Morning journal and courier., 1893-01-21

treated, regarded socially and legally As
 outcasts, and the superstition of darker times attributed to them all manner of
 foulness. They were believed to be
 witches; nuvie-ss. or rAisers of the storms
 and temPesss, the Spanish psAssntry
 called them. Every dark deed possible
 was within their power. They exhAled
 noxious odors They bred pestilences and
 ep!demics. They were companions of
 cats aud owls. ard could sec in the night
 Ike them They were completely and absolutely ostraeised, and compelled to live alone, or in quarters by themselves,
 and in towns and cities whenever they made their appearance. they were obliged to wear a scarlet cloth, that all others might avoid them. Down until the sev- enteenth century 1t was not considered A
 crime to Kill a Cagot if he offended. Perhaps it is ths wizard witchery of
 Scott, ss poet and novelist, perhaps the ra
 diant romance of all Scottish borderlAnd, but you never tire of tender TweedvAle ard
 Its sweetly flowing stream You are not the first to feel this. The old monks loved the valley and dotted the Tweedside with | splendid monAsteries. Their grszlng-lAnds were the richest; their cattle the finest, their grain of the plumpest kernel: their | fruit the sweetest in sll Britain. Tradition
 has 1t that the fine old apple orchards still
 standing here were planted by these covied and sAndaled folk. That must have been hundreds of years ago. But these rare old
 trees are big, gnArlsd and gray enough for | that. Little hsmlets have grown up with | in and l.ors tless ancient orchards Wesvers' villages they once were. The | clsck of the dusty loom is now still; but they are quaint old nests housing quaint | old folk, who have ripened and mellowed | in these sunny places along the Tweed, m | til they fit into their orchard environment | ss the orchards themselves blend with the | restful landscape.
 If you have wandered up and down the | Tweed. perhaps of all these bras side nests you have found Gsttonside. by Melrose, the dresmies. and qusintest Leaving the glo-
 rious abbey to your right you saunter
 along a shsdowy road oversrched with | Scotch frs and betches cool and fragrant On the one eide Is ancient St. Cuthbert's | and & moss grown mill and dam. Tiny | fields with tidily stocked grain rise in patches of yellow, gray aLd green on the | other. At the end of the vista now ard | then flashes the blue of the Tweed. Then sn old suspension br!dgeis crossed. Above | and below. anglers stand waist deep in the river, and & few carts are taking gravel | from its shining bed
 A OA O4u pchsaht women, pausing nov ard then to bless the Covenanters or boil new bree from sn old scard4l, are cutting thistles and we d 3 with sicklss at the wsterside. These brsm bles will be drit d to help piece out the mea ger fuel h the near winter days. At the village edge the road ends; or rather blends into a score of century beaten paths; for Gsttoneide has no street. Each of its matched houses, ss if with a touch of Scotch obstinacy, sets its face towards its own liking: but all have the Tweed and Its sopgs jus. below them; and every one has
 its orchard enclosed with yellow or white sinuous wall. Huge as oaks are these | knotted old apple trees, but their well | pruned branches are srding even to the | cottage roofs with such loads of "rosy- | cheekit" apples, that their scarlet blends | strangely with the red tiles, and gives the whole village the appearance of 8 gorgeous cloak spread upon the emerald of the hill l side. When the blossoms are lush in the | spring time what @ glory of color must lie under the sun here in old Gsttonside, If men live in the village your keenest gaze canno. find them. It is shopless, save | where in one little window "sweeties" of | ancient make and flavor ara eIpnssd It | is kirkless; and nouyht but the sound of | the old abbey bell from a milo away at Melrose distnrbs the wondrous quiet of | the place. All doors are open to all In l Scotland, and you peer into this cottage | and that. The incarnation of sweetness | and cleanliness, but no human, Is beheld. Here is sn old schcolhouse deserted and | silent An orchard was its playground,
 but few sheep are grsztDg among its ten | der grasses now.
 Unccusciously you have begun 10 tip toe | through the hamlet. for IL seems ss though even foot-fzll might break the spell of | silence and repose; and you pass on 10 | reach the rough, red road thst leads to the | primeval forest beyond. But no, here Is | such & quaint old cottage that you halt
 again. Something like an archei front | from which rises huge chimney arrests | your attention. On either side of the | chimney is 8 tiny pane of slass. You peep into one snd see the oldest ingle-
 nook iu all Scotland 4 huge arch fus
 taiaing the bowed wall of the cottage and
 the chimn'y above ennioses & csvernOus
 fireplace At each side of this settle of
 stone is built in the bow beneath the arch | The psnes of glass are little Out-looke
 from this pleasant fortilsce of snuggery-
 Opposite to the one into which you are
 peering an old, old woman is asleep She | has bsen knitting and looking and dream
 ing ont through the spp!e-bonghs across
 the sunlit valley. Her white old face is ss | white as her white old ''mutch" cap. She
 hsd knit to the middle of her needle and
 then fallen asleep But her thin old hspdt
 hold the needles upright and clenched, ss
 though duty lasted beyond consciousness:
 and her cat has come to the opposite settle | to stare st the silent face. ss if doubtful | of the meaning when the clicking needles | stopped This Is the only soul you have
 found in Gsttonside among the apple or | chards and their sunshine by the Tweed. |
 Ssvans dig and peck away for remnants of the cast-off shells of lost races and ages in all the lands fringing the Mediterranean Yet at Csrnsc, in the very Brittany of | Brittany, and at the very threshold of Eu- | rope, are impeTiehsole remains of the ac- tivities of people and time 60 remote that | archseologists are dumb in the presence of | what no learning hAs yet been able to in | terpret and reveal I think the study of | rude stone monuments and these silent. awe-inspiring reminders of the past grows
 on one with strange and increasing fssci- Il nation.
 On entering Brittany ore Is all imps- | tient to first see the vast fields of pillar | stones the ancient Celts have here raised
 in some inexplicsble way, for some inex- | plicsbls purpose, and have consciousness, for himself, uf the kinship of those pre-
 historic races that have left such mighty
 monuments to pagan mysticisms upon al | TCoSTIxCED ON FS'URTH PAGE
 Take advice. Stop coughing st once by | inc immediate us- of Dr Bniiis Cauph