walk on the left bank of the stream, and having suddenly heard the dinner-bell ringing at the house, bethought themselves of a set of stepping-stones, which enabled a person on foot to cross the river dry-shod, a little way below where they then were, and they accordingly made their way down the bank, in order to avail themselves of them. Now, it so happens that an instantaneous flood is produced in the river, by the operation either of turning on or off the mill sluice-we at this moment forget which. The three ladies had reached the middle of the stepping-stones, when the miller, altogether ignorant of their being there, had occasion to perform the fatal operation on his mill sluice, Down came the river like a

wall in full career upon the ladies, swept them | brought together, as in the following verses from from the stones, and whelmed them in the flood. Thomson's "Spring":Their shrieks were piercing; but, alas! there was no one there to help. Miss Ramsay happened, fortunately, to be clad in a sort of stuff petticoat, which being of a stiff material, resisted the water, and buoyed her up until she caught hold of some branch or bough, which was the means of saving her. But, alas! the two sisters were utterly lost.

After passing through the beautiful grounds of Newton Don, the river enters the lovely vale of Eden, rich in cultivation, and resembling some of our happiest English scenes. In the centre of it

is the peaceful village of Ednam, the birth-place of our favourite poet Thomson, who was the son of the clergyman of this parish. His mother's name was Hume, and she inherited a portion of a small estate as coheiress. His father, having no less than nine children, had little difficulty in agreeing to the proposal of a kind neighbour clergyman, Mr. Riccarton, who being without a family himself, being moreover much struck with the genius which early displayed itself in James Thomson, undertook the charge of his education, and to furnish him with books. Mr. Riccarton was somewhat of a poet himself, and it has been asserted that it was to him that Thomson was indebted for the plan of his " Seasons." It was in this way that his earlier years were passed, until he went to the school at Jedburgh.

We have already said a good deal on the subject of Thomson and his writings, but we must be allowed a little indulgence here in extension of what has already fallen from us. It is not long ago since we were in a company of very intelligent people of both sexes, where the subject of Thomson happened to be introduced, and where, to our very great astonishment, it was agreed, nemine contradicente, not only that nobody read Thomson now-a-days, but that nobody could read Thomson now-a-days, and one gentleman went so far as to state that he believed that nothing but the circumstance of an individual being, by some accident, confined in a determinedly rainy day to the dull parlour of some country inn, with no other book but the "Seasons," could induce him or her to open it; and he even doubted whether, if the book was opened, it would not be immediately afterwards closed. This excited a merry laugh all round; but, if there be any truth in this observation, may we not ask, whether this disregard of this faithful poet of Nature does not prove a certain perversion in general taste, rather than any fault in Thomson's poetry itself? What made the above remarks more curious to us was, that the gentleman who hazarded them was a keen and expert angler, and that all the other gentlemen present were devoted to that sport. We strongly suspect, therefore, that this undervaluing of Thomson had been entirely gratuitous, and that the gentleman had made no very recent attempt to peruse his works; for, if he had, we fearlessly ask where he could have had all the little circumstances necessary to produce success, so fully, so beautifully, or so poetically

"Now, when the first foul torrent of the brooks,
Swell'd with the vernal rains, is ebb'd away;
And, whitening, down their mossy-tinctur'd stream
Descends the billowy foam, now is the time,
While yet the dark-brown water aids the guile
To tempt the trout. The well-dissembled fly-
The rod, fine tapering with elastic spring,
Snatch'd from the hoary stud the floating line,
And all thy slender wat' ry stores prepare;
But let not on thy hook the tortur'd worm
Convulsive twist in agonizing folds,

Which, by rapacious hunger swallow'd deep,
Gives, as you tear it from the bleeding breast
Of the weak, helpless, uncomplaining wretch,
Harsh pain and horror to the tender hand!

"When, with his lively ray, the potent sun
Has pierc'd the streams, and rous'd the finny race,
Then, issuing cheerful to thy sport repair:
Chief should the western breezes curling play,
And light o'er æther bear the shadowy clouds.
High to their fount, this day, amid the hills
And woodlands warbling round, trace up the brooks;
The next pursue their rocky-channel'd maze
Down to the river, in whose ample wave
Their little Naiads love to sport at large.
Just in the dubious point, where with the pool
Is mix'd the trembling stream, or where it boils
Around the stone, or from the hollow'd bank
Reverted plays in undulating flow,
There throw, nice judging, the delusive fly;
And, as you lead it round in artful curve,
With eye attentive mark the springing game.
Strait as above the surface of the flood
They wanton rise, or, urg'd by hunger, leap,
Then fix, with gentle twitch, the barbed hook;
Some lightly tossing to the grassy bank,
And to the shelving shore slow dragging some
With various hand proportion'd to their force.
If yet too young, and easily deceiv'd,
A worthless prey scarce bends your pliant rod,
Him, piteous of his youth, and the short space
He has enjoy'd the vital light of heaven,
Soft disengage, and back into the stream
The speckl'd captive throw; but, should you inre
From his dark haunt, beneath the tangled roots
Of pendent trees, the monarch of the brook,
Behoves you then to ply your finest art.
Long time he, following cautious, scans the fly,
And cft attempts to seize it, but as oft
The dimpled water speaks his jealous fear.
At last, while haply o'er the shaded sun
Passes a cloud, he desperate takes the death
With sullen plunge: at once he darts along,
Deep struck, and runs out all the lengthen'd line,
Then seeks the farthest ooze, the sheltering weed,
The cavern'd bank, his old secure abode,
And flies aloft, and flounces round the pool,
Indignant of the guile. With yielding hand,
That feels him still, yet to his furious course
Gives way, you, now retiring, following now,
Across the stream, exhaust his idle rage,
Till floating broad upon his breathless side,
And to his fate abandon'd, to the shore
You gayly drag your unresisting prize."

We know nothing in Izaack Walton that so per fectly teaches the pupil the whole of his art as these lines do. It shows a most wonderful knowledge of the subject in the poet, that he points out to us, that it is not the first day after the rains that we ought to try the river. That day should be devoted to the mountain brooks and burns, which mest speedily purify themselves, and after this we may proceed to the river with some hope of success. But the whole passage is replete with the very

niceties of the art. Although this quotation and these remarks have found their place here, we are still of opinion that the scenery that gave rise to them in the poet's mind must have been that of the Jed, which river was full of trouts, until some such accident as the bursting of a lime kiln destroyed the whole of them, and they are only now beginning to recover their numbers.

Before we conclude the subject of Thomson, let us be permitted to say, that we cannot estimate how deeply we should pity the man who, whether cooped up in a wretched inn, or walking free amidst the wilds of the mountain forest, could not estimate the value of these sublime and magnificent lines, which we now offer to our readers, with very great regret that our space will not allow us to quote the whole of the hymn to which they belong :

"These, as they change, Almighty Father these
Are but the varied God. The rolling year
Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing spring
Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love;
Wide flush the fields; the softening air is balm ;
Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles;
And every sense and every heart is joy.
Then comes Thy glory in the summer months,
With light and heat refulgent. Then Thy sun
Shoots full perfection thro' the swelling year;
And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve,
By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales,
Thy bounty shines in autumn unconfined,
And spreads a common feast for all that lives.
In winter awful Thou! with clouds and storms
Around Thee thrown! tempest o'er tempest roll,
Majestic darkness! on the whirlwind's wing,
Riding sublime, Thou bidst the world adore,
And humblest Nature with thy northern blast."

We must acknowledge it is a very great satisfaction to us, to recollect that we had the honour of meeting two ladies of the name of Bell, some twenty years ago, when on a visit to the late Sir John Marjoribanks, at Lees, who were the lineal descendants of a sister of Thomson's, and whose conversation showed that they were not devoid of a portion of that talent for which the poet was so celebrated.

The Eden is remarkable for the excellence of the trout, which are natives of the stream, but they require very considerable skill and great nicety of art to extract them by means of the angle from their native element. Mr. Stoddart tells us that the true Eden trout is a deeply-shaped fish, small headed, and of dark complexion on the exterior. The stars or beads are by no means numerous, but they are large and distinctly formed; those on either flank being of a deep crimson or purple hue, and encircled with a whitish ring or halo. Its flesh, when in season, on being cooked, is of a fine pink colour, the flakes interlayered with rich curd. At the table it is highly esteemed for its firmness and general excellence. We hold that the superior excellence of these fish is to be attributed to the superior feeding which is supplied to them by the deep alluvial soil of the vale through which the stream flows. Mr. Stoddart mentions a curious circumstance connected with the trout of the upper part of this river, above Stichell Lynn ; where, owing

to the accidental escape of considerable quantities of another variety of trout from enclosed water at Mellerstain, the stream itself became the haunt, and continued so for three or four successive years, of a cross breed, which vied in numbers with the proper stock, and appeared, during the greater part of this period, as if it would ultimately supplant them altogether. This breed, however, and its after-crosses, have nearly disappeared, and the original trout are resuming, in point of numbers, their old position.

Mr. Stoddart tells us further, that below Stichell Lynn the true breed of Eden is intermixed with other varieties. May and June are the months when the trout are in highest perfection, and the worm at this period is a deadly bait. The largest trout Mr. Stoddart ever killed in Eden weighed about two pounds, and he says that he has frequently taken, among others, a dozen weighing a pound a-piece. Of late years, the fish have greatly decreased in size; but their quality, when in season, is still good.

And now we must congratulate our kind and courteous reader, as well as ourselves, that the romantic days of border warfare have been long at an end; for, if it had been otherwise, our noble companion, the Tweed, which has now brought us to a point where he washes England with his right hand waves, whilst he laves Scotland with his left, might have brought us into some trouble. As he forms the boundary between England and Scotland from hence to the sea, we must, in order to preserve him as a strictly Scottish river, say little about his right bank, except what may be necessary for mere illustration. But as we see before us the truly dilapidated ruins of what was once the strong and important fortress of Wark Castle, we must bestow a few words upon it; and perhaps the best way of so doing is to borrow those of Sir Walter Scott :-" During the reign of Stephen, Wark Castle sustained three sieges against the Scotch, under their king, David, with most admirable fortitude; in the two first they entirely baffled the assailants, and compelled them to raise both sieges; in the last the garrison were reduced to great extremities—they had killed their horses, and salted their flesh for food, and when that was nearly consumed, resolved, as soon as all provision was exhausted, to make a general sally, and cut their passage through the lines of their assailants, or die, sword in hand. During this interval, Walter D'Espec, their lord, willing to preserve so brave a corps, sent the Abbot of Beville with his command, that the garrison should surrender the place; on whose arrival a treaty was entered into, in consequence of which the garrison capitulated, and were permitted to march out of the castle under arms, with twenty horses provided them by the Scotch king. On this evacuation the castle was demolished, and the fortifications were razed. King Henry the Second, to strengthen his frontiers against the Scots, ordered the castle to be rebuilt, and the fortifications restored.

"King David Bruce, returning with his victorious army from an incursion he had made into England,

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