very quiet and very muddy just now. The
Green is a triangular patch of ragged turf,
in front of the village church. The church
is rather dirty and neglected in its
appearance than old; and from the roof
hangs a stout cord; which is attached to
the bell, and is now lazily rocking to and fro
in the breeze. Children of various sizes, and
in indescribable costumes, stare at me from
various cottage-doors. It is evident that I am
taken for a young man bent upon marriage.
I turn to the left, and through a gateway to
the Hall. It is evident that no marriage
is going forward to-day. Desolate, and
thoroughly soaked with rain, appears the
large square house, flanked on one side by a
farm-yard. I advance, under cover of some
tall trees, to the front door. It is closed and
barred. I give a perfectly metropolitan double
knock. In a few minutes a man—rather a
surly man, I think—begins leisurely to
withdraw the bolts. Seeing me alone, he looks a
little surprised—perhaps disappointed. I
begin to feel that I ought to apologise for
coming without a lady. I boldly ask whether
I can breakfast at the Hall. The man does
not oblige me with a direct answer; but
pointing to the right, growls that he will
send somebody to me, and disappears.

I advance into a long low room. It is a
curious mixture of a village tap-room, with
the pretensions of an hotel. At one end a
massive sideboard displays a quantity of
valuable plate; over the mantel-piece is an
engraving after Turner; but, to the left of this
production, is one of those compositions which,
about a century ago, were admired in all the
country villages of England, Scotland, and
Ireland. A woman with a crimson lake face is
looking, with a blotched expression of affection,
upon a child whose head seems to have
dropped casually upon shoulders made for
some other infant, and the colours of whose
frock run into various surrounding objects.
This production bears the following touching
couplet:—

"Come, father's hope, and mother's glory,
Now listen to a pretty story."

I am hardly convinced that I am in the
celebrated Gretna Hall till I have read the
directions to visitors, which are pasted upon
the looking-glass. "Please not to write on
the walls, windows, or shutters, &c." Having
read this direction I am convinced that I have
reached a place where many curious countrymen
have been before me. I turn to the
windows, and at once recognise the necessity for
the request. Every pane is covered with names,
sorry jests, and revelations of ages, professions,
and other matters. W. Thorborne, of
Manchester, has, I find, left his celebrated name,
coupled with the inference that he possesses,
or did possess, a diamond ring, upon one
window, in company with S. Goodacre of
Liverpool. But G. Howell, also of Liverpool,
has recorded his visit to the Hall in two or
three different places, lest the interesting fact
should be lost to posterity.

Upon one window I find this instructive
sentence:—"John Anderson made a fool of himself
in Gretna, 1831." It is information also that
"Sally Norton, late Sally Western," has been
here, and that the fame of the place has
attracted hither "Jane Stordy, of Stanway."
A greasy book, in shape like a ledger, marked
"Visitors' Book," lies upon the window-sill.
Many pages have been torn away; so that the
only records it now contains date back only to
last October. The entries consist of a series of
very melancholy jokes. The first remarkable
name I notice is that of Maria Manning, to
which name some obliging historian has
subsequently added the words "hanged since."
"Brick, from London," is the next entry, and
he is followed by an "Early Closing Quadrill
Party." It strikes me as a pity that before
forming a "Quadrill " party, the party did
not form a spelling class. I next find that a
wit of the North has recorded his visit in
these words: "David Rae, thief-catcher,
Dumfries;" and that a lady has been carried
away by the high spirits of the foregoing, to
this extent: "Mrs. Grimalkin (to be Mrs.
Gabriel Grub)."—Here I am interrupted by
the entrance of a widow, who announces
herself as the relict of the late parson of the
Hall, Mr. Linton. She offers me a substantial
breakfast, and while it is preparing, is not
disinclined to answer any questions I may put
on the subject of the matrimonial trade. Of
course, thinking with the rest of my countrymen
that Gretna Green marriages are of rare
occurrence now-a-days, I begin by asking
how long it is since the last marriage was
celebrated at the Hall. The old lady very
quietly turns to her maid who is laying the
breakfast cloth, and says—"Was it Tuesday
or Monday last, that couple came?"

The maid, holding a substantial joint of
cold meat in her hand, while she thinks on
the subject, replies presently, "Monday."

I am surprised, and inform Mr. Linton's
widow that it was my impression Gretna
marriages were quite matters of the past.
She assures me, in reply, that they have a
good sprinkling still throughout the year;
but not so many as twenty or thirty years
ago, when her husband first began. She
disappears for a few minutes. Ha! here she
comes, with some heavy substance carefully
tied up in an old silk handkerchief. She
deposits her load upon the table (having
previously brushed the place), deliberately
arranges her massive spectacles, and now
carefully unties her treasure. Two gaudily-
bound books lie before me; I am about to
open them eagerly, but the widow of Mr.
Linton will not allow the volumes to suffer
my desecrating touch. She gently repulses
my hand, and carefully opens the thickest.
The thin volume is an index to the thick
one, which is a formal register of the
marriages celebrated at the Hall. The entries,