We were now between the two
tollbars, one in Scotland and the other in England, with a space of
only about fifty yards between them, and as we crossed the centre we
gave three tremendous cheers which brought out the whole population of
the two tollhouses to see what was the matter. We felt very silly, and
wondered why we had done so, since we had spent five weeks in Scotland
and had nothing but praise both for the inhabitants and the scenery. It
was exactly 9.50 a.m. when we crossed the boundary, and my brother on
reflection recovered his self-respect and said he was sure we could have
got absolution from Sir Walter Scott for making all that noise, for had
he not written:
Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd.
[Illustration: NETHERBY HALL.]
As the morning was beautifully fine, we soon forsook the highway and
walked along the grassy banks of the Esk, a charming river whose waters
appeared at this point as if they were running up hill. We were very
idle, and stayed to wash our feet in its crystal waters, dressing them
with common soap, which we had always found very beneficial as a salve.
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