THE HAWICK SPATE.
The bursting of water-spouts is a phenomenon not often witnessed in Scotland; yet that such an accident has sometimes happened there, there are not a few melancholy tales to prove; and to this testimony we could add the story with which the following pages are occupied.
About the close of the seventeenth century, the town of Hawick was visited with such a calamity as that just spoken of, although we believe it was not attended with any singularly disastrous consequences. The water-spout which burst over the town, on the occasion alluded to, was of such immense magnitude, that the deluge of waters it discharged filled the main street in an instant from side to side, to the depth of from four to five feet. But it did not remain long here. The inclination of the street gave it motion, and away it swept with the force and impetuosity of a swollen river, carrying everything before it; and in its furious career razing no fewer than fifteen houses to their foundations.
Yet, if it had not been for the danger with which it was attended, and the loss which it occasioned, an onlooker, if placed in a situation of safety himself, could not possibly help being amazed, nay, sometimes laughing outright, at the ludicrous scenes which such an unusual and unlooked for visitor as the water occasioned; and particularly at the odd display of floating objects of all kinds that were hurrying along on the bosom of the impetuous stream; and which, from their utter unfitness, in most cases, for such aquatic feats as they had been thus suddenly called on to perform, presented a very laughable appearance. There were chairs, tables, baskets, beds, stools, &c., &c.,—sometimes in whole fleets, sometimes in detached squadrons—all scudding along, and apparently rivalling each other in speed, as if rejoicing in this new power of locomotion. Now, the basket might be seen giving the “go by” to the stool, and now the stool to the basket. Here might be seen a table, neck and neck with a window shutter; and there an envious chaff bed doing its best to make up with a hamper of greens, which having got into a rapid current, was bidding defiance to competition, and looking with most profound contempt on the unavailing efforts of its pursuers. All this, a lively imagination would discover in the march of the “Hawick Spate,” as the inundation of which we speak was called.
But all the objects that floated down this heaven-descended stream, were not of the same ludicrous or uninteresting character with those enumerated. There was, at any rate, one exception, and one calculated to excite very different feelings in the beholder from those alluded to. This object was a cradle; and it was tenanted. A little mariner, unconscious of his danger, was on board the frail bark. Borne on by the current, the cradle swept rapidly along, unobserved by any one; for all were too intent on seeking their own personal safety, or on saving their property, to pay any attention to the concerns of others; or, if the cradle was seen, there was no one who would venture into the rushing torrent to rescue the little voyager from the apparently inevitable fate which awaited him. On, onward, the cradle sailed on the bosom of the stream, now wheeling rapidly round in the eddies created by sudden obstructions, and now shooting along like an arrow with the liberated waters.
But all is not lost that’s in danger. In a secluded spot at a short distance from the town, there happened to be, at the moment of which we speak, one of those gipsy encampments which, though still to be met with occasionally, are now more rare than they were then. This encampment was situated on one of the sloping sides of a deep hollow or ravine; and it so chanced that this was precisely the course which the waters took that rushed from the town; and thus everything which was borne along with them, and that had not been previously stranded, or otherwise arrested in its progress, floated past the bivouac of the gipsies—but, observe, past only, if they thought them not worth capturing; for the gipsies, with all the ready tact of their calling, in making the most of circumstances, had instantly bethought them of turning the present calamity to good account, by securing everything they could lay their hands upon; and in the end their booty was far from being inconsiderable.
Ranged along the edge of the stream, the gipsies, old and young, male and female, might have been seen at this moment, eagerly and busily employed, with long sticks, fishing in such articles as came within their reach. Some of their number, however, more daring or more greedy of spoil, might also have been seen far advanced into the water, pursuing, at the imminent risk of their lives, the same profitable pastime. It was while they were thus employed, that our little mariner and his bark came in sight of the gipsies. A general cry of surprise—not unmingled with compassion, at least on the part of the female members of the gang—burst from them when the cradle hove in sight, as they concluded that it was more than probable that it contained a child.
“Save the infant! save the infant!” exclaimed several of the women at once. But this was much easier said than done; for the cradle was floating down the very centre of the stream, which, though now a good deal diffused, and thus rendered shallower, was yet at least from four to five feet deep in the middle; and, besides this, the bottom was irregular, and interspersed with partial hollows, some of which would have taken the tallest man in the gang over the head. Aware of this, there was an evident hesitation on the part of the men to incur the risk of seizing the cradle although there were two motives to induce them to the attempt. The one was humanity—the other, a much less creditable one, interest; a child being at all times an acquisition to a gipsy gang, for the purpose of exciting charity.