by Unknown
The dinner of the only surviving priest of Gretna Hall frizzled under the deft knife of his spouse as he rubbed his hands recently over the reminiscences of his youth. Willum Lang never officiated at the Hall. Intelligent Jardine, full of years and honors, now enjoys his ease, not without a priestly dignity, on a kitchen sofa, in his pocket edition of a home at Springfield, and it is perhaps out of respect to his visitor that he crowns his hoary head with a still whiter hat. His arms outstretched to the fire, he looks, by the flashes of light, in his ingle-nook a Shakespearian spirit crouching over an unholy pot, but his genial laugh betrays him, and his comely wife does not scruple to recall him to himself when he threatens to go off in an eternal chuckle. A stalwart border-woman she, in short petticoats and delightful cap, such as in the killing times of the past bred the Johnny Armstrongs and the terrible mosstroopers of the border. A storehouse of old ballads, and a Scotchwoman after Scott’s own heart.
The day that Gretna Hall became an inn, its landlord felt himself called to the priesthood, and as long as he and his son remained above ground, marriage was the heaviest item in their bills. But when Gretna knew them no more, Jardine’s chance had come. Even at Springfield the line has always been drawn at female priests, and from the “big house” used to come frequent messages to the shoemaker with its mistress’s compliments and would he step up at once. The old gentleman is a bit of a dandy in his way, and it is pleasant to know that Nature herself gave him on those occasions a hint when it was time to dress. The rush for him down dark fields and across the Headless Cross was in a flurry of haste, but in the still night the rumble of a distant coach had been borne to him over the howes and meadows, and Jardine knew what that meant as well as the marriage service. Sometimes the coaches came round by Springfield, when the hall was full, and there was a tumbling out and in again by trembling runaways at the rival inns. Even the taverns have run couples, and up and down the sleety street horses pranced and panted in search of an idle priest. Jardine remembers one such nightmare time when the clatter of a pursuing vehicle came nearer and nearer, and a sweet young lady in the Queen’s Head flung up her hands to heaven. Crash went her true lovers’ fist through a pane of glass to awaken the street (which always slept with one eye open) with the hoarse wail, “A hundred pounds to the man that marries me!” But big as was the bribe, the speed of the pursuers was greater, and the maiden’s father looking in at the inn at an inconvenient moment called her away to fulfill another engagement. The Solway lies white from Gretna Hall like a sheet of mourning paper, between edges of black trees and hills. The famous long, low room still looks out on an ageing park, but they are only ghosts that join hands in it now, and it is a clinging to old days that makes the curious moon peep beneath the blind. The priest and the unbidden witness still are, but brides and bridegrooms come no more. To the days of his youth Jardine had to fling back his memory to recall the gravel springing from the wheels of Wakefield’s flying chariot. The story is told in Hutchinson’s Chronicles of Gretna Green, the first volume of which leads up to but does not broach the subject, and is common property at Springfield. The adventurer’s dupe was an affectionate schoolgirl on whose feelings he worked by representing himself as the one friend who could save her father from ruin and disgrace. The supposed bankrupt was said to have taken flight to Scotland, and the girl of fifteen, jumping into Wakefield’s coach at Liverpool, started with him in pursuit. A more graceless rascal never was, for at Carlisle the adventurer swore that he had talked with Miss Turner’s father in an hotel where he was lying hidden from the sheriff’s officers, and that the fugitive’s wish was that she should, without delay, accept Mr. Wakefield’s hand. The poor lassie, frantic with anxiety, was completely gulled, and on the eighth of March, 1826, Wakefield’s coach drew up at Gretna Hall. Too late came the pursuit to stop the marriage, but the runaways were traced to France, and the law soon had the husband of a week by the heels. He had trusted, like all his brotherhood, to the lady’s father making the best of it; and so, perhaps, he did; for the adventurer’s address for the next three years was — Newgate, London.
Spiders of both sexes kept their nets at Gretna Green, but a tragedy was only enacted at the hall between a score of comedies; and they were generally lovesick youths and maidens who interrupted the priest to ask if that was not the “so — sound of wh — wheels on the gravel walk?” A couple whom it would almost have been a satisfaction to marry without a fee (for the mere example of the thing) was that which raced from the south of England with the lady’s father. When they reached the top of a hill his arms were gesticulating at the bottom, and they never turned one corner without seeing his steaming horse take another. Poor was the fond lover (dark his prospects at Gretna Green in consequence) but brave the maid, to whom her friends would insist on leaving money, which was the cause of the whole to-do. The father, looking on the swain with suspicious eye, took to dreaming of postillions, highroads, blacksmiths and Gretna Green. He would not suffer his daughter to move from his sight, and even to dances he escorted her in his private carriage, returning for her (for he was a busy man) at night. Quick of invention were the infuriated lovers. Threading the mazes of a dance, the girl was one evening snatched from her partner’s arms by the announcement that her father’s carriage barred the way below. A hurried explanation of why he had come so soon, a tripping down the stairs with trembling limbs into a close coach, a maiden in white in her lover’s arms, and hey-ho for Gretna Green. Jardine is mellowed with a gentle cynicism, and sometimes he breaks off in his reminiscences to wonder what people want to be married for. The Springfield priest, he chuckles, is a blacksmith at whom love cannot afford to laugh. Ay, friend Jardine, but what about the blacksmith who laughs at love?
Half a century ago Mr. McDiarmid, a Scotch journalist of repute, loosened the tongue of a Springfield priest with a bowl of toddy. The result was as if the sluice had been lifted bodily from a dam, and stories (like the whisky) flowed like water. One over-curious paterfamilias there was who excused his visit to the village of weddings on the ground that he wished to introduce to the priest a daughter who might one day require his services. “And sure enough,” old Elliot, who entered into partnership with Simon Lang, crowed to his toddy-ladle, “I had her back with a younger man in the matter of three months!” There lives, too, in Springfield’s memory the tale of the father who bolted with an elderly spinster, and returning to England passed his daughter and her lover on the way. Dark and wintry was the night, the two coaches rattled by, and next morning four persons who had gone wrong opened the eyes of astonishment.
When David Lang was asked during Wakefield’s trial how much he had been paid for discharging the duties of priest, he replied pleasantly, “£20 or £30, or perhaps £40; I cannot say to a few pounds.” This was pretty well, but there are authenticated cases in which £100 was paid. The priests had no fixed fee, and charged according to circumstances. If business was slack and the bridegroom not pressing, they lowered their charges, but where the bribed post-boys told them of high rank, hot pursuit, and heavy purses, they squeezed their dupes remorselessly. It is told of Joseph Paisley that when on his deathbed he heard the familiar rumble of coaches into the village, he shook death from him, ordered the runaways to approach his presence, married three couples from his bed, and gave up the ghost with three hundred pounds in his palsied hands. Beattie at the toll-bar, on the other hand, did not scorn silver fees, and as occasion warranted the priests have doubtless ranged in their charges from half-a-crown and a glass of whisky to a hundred pounds.
Though the toll-bar only at rare intervals got wealthy pairs into its clutches, Murray had not been long installed in office when pockets crammed with fees made him waddle as heavily as a duck. Fifty marriages a month was no uncommon occurrence at Gretna at that time, and it was then that the mansion was built which still stands about a hundred yards on the English side of the Sark. The toll-keeper, to whom it owes its existence, erected it for a hotel that would rival Gretna Hall, and prov
e irresistible to the couples who, on getting married on the Scotch side, would have to pass it on their return journey. But the alterations in the Marriage Laws marred the new hotel’s chances, and Murray found that he had overreached himself. Perhaps one reason why he no longer prospered was because he pursued a niggardly policy with the postillions, ostlers, and other rapscallions who demanded a share of the booty. The Langs knew what they were about far too well to quarrel with the post-boys, and stories are still current in Springfield of these faithful youths tumbling their employers into the road rather than take them to a “blacksmith” with whom they did not deal.
There is no hope for Gretna. Springfield was and is the great glory of its inhabitants. Here ran the great wall of Adrian, the scene of many a tough fight in the days of stone weapons and skin-clad Picts. The Debatable Land, sung by Trouvere and Troubadour, is to-day but a sodden moss, in which no King Arthur strides fearfully away from the “grim lady” of the bogs; and mosstroopers, grim and gaunt and terrible, no longer whirl with lighted firebrands into England. With a thousand stars the placid moon lies long drawn out and drowned at the bottom of the Solway, without a lovesick maid to shed a tear; the chariots that once rattled and flashed along the now silent road were turned into firewood decades ago, and the runaways, from a Prince of Capua to a beggar-maid, are rotten and forgotten.
MY FAVORITE AUTHORESS.
Just out of the four-mile radius — to give the cabby his chance — is a sleepy lane, lent by the country to the town, and we have only to open a little gate off it to find ourselves in an old-fashioned garden. The house, with its many quaint windows, across which evergreens spread their open fingers as a child makes believe to shroud his eyes, has a literary look — at least, so it seems to me, but perhaps this is because I know the authoress who is at this moment advancing down the walk to meet me.
She has hastily laid aside her hoop, and crosses the grass with the dignity that becomes a woman of letters. Her hair falls over her forehead in an attractive way, and she is just the proper height for an authoress. The face, so open that one can watch the process of thinking out a new novel in it, from start to finish, is at times a little careworn, as if it found the world weighty, but at present there is a gracious smile on it, and she greets me heartily with one hand, while the other strays to her neck, to make sure that her lace collar is lying nicely. It would be idle to pretend that she is much more than eight years old, “but then Maurice is only six.”
Like most literary people who put their friends into books, she is very modest, and it never seems to strike her that I would come all this way to see her.
“Mamma is out,” she says simply, “but she will be back soon; and papa is at a meeting, but he will be back soon, too.”
I know what meeting her papa is at. He is crazed with admiration for Stanley, and can speak of nothing but the Emin Relief Expedition. While he is away proposing that Stanley should get the freedom of Hampstead, now is my opportunity to interview the authoress.
“Won’t you come into the house?”
I accompany the authoress to the house, while we chat pleasantly on literary topics.
“Oh, there is Maurice, silly boy!”
Maurice is too busy shooting arrows into the next garden to pay much attention to me; and the authoress smiles at him good-naturedly.
“I hope you’ll stay to dinner,” he says to me, “because then we’ll have two kinds of pudding.”
The authoress and I give each other a look which means that children will be children, and then we go indoors.
“Are you not going to play any more?” cries Maurice to the authoress.
She blushes a little.
“I was playing with him,” she explains, “to keep him out of mischief till mamma comes back.”
In the drawingroom we talk for a time of ordinary matters — of the allowances one must make for a child like Maurice, for instance — and gradually we drift to the subject of literature. I know literary people sufficiently well to be aware that they will talk freely — almost too freely — of their work if approached in the proper spirit.
“Are you busy just now?” I ask, with assumed carelessness, and as if I had not been preparing the question since I heard papa was out.
She looks at me, suspiciously, as authors usually do when asked such a question. They are not certain whether you are really sympathetic. However, she reads honesty in my eyes.
“Oh, well, I am doing a little thing.” (They always say this.)
“A story or an article?”
“A story.”
“I hope it will be good.”
“I don’t know. I don’t like it much.” (This is another thing they say, and then they wait for you to express incredulity.)
“I have no doubt it will be a fine thing. Have you given it a name?”
“Oh, yes; I always write the name. Sometimes I don’t write any more.”
As she was in a confidential mood this seemed an excellent chance for getting her views on some of the vexed literary questions of the day. For instance, everybody seems to be more interested in hearing during what hours of the day an author writes than in reading his book.
“Do you work best in the early part of the day or at night?”
“I write my stories just before tea.”
“That surprises me. Most writers, I have been told, get through a good deal of work in the morning.”
“Oh, but I go to school as soon as breakfast is over.”
“And you don’t write at night?”
“No; nurse always turns the gas down.”
I had read somewhere that among the novelist’s greatest difficulties is that of sustaining his own interest in a novel day by day until it is finished.
“Until your new work is completed do you fling your whole heart and soul into it? I mean, do you work straight on at it, so to speak, until you have finished the last chapter?”
“Oh, yes.”
The novelists were lately reproved in a review for working too quickly, and it was said that one wrote a whole novel in two months.
“How long does it take you to write a novel?”
“Do you mean a long novel?”
“Yes.”
“It takes me nearly an hour.”
“For a really long novel?”
“Yes, in three volumes. I write in three exercise-books — a volume in each.”
“You write very quickly.”
“Of course, a volume doesn’t fill a whole exercise-book. They are penny exercise-books. I have a great many three-volume stories in the three exercise-books.”
“But are they really three-volume novels?”
“Yes, for they are in chapters, and one of them has twenty chapters.”
“And how many chapters are there in a page?”
“Not very many.”
Some authors admit that they take their characters from real life, while others declare that they draw entirely upon their imagination.
“Do you put real people into your novels?”
“Yes, Maurice and other people, but generally Maurice.”
“I have heard that some people are angry with authors for putting them into books.”
“Sometimes Maurice is angry, but I can’t always make him an engine-driver, can I?”
“No. I think it is quite unreasonable on his part to expect it. I suppose he likes to be made an engine-driver?”
“He is to be an engine-driver when he grows up, he says. He is a silly boy, but I love him.”
“What else do you make him in your books?”
“To-day I made him like Stanley, because I think that is what papa would like him to be; and yesterday he was papa, and I was his coachman.”
“He would like that?”
“No, he wanted me to be papa and him the coachman. Sometimes I make him a pirate, and he likes that, and once I made him a girl.”
“He would be proud?”
“That was the day he hit me. He is awfu
lly angry if I make him a girl, silly boy. Of course he doesn’t understand.”
“Obviously not. But did you not punish him for being so cruel as to hit you?”
“Yes, I turned him into a cat, but he said he would rather be a cat than a girl. You see he’s not much more than a baby — though I was writing books at his age.”
“Were you ever charged with plagiarism? I mean with copying your books out of other people’s books.”
“Yes, often.”
“I suppose that is the fate of all authors. I am told that literary people write best in an old coat —— .”
“Oh, I like to be nicely dressed when I am writing. Here is papa, and I do believe he has another portrait of Stanley in his hand. Mamma will be so annoyed.”
THE CAPTAIN OF THE SCHOOL.
When Peterkin, who is twelve, wrote to us that there was a possibility (“but don’t count on it,” he said) of his bringing the captain of the school home with him for a holiday, we had little conception what it meant. The captain we only knew by report as the “man” who lifted leg-balls over the pavilion and was said to have made a joke to the head-master’s wife. By-and-by we understood the distinction that was to be conferred on us. Peterkin instructed his mother to send the captain a formal invitation addressed “J. Rawlins, Esq.” This was done, but in such a way that Peterkin feared we might lose our distinguished visitor. “You shouldn’t have asked him for all the holidays,” Peterkin wrote, “as he has promised a heap of fellows.” Then came a condescending note from the captain, saying that if he could manage it he would give us a few days. In this letter he referred to Peterkin as his young friend. Peterkin wrote shortly afterwards asking his sister Grizel to send him her photograph. “If you haven’t one,” he added, “what is the color of your eyes?” Grizel is eighteen, which is also, I believe, the age of J. Rawlins. We concluded that the captain had been sounding Peterkin about the attractions that our home could offer him; but Grizel neither sent her brother a photograph nor any account of her personal appearance. “It doesn’t matter,” Peterkin wrote back; “I told him you were dark.” Grizel is rather fair, but Peterkin had not noticed that.