We passed by some large peat-fields, and, crossing the River Sark, were once more in Scotland, notwithstanding the fact that we had so recently given three cheers as we passed out of it.  We traversed the length of Springfield, a stone-built village of whitewashed, one-storied cottages, in which we could see handloom weavers at work, nearly fifty of them being employed in that industry.  Formerly, we were told, the villagers carried on an illicit commerce in whisky and salt, on which there were heavy duties in England, but none on whisky in Scotland.  The position here being so close to the borders, it was a very favourable one for smuggling both these articles into England, and we heard various exciting stories of the means they devised for eluding the vigilance of the excise officers.  As we passed through the neighbourhood at a quick rate, the villagers turned out to have a look at us, evidently thinking something important was going on.

We saw many workers in the fields, who called out to us hinting about the nature of our journey, as we travelled towards Gretna Green.  Some of the women went so far as to ask us if we wanted any company.  The most conspicuous objects in the village were the church and the remarkably high gravestones standing like sentinels in the churchyard.  Bonnie Prince Charlie arrived here on the afternoon of his birthday in 1745, stabling his horse in the church, while the vicar fled from what he described in the church book as “the Rebels.”  A small cottage—­said to be the oldest in Gretna—­is shown in which Prince Charlie slept.  The village green appeared to us as if it had been fenced in and made into a garden, and a lady pointed out an ancient-looking building, which she said was the hall where the original “Blacksmith” who married the runaway couples resided, but which was now occupied by a gentleman from Edinburgh.  She explained the ceremony as being a very simple one, and performed expeditiously:  often in the road, almost in sight of the pursuers of the runaway pair.  All sorts and conditions of men and women were united there, some of them from far-off lands, black people amongst the rest, and she added with a sigh, “There’s been many an unhappy job here,” which we quite believed.  There were other people beside the gentleman at the hall who made great profit by marrying people, both at Springfield and Gretna, and a list of operators, dated from the year 1720, included a soldier, shoemaker, weaver, poacher, innkeeper, toll-keeper, fisherman, pedlar, and other tradesmen.  But the only blacksmith who acted in that capacity was a man named Joe Paisley, who died in 1811 aged seventy-nine years.  His motto was, “Strike while the iron’s hot,” and he boasted that he could weld the parties together as firmly as he could one piece of iron to another.

[Illustration:  JOSEPH PAISLEY, The Celebrated Gretna-Green Parson Dec’d January 9, 1811, aged 79.  The first great “priest” of Gretna Green.]