he had never read a line of his writings—he thinking the Bible the only book worth reading—of Hogg he spoke in a most friendly manner:
“He was an obligin’ neebor; and I’m sure that at smearin’ times, when we helped ane anither, we never kenn’d how the time flew away, for he keepet us aye a’ laughin’ wi’ queer stories and sangs.”
Among a class of saving, industrious people, the poor Shepherd’s improvidence—caused by ways and means they could not understand—his late hours, and hilarious meetings with friends, were certain to bring discredit upon him to a considerable extent; and spleen at his success as a writer, and the manner in which he was taken out by his “betters,” doubtless made many of his Yarrowdale fellows speak contemptuously of him at times.
The trip to the Grey Mare’s Tail from St. Mary’s is through a wild mountainous region. Here and there on every side small but high waterfalls strike the eye, as they dash down the rocky sides of high hills; and there, at the head of Moffatdale, the hills are steeper—almost perpendicular, some of them—than anywhere in the south of Scotland.
Newark Castle, see p. 612.
Birkhill, a shepherd’s house where refreshments can be had, stands on the water-shed of Little Yarrow, whose waters finally reach the German Ocean, and Moffat Water, whose final outlet is the Solway Firth. Opposite the house, four Covenanters were shot by Claverhouse. All round this place the Covenanters used to take up hiding- places, the deep and extremely rugged glens affording comparative security. The shepherd’s wife, who attends to the wants of travellers at Birkhill, is a character worth knowing. She is strong-minded and strong-nerved; and a number of authentic anecdotes are told of her prowess. The following is one of the best.
Her house is solitary, no other dwelling being within miles of it, and during the day, when her husband and son are on the hills, she has sometimes strange visitors, for the road passing the door connects the east with the west of Scotland in that district. When the Hawick branch of the North British Railway was making, navvies often passed this way from the Caledonian line towards Hawick, and of these she generally had a call. A solitary Irish navvy came in one day when she was alone, saving a little girl, a grandchild. After lighting his pipe, and staring round him for a time, the following dialogue ensued:
“Well, missus,” said he; “you’ve some mighty nice hams there.”
