be found in Iowa or even
Kansas. I was glad to reach Hawick, a good, solid town but a little
way inside of the Scottish border, where I spent the sabbath and the
following Monday. This was a rallying and sallying point in the old
Border Wars, and was inundated two or three times by the flux and
reflux of this conflict, having been burnt twice, and put under the
ordeal of other calamities brought upon it when free-booting was
both the business, occupation and pastime of knighted chieftains and
their clansmen. It is now a thrifty, manufacturing town, lying in
the trough of the sea, or of the lofty hills that resemble waves
hardened to earth in their crests. Just opposite the Temperance Inn
in which I had my quarters, was the Tower Hotel, once a palatial
mansion of the Buccleuchs. There the Duchess of Monmouth used to
hold her drawing-rooms in an apartment which many a New England
journeyman mechanic would hardly think ample and comfortable enough
for his parlor. There is a curious conical mound in the town,
called the Moat-hill, which looks like a great, green carbuncle. It
is thought by some to be a Druidical monument, but is quite involved
in a mystery which no one has satisfactorily solved. It is strange
that no persistent and successful effort has been made to let day-
light through it. Some workmen a long time ago undertook to
perforate it, but were frightened away by a thunder-storm, which
they seemed to take as a reproof and threatened punishment for their
profanity. The great business of Hawick is the manufacture of a
woollen fabric called _Tweeds_. It came to this name in a singular
way. The clerk of the factory made out an invoice of the first lot
to a London house under the name of _Twilled_ goods. The London man
read it _Tweeds_, instead of Twilled, and ever since they have gone
by that title. As Sir Walter Scott was at that time making the name
"Tweed" illustrious, the mistake was a very lucrative one to the
manufacturers of the article. Here, too, in this border town
commences the chain of birthplaces of eminent men, who have honored
Scotland with their lives and history. Here was born James Wilson,
once the editor of The Economist, who worked his way up, through
intermediate positions of public honor and trust, to that of Finance
Minister for India, and died at the meridian of his manhood in that
country of dearly-bought distinctions.

On Tuesday, Sept. 8th, I commenced my walk northward f