The skunk

For some weeks past there has been an occasional pre-dawn visitor to my garden—an especially large and elegant skunk. She sashays slowly across the back lawn, shimmies even. She is industrious but nonchalant, assertive but discreet, imposing but delicate, and above all glamorous. Her tail is long, white and glossy, almost luminous in the half-light. The tapering stripes on her back are the height of fashion. In every respect she outshines the specimen shown above. Browsing for tasty morsels, she gives not the slightest hint of indiscriminate snuffling. There is the occasional tremulous upward flicker of the tail. That is her only sign of quiet satisfaction. I feel she has that rare quality we used to call “poise.” Where on earth did that go, and how can we get it back? Anyhow, I had no idea how glorious mature skunks are, though of course I am aware that you should keep your distance. Alas, yesterday my neighbor Nan Ross alerted me to evidence of a major skunk fatality a little way along Forest Road, state route 122, which Connecticut motorists use with a degree of recklessness that is equal to the worst you may expect to encounter in suburban Cairo or downtown Guangzhou—be warned! Upon further investigation, I fear my beautiful visitor has become road-kill, I daresay not even a statistic, and how very sad I am and sorry about that.

Pompon bobbery

I have lately been pondering some matters connected with Anglo-Indian language, prompted in that direction not merely by current events (Abbottabad), but by my quest for William—and a spot in which to publish his remarkable story, the product of years of patient searching. So this morning I came across part of an article in Blackwood’s Magazine for May 1877 (Vol. 121, No. 739), “The Anglo-Indian Tongue,” that is cited in the preface to the first edition of his A Glossary of Reference on Subjects Connected with the Far East, by Herbert A. Giles, sometime H.B.M. consul at Ningpo, an indispensable work of reference:

“Now it is partly as a key to the shibboleth of Anglo-Chinese society that this Glossary has been designed, though to judge by the opening lines of the same article, which the [anonymous] writer tells us would be perfectly intelligible in a Calcutta drawing-room, there is no comparison between the phraseological difficulties in the way of new arrivals in the Far East and those to be encountered by the ‘griffin’ who wishes to be appreciated in Anglo-Indian society. These lines run thus:

“‘I’m dikk’ed to death! The khansamah has got chhutti, and the whole bangla is ulta-pulta. The khidmatghars loot everything, and the masalchi is breaking all the surwa-basans; and when I give a hukhm to cut their tallabs, they get magra and ask their jawabs. And then the maistries are putting up jill-mills, and making such a gol-mol (“pompon bobbery” in Japanese Pidgin-English,) that I say darwaza band to everybody. But when all is tik, I hope you will tiff with us.’

“The translation of this is:—I’m bothered to death! The butler has got leave, and the whole house is turned upside down. The table-servants steal everything, and the scullion is breaking all the soup-plates; and when I order their wages to be cut, they all grow sulky and give warning. And then the carpenters are putting up venetians, and making such an uproar, that I am obliged to say ‘not at home’ to everybody. But when all is put to rights, I hope you will lunch with us.”

Setting aside the ample evidence of poor domestic economy, not to say terrible industrial relations, it is intriguing to see that the same passage is exceedingly difficult to translate using Henry Yule and A. C. Burnell’s classic Hobson-Jobson: A Glossary of Colloquial Anglo-Indian Words and Phrases (1886), another of my favourite works of reference. “Dikk, s., worry, trouble, botheration” is there, as is khansama, though listed under consumah, s., “master of the household gear.” So are bassan, s., dinner-plate; huck, hakk, huq, s., a just right or lawful claim; jawaub, s., meaning (curiously) dismissal; maistry, s., foreman or master-workman; jillmill, s., venetian blinds or shutters (external); and tiffin, s., lunch. The nearest thing to chhutti is chutt, s., or chhat, which essentially means a sort of awning or ceiling, and nothing at all like leave of absence. Bangla, meanwhile, is nowhere to be found, and nor are ulta-pulta, khidmatghars, masalchi, tallab, magra, gol-mol (though bobbery is there, but nowhere in Giles, who, after all, specifically cited it as a variant in Japanese pidgin, whatever that means), darwaza band, and tik. Presumably the problem for Yule and Burnell was whether such terms fell outside even their generously porous boundaries of colloquial usage, and, lacking any Hindi, Arabic, Urdu, or other etymological foundation, instead occurred merely as a kind of ad hoc pidgin. Or perhaps it was a consequence of the political and social changes that took place in the decade after the proclamation of the Indian Empire that, having made it into Blackwood’s Magazine, numerous semi-viable nabob terms simply evaporated.

"Blackfellow"

Indigenous Australians have traditionally avoided naming the dead, as much a mark of respect for those who survive them. The taboo is inseparable from spirituality, social usage, and attitudes about kinship widespread among descendants of its original inhabitants in many parts of the continent and offshore, and has today broadened to include a prohibition of the publication, dissemination or display of photographs and other images of the dead. These conventions are not often strictly observed, but are now far more likely to be acknowledged, at least, by means of a warning to aboriginal viewers or readers that they are likely to encounter such references or images—even though they (the conventions) are therefore honoured only in the breach, and almost always by those who are most likely to urge non-indigenous Australians to treat them with the respect they deserve. This is something of a paradox. Meanwhile, as far as I can see there is considerable unclarity about whether these prohibitions were ever meant to be permanent. Certainly the issue of not naming individuals who have died has come to be something of a flashpoint in dialogue between indigenous and non-indigenous Australians, and points to a fundamental difference between our respective attitudes toward the distant past, and about history. Nor is it easily separated from disagreements about collective naming. The Latin-derived terms “aboriginal, adj.” and “aborigines, n.” have now fallen out of favour.

We are for these reasons not likely to see the study of indigenous Australian prosopography flourish any time soon, though nineteenth-century European sources are full of references to named individuals now long dead. I mean no disrespect to anyone by pointing to one of these—as I shall presently—because it brings us back to the issue of collective naming, specifically an old term, “blackfellow,” that is now for obvious reasons pretty much universally regarded with distaste. The matter cropped up in conversation lately with a colleague—we were wondering if that English hybrid could actually have been coined in colonial Australia. The Oxford English Dictionary shows that black-fellow certainly predated first contact and was in common use by 1738, in relation to sub-Saharan Africans. Moreover, the mid-century Australian variants “black-feller,” “black-fellah” and “black-fella” were merely vulgarisms, and had nothing to do with the Arabic fellah (peasant, laborer, bearer), nor any other putative Anglo-Indian origin, which had occurred to us as at least a possibility. However, what surprised me most when at length I double-checked my copy of Austral-English: A Dictionary of Australasian Words, Phrases and Usages, by Edward E. Morris (London and New York: Macmillan, 1898, p. 33) was that his earliest reference to “blackfellow” occurs in Discoveries in Australia by J[ohn]. Lort Stokes (London: T. and W. Boone, 1846, vol. 1, p. 74): “The native Miago, who had accompanied us [aboard H.M.S. Beagle] from Swan River [Perth, Western Australia], was most earnest in his inquiries about the savages, as soon as he understood that some of them had been seen [on January 18, 1842]. He appeared delighted that these ‘black fellows,’ as he calls them, have no throwing sticks;…” The italics are mine. Obviously this comes much later than the earliest current reference in the OED to “black-fellow,” meaning specifically an Australian Aborigine (Collins, 1798), and, despite Commander Stokes’s implicit suggestion that this man actually coined it, the term was evidently by then well enough established in Perth to be learned and used by indigenous English-speakers. It seems strange that Stokes was apparently neither aware of this, nor at all familiar with the term.

All things are queer and opposite again

Thanks once more to my colleague David Hansen, and through him also to John McPhee, I am put in mind of all things queer and opposite by this charming portrait reproduced from a glass-plate negative in the collection of the Museum of Victoria in Melbourne. According to information published on their website, the photograph was taken by the pioneering radiologist Dr. Thomas Beckett in November 1891, during an extended visit with his family to London. This is the doctor’s maternal grandmother, old Mrs. Hoyt.

Thomas George Beckett was born in London in 1859 and was one of the seven children of Mr. Beckett, a pharmacist, and his wife Julia, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Hoyt. Thomas studied medicine in Edinburgh, graduating in 1880, and spent several years as a ship’s surgeon before going to Victoria in 1885, accompanied by his young wife Kate (née Lawrence).

The Becketts went at first to the town of Charlton, which is half way between Wedderburn and Wycheproof on the road from Bendigo to Mildura. In 1892 they moved permanently to Melbourne. Beckett was one of a small number of colonial doctors who specialized in radiology soon after the discovery of x-rays in November 1895 by W. C. Röntgen. Another was Beckett’s friend Frederick (Fred) Clendinnen (1860–1913), whose collection of x-ray tubes is in the collection of the Museum of Victoria. Clendinnen purchased his first X-ray apparatus from W. Watson for £5 13s. 9d., but Beckett built his own equipment, including tubes, batteries, and the ad hoc cabinetry for housing them—not only for taking fairly primitive x-radiographs, but actually for treating cancer patients with admittedly mixed results, and certainly not much concern for the harmful effect upon himself of more or less continual exposure to radiation, which, of course, soon killed him. Beckett was head of the x-ray department the Alfred Hospital from 1901 to 1908, “electrician in charge of equipment,” a keen cyclist, and a captain then major in the militia.

However, what concerns me here is the platypus (Ornithorhynchus anatinus, formerly O. paradoxus) that you see hanging prominently among the little framed photographs on the wall of old Mrs. Hoyt’s London parlour—evidently a mature animal, if slightly over-stuffed, I suspect, by a taxidermist with grandiloquent, possibly even histrionic tendencies. At her left elbow one glimpses also a preserved lizard, possibly a baby goanna, a large sea shell, and other curios. Neatly stacked on the dresser behind, one makes out albums, books, and maybe boxes—in other words hints toward Mrs. Hoyt’s serious contemplation of natural history and the South Seas, where so many things were without question queer, and determinedly opposite.

Scent in nail varnish

I had a note from someone at the New York Times asking me for comment. She wrote:“Wacky nail polish colors seemed to be just a passing trend a few years ago, but now it’s mainstream for non-fashionistas to wear neon green, blueberry or copper metallic, instead of one of the thousand shades of red and pink they preferred for generations. What has changed?” I was happy to comply, and gently to suggest that almost every premiss here is wrong, viz. “passing trend,” and “preferred for generations,” in other words, as far as I can see nothing much has changed since synthetic varnishes in strong colors arrived in the early 1920s. I doubt that my 300 words are quite what they had in mind. Anyhow, in gathering together my thoughts I came across a little scrap of advertorial, “Scent in Nail Varnish”—varnish; how I wish I had insisted upon using this neglected, once-omnipresent term in my book, so much more accurate than polish. This note (by Doreen B. Simpson) appeared in the Rockhampton Morning Bulletin, Thursday, August 18, 1949, on page 8:

“Let me pass onto you a tip about adding scent to your nail varnish, (just a drop or two) to give a fascinating and almost undetectable fragrance. Remember the hands are always noticeable, for every woman uses them to emphasise a point in her conversation and the flutter of the hands can (if not overdone, of course) be an attractive feminine gesture. But it should be remembered that the very act of gesticulating will draw attention to the hands.”

It is not easy to follow Doreen B. Simpson’s reasoning. Her principal point about perfumed fingertips is well made, but she seems thereafter to be slightly undecided about how this elides with gesture. Being already noticeable and useful because expressive, feminine hand motions might yet benefit from the addition of subtle arcs of fragrance, but only if prevented from crashing through the barrier that separates flutter from heavy gesticulation, she seems to say. Perhaps this was simply a point about the overriding need for restraint: Depending upon the choice of fragrance, after all, one or two drops might easily pack a hefty olfactory punch—and Doreen B. Simpson is not at all clear about the dosage: Two drops of Mitsouko, say, added to the bottle of cutex, shaken well, that is one thing. But two judiciously dripped onto each tacky tip would almost certainly disrupt a rubber of bridge, or raise eyebrows at the Rockhampton Club. Especially at the height of the rainy season. Still, it is a splendid idea, lately revived by Revlon.

Borthwick Castle again

Aunt Jean’s clippings continue to yield treasure. Among them she preserved an article by H. Drummond Gauld in the Weekly Scotsman, Saturday, November 6, 1926, on page 10, entitled “Scotland’s Ancient Strongholds. VII.—Borthwick Castle.” It goes into considerable detail, and points toward numerous qualities obviously still encoded in the DNA—of which the most important I have noted with italics:

“The seeker after relics of the old feudal days finds much to entrance him in a journey from Edinburgh to Carlisle, for the train in its journey south speeds through scenes where some of the most thrilling episodes in Scottish history have been enacted. Long ere the indented crest-line of the Pentlands fades from view, from the moment, in fact, that Criagmillar’s donjon-keep dips down behind the trees, a land of hills and moors is entered upon, a land of brawling burns and mystic glens where peace holdeth an everlasting sway and the only sound that breaks the silence are the splash of brooks, the bleat of sheep, and the lowing of kine, the call of the plover and the wild scream of the curlew—soothing sounds one and all of the open, lonely spaces of Nature. There, from many a rocky knoll, battlements of towers and castles hoary raise their stately outlines to the soughing winds of heaven, lending an atmosphere of dignity and romance, as only an ancient stronghold can, to the wide-spreading prospect.

“Borthwick Castle stands upon a peninsular knoll anciently designated the Mote of Langwarret formed by a bend of the North Middleton Burn and the Gore Water, which latter gives name to the neighbouring town of Gorebridge. The Mote originally belonged to Sir Willian de Hay, and ancestor of the Marquis of Tweeddale, from whom it was purchased by the first Lord Borthwick, who founded the castle.

“Borthwick superseded a less pretentious edifice called Catcune, the ruins of which stood but a mile or two away upon the beautiful banks of the Gore. This was the residence of the Brothwick family before it rose to power and eminence in Scotland. During their term of comparative obscurity, and while resident in lone Catcune, they promiscuously bore the titles of Catcune, Legertwood, and Heriot-Muir before they assumed the title of Borthwick of that ilk. We have here, therefore, an illustration of an ancient feudal estate taking its name from its progenitor and not, as was more commonly the case, the lands giving a title or surname to the holder.

Massive Stronghold.

“About the end of the fourteenth century there lived in the castle of Catcune a knight named Sir William Borthwick, who is recorded as having been a person of great parts, distinguished as an ambassador on certain important negotiations and concerned in most of the public transactions of his day. Him King James I. created Lord Borthwick some time previous to 1430.

“On June 2 of that year my lord of Borthwick was empowered under the Great Seal to erect on the Mote of Lochwarret a castle or fortalice and to surround it with walls and ditches. Then, on this position of strength, uprose the massive walls of Borthwick Castle which became the chief seat and title of the family. Such was the origin of a stronghold that it is reputed to be one of the finest specimens extant of that once numerous class of Scottish feudal castles which consisted of a single donjon or keep.

“The castle rises from an embattled courtyard of irregular shape, fully eighty yards in length, with an average breadth of forty yards. The curtain-walls—especially on the west side—where the castle was without any natural barriers of defence—were of immense strength. The angles were defended by massive towers and bastions, that flanking the gateway being drum-shaped. It was thirty-five feet in diameter, and as twenty-five of these were taken up with solid masonry the central chamber measured only eleven feet in diameter. This tower had a basement and first and second floors, all of which were furnished with large horizontal portholes, evidently intended for musketoons. The same species of embrasure perforate the western curtain. The moat of Borthwick is gone, but the spot where it existed may yet be traced. Gone likewise are the drawbridge and the massive portcullis bars.

The Grand Hall

“The arrangement of the interior chambers of the cistle is very simple, as they are all rectangular and parallel with the outer walls. Five well-stairs, constructed in the thickness of the walls, lead to the different apartments. The walls themselves are from ten to fourteen thick, and this amazing mass of stone and mortar is maintained but with little diminution throughout their entire height. They raise from a plain plinth, and are terminated by strong corbels upon which rests a low parapet. Their height, from base to parapet, is ninety feet, but if the altitude of the roof be taken into account the entire perpendicular of the structure is fully one hundred and ten feet.

“The great outstanding internal feature of Borthwick Castle is the grand hall, every corner of which is replete with the remains of pristine splendour. This spacious apartment, which is situated on the first storey and occupies the entire area of the principal building, is fifty-one feet long and about twenty-four feet in breadth. It is covered by a pointed barrel vault nearly thirty feet above the level of the floor. Here, in very sooth, a knight on horseback erect upon his stirrups might turn a spear with all the ease imaginable.

“The whole splendid chamber is of the finest ashlar work. There is evidence of the roof having been painted with such devices as occur in old illuminations, as over one part of it are still legible in Gothic characters the legend, ‘Ye Temple of Honor.’

One noteworthy feature of the great Hall is its magnificent fire-place, a cavernous recess measuring nine feet wide by three deep. How merry were the fires that blazed there in the days of old, when the Gore was solid in the grip of the ice and wild winds raved adown the Vale of Loquhariot! Near the fireplace is a ‘sedile’ or seat of honour for the master of the castle, with an enriched canopy and shield bearing the arms of my lord of Borthwick.

“’Twould take long to relate of the splendours of this noble keep, of The Lady’s Bower and The Minstrels’ Gallery, of Earl Bothwell’s bedroom and the newel stairs to the towering battlements, of the chapel, the drawingroom, the garderobes and the garrison quarters, of the draw-wells, the corkscrew stairs and the dungeons.

Royal fugitives.

“There is scarce a castle in braid Scotland whose history we investigate but the name of that most hapless of all queens, Mary of the Scots, leaps into a prominent place. Her lot was a sad one, her end tragic, and yet after an imprisonment so close and fraught with danger as to have worn down the spirit of the most courageous men, she, a woman, fared forth to death at the end of it all with a calmness and serenity that merits the greatest admiration.

“You remember that after the murder of Darnley at Kirk o’ Field and the marriage of Earl Bothwell to the Queen, the confederate Lord Argyle, Morton Lindsay, Athol, Glencairn, and many others with their retainers marched to Stirling with the ostensible purpose of protecting the child Prince James, who was in ward in the castle there under the Earl of Mar. While they put that face upon their doings insurrection was really the work they contemplated. When all was in readiness they marched forth upon Edinburgh town hoping to swoop suddenly upon Holyrood and seize my lord of Bothwell in his lair. They were baulked by a traitor in their ranks, Argyle, whose hands, like Bothwell’s, were red with Darnley’s gore. The regicide, having been privately warned, fled in hot haste, and with him went the Queen.

“So at nightfall, when the wind howled around the Mote of Lochwarret and all was dark in the valley, came Bothwell and Mary spurring fast to the Castle of Borthwick. My lord, now fully alive to the intentions of his associates, saw that he must either fight or perish. Bracing himself to face the alternative, he left Mary under the charge of Lord Borthwick, and fared forth to Melrose to summon the Borderers to his standard. But even with his own vassals he was thoroughly out of favour, and found to his chagrin that Lord Home had forestalled him and had drawn the men of Liddesdale into the field against him. Soured and disappointed, he turned his weary steed northwards again, and rejoined the Queen at Borthwick.

The Queen’s Escape.

“Then on a warm night in June in the year 1567 there was the galloping of horses about stately Borthwick, the muffled tramp of infantry and the clash of steel; but, as his foes came surging on, Bothwell slipped out by a secret postern gate among the trees, and, with none to guide his footsteps across the Gore and through the woods save the Master of Crookston, fled away into the darkness.

“On the night following the escape of Bothwell a cavalier, booted and spurred, stole forth from his chamber unattended and, gliding stealthily down a turret staircase by a torch’s spluttering light let himself down from a window in the banqueting hall. You may see the place to this day. Though the height cannot be less than eighty and twenty feet the cavalier reached the ground in safety, and, passing through the same low postern by which Earl Bothwell had escaped, vanished into the gloom of the night-enshrouded wood. Thus escaped Queen Mary of Scots from foe-leaguered Borthwick.

Cromwell’s Assault.

“Nearly a hundred years passed away after that adventurous night of flight, and then once more the battlements of Borthwick looked down upon the hosts of a foe. As the fifth Lord Borthwick had been a faithful adherent of Queen Mary, his great grandson, John, the eighth lord of the line, was a supporter of King Charles during the Civil War. After the unfortunate battle of Dunbar in 1650, and while the troops of Oliver Cromwell were devastating the Lothians, Borthwick Castle held out right gallantly, and the garrison employed themselves to the last in annoying the enemy.

“And so the black muzzles of the cannon belched down destruction on the brave old pile, blowing in the wall and forcing the garrison to capitulate at last. Whether by fortune or by the advice of spies, Cromwell directed his artillery against the very part of the wall which was most likely soon to yield to his cannonade, there being a chimney at that place which renders the masonry less thick than it is throughout the rest of the building. Here is a copy of the summons which the stern Protector of the conquered land forwarded by a herald or trumpeter to the garrison of the castle:—‘For the Governor of Borthwick Castle, these:—Sir, I thought fitt to send this trumpett to you, to let you know, that if you please to walk away with your company, and deliver the house to such as I shall send to receive it, you shall have liberty to carry off your armes and goods, and such other necessaries as you have. You harboured such parties in your house as have basely and inhumanely murdered our men; if you necessitate me to bend my cannon against you, you must expect what I doubt you will not be pleased with. I expect your answer and rest your servant. O. CROMWELL.’

“Notwithstanding this very characteristic and significant epistle, the Governor of Borthwick, supposed to have been Lord Borthwick himself, held out the stronghold until the cannon were opened upon it and then surrendered it upon honourable terms.

“‘The masons wha biggit yon auld grey wa’s haena sair heid the day.’ So spake an amiable ploughman as he and his team went jingling down the hill-road upon their homeward way. The homely phrase bore in upon my mind, and as the dusk deepened and the towering ramparts frowned ever darker upon the valley they had sentinelled for full five hundred years, my mind was filled with awe and veneration. The diligent hands that had fashioned that lofty keep, laboriously piling stone upon stone till the mighty battlements were attained at last and the task was done, were comingled with their native earth long centuries ago, and yet the inanimate structure they had reared, a structure more like a creation of Titans than of puny men, still stands upon the grassy Mote, macking their little lives in seeming imperviousness to the passage of the ages.”

The Late Mr. Thomas Chalmers Borthwick

Aunt Jean preserved an issue of the Eskdale and Liddesdale Advertiser printed on Boxing Day 1888 (a Wednesday), in which the following long and affectionate obituary entitled “The Late Mr. Thomas Chalmers Borthwick” appeared on page three. This is our great-great-great-grandfather, and internal evidence—because I have in my possession the handwritten draft (a draft, that is, and not a copy made post hoc, because: “the following extract from a letter sent the writer of this...confirms...‘In this district there were Covenanters who bore your name’”)—shows that the author was none other than Thomas Chalmers Borthwick’s own son, our great-great-grandfather Alexander Hay Borthwick. It contains numerous intriguing flecks of detail, but as a sketch of character it is, I suppose, supremely partisan. The second half, which is more antiquarian in flavour than the first, does nevertheless hint towards certain aspects of the DNA, not merely the “schowting,” the sternness and firmness in the face of “pronounced vice,” but also the genial hospitality, and, above all, the curious circumstances in which, when they died, the exceedingly old bachelors John Scott and Walter Borthwick bequeathed to each other’s heirs the lease of their respective properties, which is how Hopsrig ultimately passed into the hands of Thomas Chalmers Borthwick, though not to his son. That the place was lost no more than a year before old Thomas’s death in 1888 clearly rankled.

“On the 16th inst. At Milholm, there passed peacefully away from our midst a scion of a distinguished family in Eskdale in the person of Thomas Chalmers Borthwick, late of Hopsrig. Although little known by the younger generation, Mr. Borthwick occupied a very prominent position in the district until some years ago, when his failing health compelled him to relinquish all public and private business; consequently he was seldom seen, except by his more immediate friends, or when taking a quiet walk in the vicinity of his residence. Born at Sorbie in the parish of Ewes [Dumfries and Galloway] in 1813, where his father then resided, and who at one time farmed in addition to Sorbie, Meikledale, Mosspeeble, and Lodgegill, a few years subsequently acquiring Hopsrig, where he went to reside (or, as it was then called, Bombey Bush), and eventually the extensive farm of Langshawburn [above] and Aberlosk, which Mr. Borthwick succeeded to and occupied up to within a few years of his death. While yet of tender years the management of these fine pastoral farms came into his hands, and latterly Glendinning was taken for a long lease, and then began the tug of war between him and the late Mr. Brydon of Moodlaw (whom he has not survived) for supremacy in the breed of Cheviot sheep. Keenly contesting the honours in our national and local showyards with invariable success, they, along with the late Mr. Elliot of Hindhope, quite farmed the prizes; no other exhibitor in those days having the slightest chance when the stock of those famous breeders were on the field, the fruits of reward being pretty fairly divided amongst them. For many years Mr. Borthwick had the entire management and control of the extensive estates belonging to Sir Frederick Johnstone of Westerhall in Eskdale and Annandale, and throughout the long minority of the present [8th] Baronet [1841–1913, conservative M.P. for Weymouth and Melcome Regis], who was unborn on that April morn when his father, the late Sir Frederic, accompanied by Mr. Borthwick, undertook his fatal journey homewards on horseback to Westerhall from Falford Kennels, which, alas! Sir Frederic was never destined to reach, being found by Mr. Borthwick lying on the Wauchope road, opposite Bloughburnfoot, in an unconscious state, very shortly afterwards breathing his last. Mr. Borthwick now proved in reality a friend in need and in deed, greatly improving the estate by his judicious and prudent outlay (much of it, we believe, advanced out of his own pocket for the time being), and thus ever mindful of the beneficial interest to the proprietor and to the tenants, who had always a cheery, kindly word to speak of Mr. Borthwick, and now revere his memory, as do the shepherds and others who at any time served him, all having had reason to bless his kindly forethought and generosity as a master, and several for substantial support in their declining years when unfit for further service. As a J.P. for the county, throughout a long term of years, his kindly nature ever leaned to mercy when on the bench, yet stern and firm when pronounced vice was brought before him. A sterling friend, benevolent, amiable, and genially hospitable, Mr. Borthwick has passed away, leaving not an enemy behind him, but still many friends to recall his sterling worth. He is survived by his only son, Mr. Alex[ander]. H[ay]. Borthwick, now residing at Milnholm, near Langholm.

“Mr. Borthwick was descended from a family who farmed the pastoral lands on the Border for a long back period. William Borthwick, laird of Raschaw [sic. Raeshaw], Heriot Water, having killed one Pringle, with whom there was a dispute about marches, they fought with swords, and Pringle was killed on the spot. Mr. Borthwick fled to Eskdale, and concealed himself in the woods for a long time. In the meantime his property was seized and everything taken from him. He never returned to that part of the country, but when the duel was forgot, and he had reason to think he was safe from prosecution, he took the farm of Howpaslet, where he died and left two sons, William and Thomas. They kept that farm till the disturbances in Claverholm’s time, when they were advised not to sign [the covenant]. The consequence was that their farm and stock was taken from them, and they had only a few sheep left, which were at grass on the farm of Glendinning, belonging to the Westerhall family. Lady Johnstone had that farm in her own hands. She ordered all the sheep to be put into the fauld, that the sheep that belonged to them might be taken too, but a herd, called John Reive, slipped them over the fauld dyke, and they ran to the hill, and by that means were preserved. Soon after William Borthwick took the farm of Glendinning, and married Janet Scott, sister of David Scott of Merrylaw. In the parish register of Westerkirk for 1701 the marriage of William Borthwick in Glendinning, with Janet Scott is duly registered, his [Thomas’s] great-great-grandfather and mother. David Scott of Merrylaw was descended from ‘Sir Walter Scot of Branxeholme, rescuer of Kinmont Will[ie] [i.e. William Armstrong, the Border reiver and outlaw] from Carlisle Castle with 70 men on the night of the 6th day of April, 1596—this he did with schowting and crying and sound of trumpet,’ and Sir Robert Scot in this way. Sir Walter’s daughter, Margaret Scot, married Sir Robert Scot of Thirlestane, and one of their sons got the lands of Merrylaw.

“As to legend about William and Thomas Borthwick losing their farm and sheep when Claverhouse visited Borthwick Water in 1685, the following extract from a letter sent the writer of this, by the Rev. D. S. Stewart, Hawick, confirms it. October 28, [18]’86—‘In this district there were Covenanters who bore your name. Thomas Borthwick in Howpasley and Isobel Laidlaw, spouse to James Borthwick, were names remitted to the Sheriff for adhering to the Covenanters.’ Seeing that old Sir James Johnstone of Westerhall, called the Persecutor, died in 1699, the probability is that William Borthwick, who was settled down at Glendinning in 1701, may have been a tenant of his. His three sons were William, Thomas, and Walter. William and Walter lived at Enzieholm; the former had Glendinning, and as the tenour of the following advertisement shows that he quited it at Whitsunday, 1753:—‘ADVERTISEMENT. That there is to be sold by public Roup [auction] at Glendinning, in Eskdale, in the Parish of Westerkirk, and shire of Dumfries, on Tuesday, the 22d of May, 1753, William Borthwick’s Stock of Sheep, besides Black Cattle and Goats, upon the said Farm of Glendinning, &c.—the numbers will be as nearly as under— Ewes 820; Quinter Ewes 520; Gimmers 490; Dunmonts 60; Ewe Hogs 500; Wedder Hogs 480; Old tupps 50; Tupp Hogs 40 = 2,960. The Roup will begin at Nine o’clock in the Morning, and it is expected that those who incline to buy will attend punctually at that hour.’

“Thomas, the second son of William and Janet Scott, was the great-grandfather of the late Mr. Borthwick. He in 1732 took the extensive farm of Shaws, in the parish of Yarrow, which he left in 1783; and for one year lived on his led farm at Langshawburn, but the farm of Sorbie in Ewes having become vacant in the meantime, His Grace Henry [i.e. 3rd Duke of Buccleuch and 5th of Queensberry {1746–1812}] gave it to him. There he lived till 1793, when he died. His only son William died in 1792, leaving a family, the eldest son of whom—Alexander Hay Borthwick—then 16, succeeded his grandfather, and was in Sorbie down to 1820, when he left it, going to Hopsrig, where he died in 1837. Beside Hopsrig at the time of his death he had Langshawburn, Mosspeeble, and Lodgegill. His son, Thomas Chalmers Borthwick, got Hopsrig, and Langshawburn. Besides these, he took the farm of Glendinning, which he farmed for one or two leases. Hopsrig and Langshawburn, which had been long in the family, he lost, and removed from at Whitsunday 1887. The way and manner in which the Borthwicks got Boykine and Calkine, now part and parcel of Hopsrig, and Hopsrig itself, is as follows:—‘Sir James Johnstone of Westerhall, Baronet, principal tacksman of these lands of Calkine and Boykine, lets them to William and Walter Borthwick’s brothers, both in Enzieholm, for the space of ten years, if the said [2nd] Duke of Buccleugh [1695–1751] shall live so long, from the term of Whitsunday, 1736, and that for seven hundred and fiftie merks Scots money yearly.’ [1 merk, a silver coin, was worth 13s 4d, exactly ⅔ of a Scottish pound, or about one English shilling.] In the year 1796 John Scott, tenant in Hopsrig, an old bachelor, dying, Walter Borthwick in Enzieholm, still alive, and also an old bachelor, got instruction to leave Enzieholm and go to Hopsrig, which he did, and died there in 1806, aged 96. Lieut. Scott, nephew of old John Scott, Hopsrig, got Enzieholm, and had Fingland, Eskdalemuir, as a led farm. At Whitsunday, 1887, when Mr. T. C. Borthwick lost Hopsrig, he and his progenitors had farmed it for 91 years, and the pertinents Boykine and Calkine for 151 years.”

Aunt Maida

To my astonishment—and this seems so right, so neat, and so symmetrical—Uncle Roy’s wedding in 1920 to Aunt Maida brought the surviving Pearsons of Kilmany Park into direct alliance with the remarkable Dowling family of Tasmania. As we have seen, Maida Frances Blood Dowling was the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Aubin Dowling, formerly of Talgai West in the Darling Downs of southern Queensland. She was therefore the granddaughter of John Leonard Dowling, grazier of Ellerslie, Fairfield, and his wife, Cecilia Ann (1821–1905), the daughter of Major Thomas Daunt Lord (1783–1865). John Leonard Dowling was, in turn, the son of the Reverend Henry Dowling (1780–1869), and Elizabeth, née Drake (1782–1853), whose mother Susanna, Mrs. Drake of Gloucester was intimate with Selena, Countess of Huntingdon, the revivalist, Methodist luminary, confidante of John and Charles Wesley, and sex kitten. The Reverend Henry Dowling was not only a famous Vandiemonian divine, whose chapel stood for many years in York Street, Launceston, and who performed innumerable baptisms in freezing rivers all over Tasmania, but he was also the father of Robert Hawker Dowling (1827–1886), the distinguished Tasmanian portrait painter, whose wonderful 1856 Mrs. Adolphus Sceales with Black Jimmie on Merrang Station (above) now hangs prominently in the National Gallery of Australia in Canberra. In other words, the painter Robert Dowling was Aunt Maida’s great-uncle, though she never knew him. Her paternal grandmother, however, Cecilia Ann, Mrs. John Leonard Dowling, lived to the very great age of eighty-four, and died on October 19, 1905, at her residence St. Leonard’s (naturally) in Launceston. It is possible that Aunt Maida did meet Grannie Dowling once or twice, although the journey from Brisbane to Devonport (and vice versa) was long and difficult; indeed old Mrs. Dowling may well have been disinclined to attempt long sea voyages because in 1857 her sister-in-law (her husband’s sister) Hannah Maria Waller was, together with Mr. Waller and all six of their children, drowned horribly in the wreck of the Dunbar at Sydney Heads. Anyway, Grandmother Dowling’s connection to Van Diemen’s Land was almost as long as it was possible to be. She was the daughter of Major Thomas Daunt Lord, and his bride Susan Greenslade of the Bahamas. Major and Mrs. Lord were married in 1810 at Nassau, when Major Lord was serving in the second West India Regiment. In the early 1820s he became embroiled in the so-called Bradley–Arthur wrongful imprisonment affair in Honduras, and as a consequence decided to sell his commission and sail to Van Diemen’s Land. He arrived at Hobart Town aboard the Cumberland in January 1825, when Cecilia Ann was just three and a half. His main occupation through much of the next decade was serving as commandant of the severe and isolated Maria Island penal settlement, where he was regularly accused of misappropriating government stores and other forms of theft, but consistently avoided prosecution. Indeed following each indictment Major Lord visited terrible, terrible pain upon his accusers. After the closure of Maria Island in 1832, he was appointed to the police magistracy at Waterloo Point (Swansea) and in the two years following managed to get himself acquitted of stealing still more government property, although eventually he did forfeit his Commission of the Peace. Mrs. Lord died on September 7, 1849, at Okehampton, Spring Bay (Triabunna), and the Major followed suit on April 23, 1865. He was considered to be “as great a villain as any in Van Diemen’s Land,” but I assume marriage to John Leonard Dowling of Ellerslie, Fairfield, effectively removed Cecilia Ann from the unwholesome domestic criminal environment in which she spent her childhood—indeed it is quite possible that Aunt Maida was never made aware of those Regency peccadilloes, any more than Uncle Roy faced up to the shocking massacres through the 1840s of the Aboriginal men, women, and children of East Gippsland.

Borthwick Castle

Aunt Jean held onto an issue of The Border Magazine, An Illustrated Monthly Devoted to Border Biography, History, Literature, and Folklore, edited by William Sanderson, author of “Scottish Life and Character,” “The Soft Lowland Tongue o’ the Borders,” &c., Vol. XXIX, No. 345, September 1924. It has lately come to light among her many papers, and I see that she noted with two firm marginal crosses in pencil the following historical notes by Mr. George Hope Tait that concern Borthwick Castle, the family seat in Midlothian. No doubt they struck Aunt Jean, as indeed they strike me, as having powerful genetic resonance, especially that bit near the end about having an eye for ‘brizzen yont,’ and Lord Borthwick’s peremptory treatment of an official of the ecclesiastical court of the old unreformed Catholic see of St. Andrews.

“Borderers travelling to Edinburgh by train never fail in admiration of this wonderful Castle, and most of us have cherished the hope that some day or other we would get into closer touch with the romantic fabric, for its history and association are immediately connected with the Borderland.

Its aspect from the railway is very fine, and its situation as you may see, commands a very extensive view of the surrounding country. Its position on a peninsular knoll, known as the Mote of Lochwarrit, has been singularly well chosen and fitted for the purpose of defence and also defiance. We are told that Sir William de Borthwick, the founder of the Castle, built it on the verge of his property, for this first lord, like all the barons of his age, had an eye for ‘brizzen yont’ [push across, encroach upon] on his neighbours’ ground whenever an opportunity offered.

Borthwick Castle is perhaps the most perfectly complete example of the great strongholds we have in Scotland. It was erected in the reign of James I., 1430, and possesses all the outstanding features of the ancient keep, being surrounded by walls and ditches, strong and formidable gates, characteristic turrets and powerful battlements.

The courtyard is 80 yards by 40 yards. The height of the Castle is 110 feet. The angles of the court were defended by massive towers and bastions, like the srum tower at the gateway, which had the usual portcullis, and was approached by a drawbridge spanning the most, which has now disappeared.

Borthwick castle, according to Sir Walter Scott, is by far the finest specimen of that very class of Scottish castles which consist of a single dungeon or keep.

The masonry of the Castle is very perfect, and the stone is of the finest quality. The restorations have been carried through with great architectural consideration, and the interior of the Grand Hall is well fitted to thrill any keen student of Scott, presenting, as it does, all the imposing features and furnishings, and recalling as perfectly as possible the surroundings and the very atmosphere of the great baronial age. Its chief historic interests relate to the hapless Mary Queen of Scots. In 1566 it is reported that the ‘Queen rode to Borthwick,’ and again in the following year, she accompanied Bothwell thither under strikingly tragic circumstances. This was after the murder of Darnley at Kirk o’ Field. The attachment and preference of Mary Scott for Bothwell, who was accused of the crime, led them to seek refuge here from the justly infuriated authorities (some of whom were his associates in his guilt), but who suspected Bothwell’s ambition to capture the throne. They came to Borthwick Castle, and were followed up by the appearance around the walls of an armed host, determined to capture the pair. Bothwell made his escape by the rear of the castle, and fled to Dunbar. On the evening following his precipitous flight, Mary Stuart, ‘arrayed in the dress of a cavalier, booted and spurred, stole from her chamber here, glided down a turret stair and let herself down from the window of the banqueting hall, where she mounted a nag, and rode out in the darkness, she knew not whither.’ Lost in the glens and swamps of the surrounding country, she found herself at dawn near Black Castle at Cakemuir—two miles from Borthwick. Here, under the direction of Bothwell, after changing her dress, she was taken, or rather chose to follow, her paramour to Dunbar Castle.

This romantic flight of Mary Queen of Scots from this, her last real home of freedom, links Borthwick Castle to one of the most pathetic tragedies in the history of Scotland. Her next appearance was on the ridge of Cousland, not many miles from this place—where, after Bothwell was challenged and fled, she surrendered herself, was taken to Lochleven Castle, passing from misery to misery, and ultimately from captivity to the scaffold. Bothwell fled to Norway, and although he defamed the house of Douglas and the Borders generally, it is to our credit that his attempt to raise his Border vassals to his assistance failed completely, and on his return to Borthwick Castle he must have sensed his failure and visualized his doom.

In the year 1650 Cromwell’s forces opened fire on Borthwick Castle, and compelled its surrender. From this period it passes out of history, and to new owners—Dalrymples and Michelsons, becoming a deserted ruin in 1760. Later, however, and happily, the Borthwicks secured and restored the stronghold of their ancestors, and I think the associations warranted the reverence they have thus bestowed on a building interesting to all lovers of history.

The Borthwicks are an old and notable family—some say they had a Continental origin—others claim that they came from Borthwick Water, but history follows them back to 1067, the time of Malcolm Canmore. Many of the family figured in the reign of James II., entrusted with the ratification of Treaties—some of them trusted councilors, ambassadors and soldiers. Baron Borthwick and his son fell at Flodden [Field], and another son, who survived the battle, commanded the artillery on that fateful day [September 9, 1513]. It was said that this young Borthwick wanted to cannonade Twizel Bridge to prevent the English army crossing it, but King James refused. It was this daring young gunner and military engineer, who under James V. was made Governor of Stirling Castle.

One of the most amazing episodes connected with Borthwick castle happened with John Renwick, the next baron, who was a staunch supporter, at the time of the Reformation, of the old Roman Faith, and who was a great friend of Queen Mary later. Notwithstanding his reverence for the Faith, he entered with great licence into a mock entertainment, known as the ‘Abbot of Unreason,’ whereby he not only suffered, but encouraged his servants to ridicule and abuse William Langlands, an officiate of the See of St. Andrews. This hilarious caricature of things sacred ended in ducking the priest in the mill dam. The mob, dressed and disguised as dragons, lions, wolves, asses, and swine, and playing outrageous music on unharmonious instruments, returned to the Church with the bound and dripping pastor, where, as a becoming refreshment, he was made to eat some letters of excommunication he had delivered against my Lord Borthwick, and drink the wine in which they had been steeped. When he was dismissed by the Abbot of Unreason (who, I presume, was the Laird himself), and who gave him the assurance that any more documents arriving from the head of the Church ‘would a’ gang the same gait,’ he was allowed to participate, with the best grace he could, in the revelry and fun of the evening. Readers of Scott’s ‘The Abbot’ will recall how effectively Scott uses this strange and incongruous pantomime with the fall of Melrose Abbey, and as evidence of the warrant it had as a permissible institution. We have only to look up at the famous gargoyle on the Abbey of the swine playing the bagpipes.”

"Commotion" 2

“Commotion,” the 22-acre property where Uncle Roy and Aunt Maida lived for two or three years between their marriage and his death in 1923, was sold at auction at Scott’s Hotel, 444 Collins Street, Melbourne, on Thursday, September 4, 1924, at 2.30 p.m. According to an advertisement in the previous Saturday’s issue of the Argus, (August 30, p. 2), “the house is a spacious brick and W[eather]. B[oard]. structure, containing 12 rooms, wired-in verandahs, pantries, laundry, and conveniences, manager’s cottage, garage, stable, and farm outbuildings. In addition to the house orchard are 5 acres under full-bearing apples. Also beautiful flower gardens and lawns. Situated in an elevated position in the Kilsyth hills above Croydon, and commanding a beautiful outlook, Commotion is an ideal and complete gentleman’s country residence.” The terms were £500 deposit, the balance payable over 6 years with interest fixed at 6%. No doubt in due course somebody made a fortune by subdividing it, but my recollection is that Aunt Maida never needed to worry too much about money. Gran was still visiting her in Toowoomba in the late 1960s.