however, only reach back to 1826; yet
the list includes many celebrated names.
The widow proudly points to one or two
German dukes, to Miss Penelope Smith and
her princely betrothed, to the well-known
name of Sheridan, to Lady Adela Villiers
and her husband. Against all the notable
couples, distinguishing marks are placed.
Having shown me these signatures, the old
lady carefully spreads out the silk handkerchief,
upon which I find a rude map of
England is printed, re-covers her treasure, and
holds it securely in her arms while she continues
to talk to me. She tells me that, in times
gone by, it was by no means unusual to give the
Gretna Green parson as much as one hundred
pounds; and that fifty pounds, even lately,
was not at all an uncommon marriage-fee.
The parson charges according to the ostensible
means of the contracting parties. "Old Lang"
was the regular village parson before the late
Mr. Linton began. Mr. Linton confined his
attention entirely to marrying runaway
couples. She knows nothing about the
blacksmith, and doesn't believe such a man
ever married couples. As far as she knows,
these kind of marriages began to be
celebrated at Gretna about one hundred years
ago.

I express a wish to see the room in which
the marriages at the Hall are celebrated.
The widow of Mr. Linton directs me down a
long passage, past two cases of stuffed owls,
to a long room, fitted up with some care; and
from the bow-windows of which there is a
picturesque view of the village. It is a quaint
room. Over the doorway stands a huge
model of a ship. The pictures exhibit an odd
taste. On one side is a painting, in which
Cupid and Venus are represented; and
opposite are two large pieces of canvas, covered
with horsemen in the vigorous pursuit of the
fox; upon which scenes, the placid countenance
of a Quaker is serenely gazing. The
bow-window is marked with the initials of
various captains—the captains, I remark,
strangely predominate among the visitors.
Opening by a door from this room, is the
bridal chamber, fitted up luxuriously with
yellow satin-damask hangings. Even here,
the English habit of scrawling upon furniture
is indulged. I open the looking-glass drawer,
and even herein find these inscriptions:—
"Thomas Parker to Mother Walmsley."
"Joseph Lee to Betty Booth."

Strangely interested in the peculiarities of
the Hall, I return to the breakfast-table. I
find that sentiment has not preyed upon my
appetite. I do perfect justice to the fine
haddock and the exquisite marmalade
provided by the widow of Mr. Linton. I am
so interested in this village, that I think I
will take a stroll, and return to dine at the
Hall. I intimate this intention to the maid,
and emerge upon the green, determined to
know something more of Gretna and its
marriage-trade.

A dirty road, hedged by cottages, leads to
the village, which is within the same parish as
Gretna, and is called Springfield. This village
is larger than its more famous neighbour;
the houses are larger, there is more apparent
life, and it boasts two or three inns. It
appears to me highly probable that at one of
these inns I shall hear much quaint gossip
about Gretna marriages. I enter the most
inviting. The kitchen at once forcibly
reminds me of one of Wilkie's village sketches.
Even the details of the scene suggest the
pencil of the great Scotchman. The solid
black chairs placed under the overhanging
chimney; the huge black pot suspended by a
powerful crane over the fire; the mud floor;
the old clock in a rude case; the milk-pails in
a row upon a shelf; the limited crockery of
the establishment proudly arranged in a
cupboard, the door of which is intentionally open.
The figures, too, are Wilkie's. Before the window
is a cutting-board, upon which sits—her
pretty feet dangling in the air—the village
dressmaker. As I advance towards the fire, I
notice the figure of a young Scot (with his
broad bonnet) turning over the leaves of a
very greasy song-book—but chiefly occupied
casting furtive glances at the young lady upon
the cutting-board. These are obviously lovers,
and I am obviously no welcome intruder.
However, the landlord, a broad, squat man,
with much to say about his ale, puts a cheerful
face upon matters, and stands ready to furnish
anything I may request in the shape of
refreshment. I order a glass of whiskey, and
hope the landlord, will drink one with me.
My invitation is accepted. I think I may
now fairly open the question of Gretna—or
rather Springfield—marriages. I ask, by way
of jest, whether mine host has ever married
stray couples. The girl behind me titters,
and the father fairly laughs at my simplicity.
"Married any? Ay, a many of them, in this
very room; and fine folk, too!"

Twirling a willow stick in his hand, and
kicking his heels against the legs of a table
upon which he is sitting, mine host gossips,
as nearly as I can follow him, in this wise:—

"Ay! there have been a many marriages in
this room. Lord Erskine was married where
I am sitting—in woman's clothes; his lady
held her children under her cloak the while.
The people who come to be married now are
mostly poor people—a great many of them
being from Edinburgh. They can as easily be
married anywhere in Scotland; somehow,
they come here: the place is known for it, I
suppose. But here comes Lang; he will be
able to tell you more than I can."

A spare old man, dressed, not as a simple
villager, but with a pretension to gentility and
to a clerical simplicity, hobbles into the room,
rubbing his left leg vigorously. He is suffering
an acute attack of rheumatism; yet this does
not prevent him from taking his seat at a
little round table, and accepting the tumbler
of whiskey which I offer him. He refuses,