In a recent article on Curling we endeavoured to give a sketch of the history of this popular Scottish pastime, together with a brief outline of the mode in which the game is usually played. The following story of a match between two rival parishes, supposed to have been played about the beginning of the present century, may give the reader a further idea of the enthusiasm evoked on the ice whenever and wherever curlers forgather. Let the non-initiated imagine himself standing beside a frozen sheet of water, upon which are assembled a company of men of various ranks from peer to peasant, each striving to do his best to support the prowess and honour of his rink. The rink let it be understood is a certain portion of ice, from thirty to forty yards in length, apportioned off to the players. The players consist usually of four on each side, and whereas in the well-known game of grass-bowls, each player is provided with two wooden bowls which he drives towards a small white ball called the Jack, each player on the ice has two curling-stones shaped much like a Gouda cheese—with a handle atop—which he propels or hurls towards a certain marked spot at each end of the rink, called the tee; and round each tee is scratched a series of concentric rings ranging from two to ten or twelve feet in diameter. Standing at one end of the rink the man whose turn it is to play, waits the bidding of his director or ‘skip’ who stands at the other end, and then endeavours to act according to the directions that may be given by that important personage. Each of the four players on one side plays alternately against his antagonist, the main object being to send the stone gliding up the ice so that it may eventually lie within the rings and as near the tee as possible. Thus, when the ‘end’ is finished, the side whose stones lie nearest the tee scores so many towards the game.

Sometimes when the ice is partially thawed the players have difficulty in hurling their stones all the way to the tee; and sometimes they fail to get them beyond a transverse mark called the ‘hog-score,’ two-thirds down the rink—in which case the lagging stone is put off the ice and cannot count for that ‘end.’ Besoms, however, with which each man is armed, are here of great account, the laws of the game permitting each player to sweep the ice in front of an approaching stone belonging to his side, so as to accelerate its progress, if necessary. The shouts of ‘Sweep, sweep!’ or rather ‘Soop, soop!’ are of continual recurrence, and are exceedingly amusing to strangers. The skip on each side first directs his three men and then lastly plays himself. On his generalship in skipping much depends, his efforts being mainly directed first to get as many stones as possible near the tee, and then to get his men to ‘guard’ them from being driven off by those of the opposite side. Or he may direct a player to aim at a certain stone already lying, with a view to take an angle, or ‘wick’ as it is termed, and so land his own stone near the tee. This wicking is a very pretty part of the game and requires great delicacy of play.

The anxiety of the opposing skips is very amusing to watch, and the enthusiasm of the several players when an unusually good shot is made, is boundless. A good ‘lead’ or first player, though he is necessarily debarred from the niceties of the game which fall to the lot of the subsequent players, is a very important man in the game if he can place his stones within the circles that surround the tee, or in familiar parlance, ‘lie within the house.’ Second player’s post is not so important; but ‘third stone’ is a position given usually to an experienced player, as he has frequently to either drive off some dangerous stone belonging to the other side, and himself take its place; or has to guard a stone of his own side, which though in a good position may lie open to the enemy. Thus proceeds with varying fortune this ‘roaring game’ of give and take, stone after stone being driven along the icy plain, till the skips themselves come to play and so finish the ‘end.’

With these preliminary remarks we proceed to our tale.

Snow had fallen long and silently over all the high-lying districts of the south of Scotland. It was an unusually bad year for the sheep-farmers, whose stock was suffering severely from the protracted storm and the snow which enveloped both hill and low-lying pasturage. But while sheep-farmers were thus kept anxiously waiting for fresh weather, curlers were in their glory, as day after day they forgathered on the ice and followed up the ‘roaring game.’

The century was young, and the particular year of our story was that known and spoken of for long afterwards as the ‘bad year.’ In these days, there was no free-trade to keep down the price of corn or beef, which during years of bad harvest in Great Britain, or long periods of frost and snow, rose to famine prices, and were all but unprocurable by the poorer classes. Oatmeal at half-a-crown a peck told a sad tale in many a household, and especially on the helpless children—the bairns.

As we have said, curling had been enjoyed to the full; perhaps there had even been a surfeit of it, if the real truth were told. Match after match had been played by parish against parish, and county against county. Rival rinks of choice players belonging to counties such as Peebles had challenged those of the neighbouring counties of Selkirkshire, or even Midlothian. Prizes, consisting of medals or money, had been gained by various enthusiasts; and last though not least, matches for suppers of beef and greens—the true curlers’ fare, had been contested, the reckoning to be paid by the losing rinks. The benedicts too had played the bachelors, and had as usual, beaten them.

Country squires had given prizes to be played for by their tenantry versus adjoining tenantry, and had brought their fur-clad wives and daughters to the ice to congratulate them on success, or condole with them on defeat. In short, the sole occupation of the majority of the adult male rural population of the south of Scotland in the year of which we speak, seemed to be—curling.

Amongst other matches in the county of Peeblesshire there was one that yet remained to come off, namely between the parishes of Tweedsmuir and Broughton. In a series of matches—or bonspiels as they were termed—between parish and parish, these two had stood unbeaten. It therefore remained to be seen which parish should beat the other, and thereby achieve the envied position of champion of the county.

When the honour of a parish is at stake on the ice, the choice of the men who are to play, is a matter of very grave import. In a friendly match between two rinks, a little unskilfulness on the part of one or more of the players is a very common affair and is comparatively unheeded: but in a bonspiel between the two best parishes in a celebrated curling county, the failure or even the occasional uncertainty of any one man may be fraught with direst consequences.

Foremost among the promoters of the forthcoming match which was to decide matters, were Robert Scott laird of Tweedsmuir, and Andrew Murray laird of Broughton. These worthies had long been rivals on other than ice-fields, and though on friendly enough terms at kirk or market were each keenly alive to his own honour and prowess. Any game, therefore, in which these rival lairds engaged, was sure to be closely contested; and the result was at all times as eagerly watched by interested spectators as it was keenly fought by the rival parties. It is even said that the lairds had been rivals in love as well as in other sports, the result of which was that Murray had carried off the lady and Scott had remained a bachelor, with an old housekeeper named Betty to take charge of him. But as the story of the love-match was but the ‘clash’ of the country, it may be taken for what it is worth.

On the morning of the day fixed for the match (which was to come off at Broughton and to consist of four men on each side), the laird of Tweedsmuir was early astir, in order to see that the cart which was to convey his own curling-stones and those of his men to Broughton—a distance of some half-dozen miles—was ready, and that the men themselves were prepared to accompany it. The cart having been duly despatched with the schoolmaster of the parish, who was to be one of the players, and the shepherd from Talla Linns, who was to be another, Laird Scott ordered out his gig and himself prepared to start.

‘Now Betty,’ cried the laird to his old housekeeper, as he proceeded to envelop himself in his plaid, ‘you’ll see and have plenty of beef and greens ready by six o’clock, and a spare bed or two; for besides our own men it’s likely enough I may bring back one or two of the beaten lads to stop all night.’

‘’Deed laird, tak ye care the Broughton folk dinna get the better o’ you, and beat ye after a’: they tell me they’re grand curlers.’

‘Well Betty, I’m not afraid of them, with Andrew Denholm on my side.’

Thus assured, the stalwart laird seized the reins and took the road for Broughton. On his way down the valley of the Tweed he called at the humble cottage of the said Andrew Denholm, who usually played the critical part of ‘third stone,’ and was one of his best supporters; and whose employment, that of a mason, was for the nonce at a stand-still.

‘What! not ready yet Andrew?’ exclaimed the laird in a tone of disappointment. ‘Bestir yourself man, or we’ll not be on the ice by ten o’clock.’

‘I’m no’ gaun’ to the curlin’ the day sir,’ replied Andrew with an air of dejection.

‘And what for no’?’ inquired the laird with uneasy apprehension. ‘You know Andrew, my man, the game canna’ go on without you. The honour of Tweedsmuir at stake too! there’s not another man I would risk in your place on the ice this day.’

‘Get Wattie Laidlaw the weaver to tak’ my place laird; he’s a grand curler, and can play up a stane as well as ony man in the parish; the fact is sir, just now I have na’ the heart even to curl. Gang yer ways yersell laird, and skip against the laird o’ Broughton, and there’s nae fear o’ the result: and Wattie can play third stane instead o’ me.’

‘Wattie will play nae third stane for me: come yourself Andrew, and we’ll try to cheer you up; and you’ll take your beef and greens up bye wi’ the rink callants and me in the afternoon.’

Denholm was considered one of the best curlers in that part of the county, and was usually one of the first to be on the ice; to see him, therefore, thus cast down and listless, filled the laird’s warm heart with sorrow. He saw there was something wrong. He must rally the dejected mason.

‘Do you think,’ continued the laird, ‘that I would trust Wattie to play in your place; a poor silly body that can barely get to the hog-score, let alone the tee? Na, na Andrew; rather let the match be off than be beaten in that way.’

Seeing the laird thus determined to carry off his ‘third man’ to the scene of the approaching conflict, the poor mason endeavoured still further to remonstrate by a recital of his grievances.

‘Ye ken sir,’ he began, ‘what a long storm it has been. Six weeks since I’ve had a day at my trade, though I have made a shilling or two now and again up-bye at the homestead yonder. But wi’ the price o’ meal at half-a-crown the peck, and no’ very good after a’; and nineteenpence for a loaf of bread, we’ve had a sair time of it. But we wadna’ vex oorsels about that, Maggie and me, if we had meal eneugh to keep the bairns fed. Five o’ them dwining away before our eyes; it’s been an unco job I assure you, laird. Indeed if it hadna been for Mag’s sister that’s married upon the grieve o’ Drummelzier, dear knows what would have become of us, wi’ whiles no a handfu’ o’ meal left in the girnel. Even wi’ the siller to pay for it, it’s no’ aye to be gotten; and,’ faltered the poor fellow in conclusion, ‘there’s just meal eneugh in the house to-day to last till the morn.’

‘Well, cheer up my man!’ cried the laird; ‘the longest day has an end, and this storm cannot last much longer. In fact there’s a thaw coming on or I’m far cheated. There’s a crown to Maggie to replenish the meal-ark, and get maybe a sup o’ something better for the bairns. And there’s cheese an’ bread in the gig here that will serve you and me Andrew, till the beef and greens are ready for us up-bye in the afternoon. Meanwhile, a tastin’ o’ the flask will no be amiss, and then for Broughton.’

Thus invigorated and reassured, the mason took his seat beside the laird, and amid blessings from the gudewife and well-wishings from the bairns, the two sped on their journey.

Arrived at the pond, they found tees marked, distances measured, and all in readiness for the play to begin. The usual salutations ensued. Broughton and Tweedsmuir shook hands all round with much apparent warmth; and the two sides, of four each, took their places in the following order:

The play was begun and continued with varying fortune: sometimes one side scored, sometimes the other. The match was to consist of thirty-one points; and at one o’clock when a halt was called for refreshments, the scoring was tolerably even. The frost was beginning to shew a slight tendency to give way, but this only nerved the players to further exertions in sweeping up the stones on the somewhat dulled ice. The scene in the forenoon had been a very lively one: but as the afternoon approached and the game was nearing an end, the liveliness was tempered with anxiety, which amounted almost to pain, as shot after shot was ‘put in’ by one side, only to be cleverly ‘taken’ by the other. ‘Soop! soop!’ was the incessant cry of the skips as from their point of vantage they descried a lagging stone; or ‘Haud up! I tell ye; haud up!’ when from that same point they beheld one of their players’ stones approaching with sufficient velocity to do all that was wanted. Anxiety was nearing a crisis. At half-past three the game stood: Broughton thirty, Tweedsmuir twenty-nine. The game was anybody’s. Coats had been cast as needless encumbrances; besoms were clutched with determined firmness: the skips slightly pale with the terrible excitement of the occasion, and the stake that was as it were hanging in the balance: want of nerve on their part to direct, or on the part of any one man to play, might decide the fate of the day. The last end had come to be played, and Broughton having won the previous end, was to lead. The shoemaker’s stone is played, and lies well over the hog-score in good line with the tee, and on the road to promotion. Tweedsmuir’s leading man, the schoolmaster, passes the souter’s stone and lies in ‘the house.’ ‘Well played dominie!’ cries Laird Scott to his lead. And so proceeds the ‘end’ till it comes to our friend the mason’s turn to play; the blacksmith having just played his first stone with but indifferent effect.

‘What do ye see o’ that stane Andrew?’ roars Laird Scott from the tee, pointing at the same time to the winning stone of the other side, which, however, was partially ‘guarded.’

‘I see the half o’ t.’

‘Then,’ says the laird, ‘make sure of it: tak it awa’, and if you rub off the guard there’s no harm done.’

For a moment the mason steadies himself, settles his foot in the crampet, and with a straight delivered shot shaves the guard and wicks out the rival stone, himself lying in close to the tee, and guarded both at the side and in front by stones belonging to his side.

The effect of such a shot as this, at so critical a period of the game, was electric, and is not easily to be described. Enthusiasm on the part of Tweedsmuir, dismay on that of Broughton. But there are yet several stones to come: the order may again be reversed, and Andrew’s deftly played shot may be yet taken. We shall see. The blacksmith, the third player on the Broughton side, follows with his second stone, and though by adhering to the direction of his skip he might have knocked off the guard and so laid open Andrew’s winner, over-anxiety causes him to miss the guard and miss everything. Thus is his second and last stone unfortunately played for Broughton.

The mason has his second stone still to play for Tweedsmuir, and before doing so Laird Scott thus accosts him: ‘Andrew my man, we are lying shot now; we want but another to be game; and for the honour o’ Tweedsmuir I am going to give you the shot that will give it to us: do ye see this port?’ pointing to an open part of the ice (in curling phraseology a port) to the left of the tee, with a stone on each side.

‘I see the port sir.’

‘Well then,’ continued the laird, ‘I want you to fill that port; lay a stone there Andrew, and there’s a lade o’ meal at your door to-morrow morning.’

The stone is raised just for one instant with an easy backward sweep of hand and arm, and delivered with a twist that curls it on and on by degrees towards the spot required. Not just with sufficient strength perhaps, but aligned to the point. In an instant the skip is master of the situation. ‘Soop lads! O soop! soop her up—s-o-o-o-p—there now; let her lie!’ as the stone curls into the ‘port,’ and lies a provoking impediment to the opposite players. The pressure on players of both sides is now too great to admit of many outward demonstrations. Stern rigour of muscle stiffens every face as the two skips themselves now leave the tee and take their places at the other end. The silence bodes a something that no one cares to explain away, so great is the strain of half-hope half-fear that animates every breast.

Laird Murray is directed by his adviser at the tee (the blacksmith) to break-off the guard in front, but misses. Scott his antagonist, by a skilfully played stone, puts on another guard still, in order to avoid danger from Laird Murray’s second and last stone. One chance only now apparently remains for the laird of Broughton, who requires but one shot to reverse the order of things and retrieve the game, and he tries it. It is one of those very difficult shots known amongst curlers as an outwick. A stone of his side has lain considerably to the right of the tee short of it, which if touched on the outer side might be driven in towards the centre and perhaps lie shot. The inwick would be easier, but that the stone is unfortunately guarded for that attempt. He knows that Denholm’s first stone still lies the shot, and is guarded both in front and at the side; and that with another, Tweedsmuir will be thirty-one and game. The shot is risked—after other contingencies have been duly weighed—but without the desired effect: the outlying stone is certainly touched, which in itself was a good shot, but is not sufficiently taken on the side to produce the desired effect. The laird of Broughton pales visibly as the shot is missed, and mutters something between his clenched teeth anything but complimentary to things in general.

The last stone now lies by the foot of our Tweedsmuir laird, who calmly awaits the word of direction from Andrew at the other end.

‘Laird!’ shouts the anxious mason, ‘there’s but the one thing for it, and I’ve seen ye play a dafter-like shot. What would ye say to try an inwick aff my last stane and lift this ane a foot?’ pointing to a stone of his side which lay near, though still not counting; ‘that would give us another shot, and the game!’

‘Well Andrew, that’s why I asked you to fill the port, for I saw what they didna see, that a wick and curl-in would be left: I think it may be done. At any rate I can but try.’

Silence reigns o’er the rink: the sweepers on each side stand in breathless suspense: the wick taken, as given by Andrew in advice to the Laird, may proclaim Broughton beaten and Tweedsmuir the champion parish of the county!

‘Stand back from behind, and shew me the stone with your besom, Andrew; there.’

The suspense is soon broken, the last stone has sped on its mission, the wick has been taken, a stone on Laird Scott’s side that was lying farther from the tee than one of the opponents’, is ‘lifted’ into second place, which with the mason’s winner makes exactly the magic score of thirty-one! Like the thaw which after this long-continued storm will be welcomed by man and beast alike, so does the thaw now melt the frozen tongues of the players. Hats fly up in frenzy of delight, and the phenomenon is witnessed (only to be witnessed on ice) of a Scottish laird and his humble tenant in ecstatic embrace. Flasks are produced, hands shaken by rivals as well as by friends—though chiefly by friends: preparations are made to carry home the paraphernalia of the roaring game: and while Betty congratulates the laird and his guests on their victory, there is happiness in store for Andrew Denholm, whose prowess so notably contributed to secure the honour of Tweedsmuir.