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Kirkyards are to me
exceedingly interesting. Alas! Those nearest and dearest to me are now the
tenants of these silent retirements. They contain subjects of intense and
protracted recollection. Whenever I have an hour to spare after dinner in
my pedestrian wanderings, I am sure to deviate into a churchyard, and
there to spell and stumble my way through and over a multiplicity of
graves and monuments. But, instead of dealing in generalities, I shall
speak of two particular cases, known to myself, in the churchyard of the
parish of Closeburn. One is on your right hand as you enter and pass Elder
Boe, on Sunday, at the church stile. The stone is merely an erect
headstone, and of considerable dimensions. The inscription is—"Here lies
Richard Reid, aged 16, who perished in crossing the water of Nith in
1794." Richard, as well as his brother Stephen, now Colonel Reid, were my
particular companions at Wallacehall school. We were class-fellows. Oh!
what fun and frolie we have had together! The Castle Wood, Barmuir Wood,
Gilehrist Land Wood, the Pothouse Wood, the Whitston Cleughs and the
Gravel Walk, could tell, if they were permitted, many tales of us three.
What nests did we not find! what nuts did we not gather! what sloes did we
not pocket! what brambles did we not eat! and what hind or
raspberries did we not bruise and convert into red wine. And, then,
what tree so tall as not to admit our ascent! what thicket so dense as not
to be penetrated? What eel so lively as not to be decapitated and skinned!
and what trout so cunning as to escape the temptation of our
nicely-prepared baits! At England and Scotland, too—that most expressive
game of former Border feuds—we were most expert; and have seen many suns
descend on our protracted contest at shinty. But, alas! harvest arrived,
and with it the vacation; the oats ripenened, and so did the hazel nuts.
The report was, that the Barjarg Woods were most plentifully supplied with
ripe and brown leamers. We could not—we never tried to resist the
temptation. But the rapid river Nith lay betwixt us and the object of our
travel. It had rained, but was now fair; and the water, when we arrived at
its banks, did not seem even moved or swollen. Stephen and I hesitated;
Richard was a bold, manly lad, somewhat older. He plunged at once into the
stream, and bade us follow; so, indeed, we did. Ere we had gained
one-third of the way, upon the stream we observed bits of wood, and
various floating substances in it. We became alarmed, and called, aloud on
Richard; but he turned, round and laughed us to scorn. We would not stand
this, but pushed on, he still keeping in advance. The powerful current had
now reached his waist, and, even though he had wished to turn, he could
not. The stones were beginning to creep from beneath our feet. All at
once, a large piece of floating timber came down upon poor Richard’s
position, and he was borne away by the united force of the obstructed wood
and the stream. He fell; the timber floated over him, and he again arose;
but he was in much deeper water, and manifestly apprehended danger. He
screamed aloud, and we rushed forward—his brother Stephen and I—to the
rescue; but we were all instantly hurled along into a deep and whirling
pool. Over the banks, of this eddy there grew, and hung a broom bush; more
by accident than management, I got a hold of it. Stephen was struggling
near me, and I caught him with the other hand. I struggled desperately,
and got myself and my companion into the face of a soft and clay brow. I
held like grim death, and, at last, surmounted the steep. Though stupified,
I saw that one was awanting, and I rushed—for Stephen was insensible—along
the brink of the pool. At the foot of it, and where the water began to
shallow, I saw poor Richard tumbling over without any signs of life. In an
instant I had a hold of his garment, and had actually pulled him
considerably to one side, when, my feet coming in contact with a large
stone, I fell backwards, lost my hold, and the body of poor Richard was
found, next day, a mile and a half below, at the bottom of Porter’s Hole.
On the opposite side of
this churchyard, there is a flat flag-stone, with the following
inscription—"Here lie the mortal remains of William Herdman, Weaver in
Auldwa’s of Gilchristland."
Poor Willie Herdman! What
associations do not these two magic words awaken! When Gibraltar stood
nobly out, under the command of an Elliot, against the combined strength
of France and Spain, thou wast there to send the hissing hot cannon balls
into the hulls of the enemy’s floating batteries. But, on returning to thy
native Nottingham, to taste of its pure and salubrious ales, thy house was
desolate—father, mother, and sister, all—and the place which knew them
owned another tenant. Thy heart sank within thee; and having been bred
weaver in thy youth, though didst’ take the road for Glasgow; but, at
Brownhill, chance brought thee, acquainted with Archy Tait of Auldwa’s,
and with him didst thou ply thy trade till the mournful end of thy days.
But it was neither as a soldier, nor as a weaver, that I remember thee
with so much interest. It was as the best bait-fisher in the south of
Scotland—it was as my first preceptor in that most delightful art. I see
thee still, before sunrise, ten miles amidst the mountains, and I hear the
plash of the large new-run sea-trout, as it "turns up its silver scaling
to the light" amidst the dark brown flood. At all times, and almost in all
states of the weather and the water, thy skill was triumphant, and from
thee I derived that art which no man knows, unless instructed by me, to
this hour—the art of fishing up, and not down a
mountain stream, with prepared bait. But the hour of thy destiny at last
arrived, and it was a mournful one. It was one of thy triumphs to kill a
dish of trouts, even in the midst of frost, and at New-Year’s Day. A wager
was laid, and a considerable sum of money was risked, on thy killing a
dozen for a New-Year’s Day feast. On the last day of the old year, as the
time approached, the weather had become boisterous, and snow blasts, mixed
with hail, were coursing along the skirts of Queensberry. I was a stout
lad in the high dais then, and, being in the constant habit of
accompanying thee on thy fishing expeditions, I made a point of not being
absent on this critical trial of thy skill. Accordingly, when the last day
of December, 179— dawned, I was by thee aroused from my slumbers, and, in
spite of all maternal remonstrances, I agreed to accompany thee to Caple.
The day was dark and somewhat cloudy; but there was only a sprinkling of
snow on the lower grounds, though the higher seemed to be much whiter. To
fortify himself against the inclemency of the weather, poor Willie had
provided himself with a supply of what he used to term "his
comforter"—namely, some whisky in a bottle. We fished for about two hours
in the deeper and unfrozcn pools of Caple, and with amazing success.
Willie had just killed his eleventh trout, when he turned up the bottom of
a pint bottle quite empty. He was not intoxicated, but confused. I had not
enjoyed the advantage of "the comforter," and was, consequently, much more
collected, and aware of our danger. It was betwixt twelve and one when the
day suddenly darkened down, and a terrible snow drift came up the glen.
Mitchelslacks was at about a mile and a half’s distance. I strongly urged
our retreat to that hospitable mansion in the wilderness; but Willie
wanted one trout of his tale, and he persevered for about half an hour
longer, when he was so fortunate as to complete his number. But by this
time the snow drift and wind were absolutely choking, and I could see that
his eyes were half shut. He was manifestly in a state of approaching
stupor or sleep. I became exceedingly alarmed when he sat, or rather fell,
down suddenly beneath a projecting rock, saying that he would rest and
sleep for a little, and then he would accompany me to Mitchelslacks, as I
proposed. I tried to pull him along; but, he was incapable of motion. What
was to be done?—Poor Willie, who had taught me to fish, and told me so
many stories about the wars, and about Nottingham, and England, and who
was really a kind-hearted, good-natured creature—poor Willie to perish
thus helpless in the drift!—I sprang on with renewed strength; but when I
reached Mitchelslacks I fainted, and it was not till I recovered that
Willie’s dangerous state was learned. Three shepherds, with Mr. Harkness
at their head, and a suitable accompaniment of dogs, sallied forth, and in
a short time reached the spot, but it was too late. There was still heat
in the interior, but no motion; the pulse had stopped, and the body was
sitting in a reclining position, leaning against the stone. There were no
marks of previous suffering—the eyes shut, and the hands reposing on the
fish-basket, as if the last thing he had done was to count his fish!—He
was dead. |
