There are two Yetholms--Town Yetholm and Kirk Yetholm. They stand at the distance of about a quarter of a mile from each other, and between them is a valley, down which runs a small stream, called the Beaumont River, crossed by a little stone bridge. Of the town there is not much to be said. It is a long, straggling place, on the road between Morbuttle and Kelso, from which latter place it is distant about seven miles. It is comparatively modern, and sprang up when the Kirk town began to fall into decay. Kirk Yetholm derives the first part of its name from the church, which serves for a place of worship not only for the inhabitants of the place, but for those of the town also. The present church is modern, having been built on the site of the old kirk, which was pulled down in the early part of the present century, and which had been witness of many a strange event connected with the wars between England and Scotland. It stands at the entrance of the place, on the left hand as you turn to the village after ascending the steep road which leads from the bridge. The place occupies the lower portion of a hill, a spur of the Cheviot range, behind which is another hill, much higher, rising to an altitude of at least 900 feet. At one time it was surrounded by a stone wall, and at the farther end is a gateway overlooking a road leading to the English border, from which Kirk Yetholm is distant only a mile and a quarter; the boundary of the two kingdoms being here a small brook called Shorton Burn, on the English side of which is a village of harmless, simple Northumbrians, differing strangely in appearance, manner, and language from the people who live within a stone's throw of them on the other side.
Kirk Yetholm is a small place, but with a remarkable look. It consists of a street, terminating in what is called a green, with houses on three sides, but open on the fourth, or right side to the mountain, towards which quarter it is grassy and steep. Most of the houses are ancient, and are built of rude stone. By far the most remarkable-looking house is a large and dilapidated building, which has much the appearance of a ruinous Spanish posada or venta. There is not much life in the place, and you may stand ten minutes where the street opens upon the square without seeing any other human beings than two or three women seated at the house doors, or a ragged, bare-headed boy or two lying on the grass on the upper side of the Green. It came to pass that late one Saturday afternoon, at the commencement of August, in the year 1866, I was standing where the street opens on this Green, or imperfect square. My eyes were fixed on the dilapidated house, the appearance of which awakened in my mind all kinds of odd ideas. "A strange-looking place," said I to myself at last, "and I shouldn't wonder if strange things have been done in it.""Come to see the Gypsy toon, sir?" said a voice not far from me.
I turned, and saw standing within two yards of me a woman about forty years of age, of decent appearance, though without either cap or bonnet.
"A Gypsy town, is it?" said I; "why, I thought it had been Kirk Yetholm."Woman.--"Weel, sir, if it is Kirk Yetholm, must it not be a Gypsy toon? Has not Kirk Yetholm ever been a Gypsy toon?"Myself.--"My good woman, 'ever' is a long term, and Kirk Yetholm must have been Kirk Yetholm long before there were Gypsies in Scotland, or England either."Woman.--"Weel, sir, your honour may be right, and I dare say is; for your honour seems to be a learned gentleman. Certain, however, it is that Kirk Yetholm has been a Gypsy toon beyond the memory of man."Myself.--"You do not seem to be a Gypsy."Woman.--"Seem to be a Gypsy! Na, na, sir! I am the bairn of decent parents, and belong not to Kirk Yetholm, but to Haddington."Myself.--"And what brought you to Kirk Yetholm?"Woman.--"Oh, my ain little bit of business brought me to Kirk Yetholm, sir."Myself.--"Which is no business of mine. That's a queer-looking house there."Woman.--"The house that your honour was looking at so attentively when I first spoke to ye? A queer-looking house it is, and a queer kind of man once lived in it. Does your honour know who once lived in that house?"Myself.--"No. How should I? I am here for the first time, and after taking a bite and sup at the inn at the town over yonder I strolled hither."Woman.--"Does your honour come from far?"Myself.--"A good way. I came from Strandraar, the farthest part of Galloway, where I landed from a ship which brought me from Ireland."Woman.--"And what may have brought your honour into these parts?"Myself.--"Oh, my ain wee bit of business brought me into these parts.""Which wee bit of business is nae business of mine," said the woman, smiling. "Weel, your honour is quite right to keep your ain counsel;for, as your honour weel kens, if a person canna keep his ain counsel it is nae likely that any other body will keep it for him. But to gae back to the queer house, and the queer man that once 'habited it.
That man, your honour, was old Will Faa."Myself.--"Old Will Faa!"
