I notice, to spoil the spirit by the admixture
of water; but continues, even when
seated, to rub vigorously the calf of his
leg. He apprehends at once that his
experience as a parson is to be pumped from
him; he gives himself up cheerfully to the
operation. He seems to know that he is an
object of curiosity to all visitors, and is, therefore,
not particularly flattered by the interest
I appear to take in him. Of course I ask him,
as an opening question, whether there is any
truth in the blacksmith legend. To my
astonishment, I find that the blacksmith is
utterly unknown in these parts. There stands
the landlord expressing unfeigned surprise.
He who had lived all his life here, has never
heard of the blacksmith!

"Ay, to be sure!" continues Parson Lang
—vigorously rubbing his leg the while—
"Old Colthard, as far as I can tell, was the
first regular Gretna Green parson. He
nourished somewhere about one hundred and
twenty years ago. He was either a regular
blacksmith or a nailer—I can't say which.
His old house is pulled down, now; it used
to stand on the ground where the school
now stands, or close there."  I show
particular interest in the parson's narrative,
which amuses the girl upon the cutting-
board and her sly lover with his greasy song-
book. I ask Lang whether he can trace the
parsons—that is to say, the regular parsons—
from Colthard down to himself.

Still vehemently rubbing his leg, Parson
Lang continues: "To be sure I can. After
Colthard—let me see—came Pasley and Elliot,
who both flourished together: Pasley was my
father's uncle. Then came my father, old
Parson Lang, as they called him. He lived
at the Hall, and married people in the busy
days of Gretna Green. After him, I came:"
which advent appears to the parson to
constitute the climax of the curious history.
"But," he goes on statistically, "weddings
continued to increase up to the year 1833,
when, I should say, they amounted to three
hundred or thereabouts. After that they fell
off. They now average about one hundred
a-year."

I now make an unfortunate allusion when
I inquire whether Parson Lang is in the habit
of officiating at the Hall.

"No," the parson replies, rubbing his leg
with great vehemence, and indulging in a
sarcastic smile; "no, no; I have nothing to
do with the Hall; there they seem to think a
shoemaker, who lives opposite, can marry as
well as anybody else."

I see at once that this is a sore point with
the parson. I change the topic by asking
whether the villagers of Springfield and
Gretna are married at the Hall, or by Parson
Lang. This question highly amuses the
lovers, who interchange significant glances.
"Oh dear, no! " Parson Lang replies; "I
have been married twice, but was always
asked in church; so are all hereabouts. I
hardly know how Gretna first came to be
celebrated for marriages; but I have heard
some story like—once a queen was returning to
England from Scotland with an army. Well,
the soldiers were followed by a number of
women who were in love with them, to the
border hereabouts; and then, when they were
to part with them, they all set a-greeting,
which means crying; and this, folks say, gave
the village the name of Greta or Gretna
Green. However, the queen was so touched
by the distress of the women, that she made
the officers act on the spot as parsons, and
marry the women at once to the soldiers;
and then they all went to the south
together." The parson now begins to
philosophise a little about the facilities offered in
Scotland to persons about to marry; and
intersperses his theories with many illustrative
anecdotes. But whenever I touch upon
the subject of fees, he is discreetly silent. He
seems to admit that they vary considerably;
I suspect from a silver coin and a glass of
whiskey, to a bank-note of considerable value.
He remembers that, only two years ago, a
waiter at the chief Carlisle hotel, got married,
at short intervals, to three of his fellow-
servants; that, to this day, the fellow has
been allowed to go unpunished, and that he
has returned to his first love. Having gleaned
these facts from Parson Lang, I begin to
think about my dinner at the Hall. The
parson condescends to shake hands with me,
the eyes of the lovers sparkle as they see me
rise to depart, and the landlord, as I pass
into the road, bids me a hearty farewell.

The widow of Mr. Linton has prepared me
a very snug dinner. While I am enjoying it,
she brings me a copy of the forms filled up
by the persons who are married at her
establishment. While I proceed with my salmon,
the reader may amuse himself with the document.
Here is a literal copy of it:—

KINGDOM OF SCOTLAND.
COUNTY OF DUMFRIES,
PARISH OF GRETNA.

THESE are to Certify to all to whom these Presents
may come, That                              , from the parish
of                         , in the county of                         ,
and                            , from the parish of                ,
in the county of               , being now here present,
and having declared themselves single persons, were
this day Married, agreeable to the Laws of Scotland,
as witness our hands.

Gretna Hall, this            day of

Witnesses {

I find that excellent cigars are obtainable
at the Hall. I attribute this to the fact that
captains generally smoke. Provided with
many suggestive facts, I take leave of the late
parson's establishment, not dissatisfied with
the method with which his disconsolate widow
carries on her business. Gretna Hall—the
ancestral seat of the Maxwells—is still licensed