{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_47800/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_47800","id":"gutenberg_47800","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/47800","summary":null,"tags":["Category: History - British","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Travel Writing","Scottish Borders (Scotland) -- Description and travel"],"text":"HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS IN THE BORDER\n\nBy Andrew Lang and John Lang\n\nWith Illustrations by Hugh Thomson\n\n\n[Illustration: 0008]\n\n[Illustration: 0009]\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\nAt the time of his death, my brother had proceeded but a little way\nin this task which he and I began together, and I must frankly own my\ninability to cope with it on the lines which he would doubtless have\nfollowed. It is probable, for example, that his unrivalled knowledge of\n\"the memories, legends, ballads, and nature of the Border\" would have\nled him to show various important events in a light different from that\nin which my less intimate acquaintance with the past has enabled me to\nspeak of them; whilst, as regards the Ballad literature of the Border,\nI cannot pretend to that expert knowledge which he possessed, I do not\nthink, therefore, it is fitting that I should attempt to carry out his\nintention to deal more fully with those of the Ballads which are most\nclosely connected with places treated of in this volume.\n\nTo him, more perhaps than to any other Borderer, every burn and stream,\nevery glen and hill of that pleasant land was\n\n                        \". . . lull ot ballad notes,\n\n                        Borne out of long ago.\"\n\nIt is many a year since he wrote those verses wherein he spoke of\n\n                   \" Old songs that sung themselves to me,\n\n                   Sweet through a boy's day-dream.\"\n\nBut it was not alone in a boy's day-dream that they sounded. To the end,\nthey echoed and re-echoed in his heart, and no voice ever spoke to\nhim so eloquently as that of Tweed,--by whose banks, indeed, in a spot\ngreatly loved, had it been permitted he would fain have slept his long\nsleep.\n\nJOHN LANG.\n\n_The artist wishes to call attention to the fact that his drawings\nwere made during the long drought of 1911, when all the rivers were\nexceptionally low._\n\n\n\n\nLIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n     KELSO abbey....................................Frontispiece\n\n     HALIDON HILL AND THE TWO BRIDGES, BERWICK...............003\n\n     OLD BRIDGE AT BERWICK...................................006\n\n     BUTTRESSES WITH CANOPIED NICHES AT EDROM................014\n\n     AT CHIRNSIBE........................................... 015\n\n     DOORWAY IN GRAVEYARD AT EDROM...........................016\n\n     NORHAM CASTLE...........................................046\n\n     LADY KIRK...............................................047\n\n     FORD CASTLE FROM THE ROAD...............................049\n\n     LOOKING UP THE TILL FROM TWIZEL BRIDGE..................050\n\n     THE RIDGE ON WHICH THE SCOTTISH ARMY WAS ENTRENCHED\n     BEFORE THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN............................051\n\n     TWIZEL BRIDGE...........................................052\n\n     THE SLOPES AT BRANXTON ON WHICH THE\n     BATTLE OF FLODDEN WAS FOUGHT............................053\n\n     SYBIL GREY'S WELL AT FLODDEN............................055\n\n     BRIDGE OVER THE LEET, COLDSTREAM........................057\n\n     THE CHEVIOTS FROM COLDSTREAM FERRY......................060\n\n     FLOORS CASTLE FROM KELSO................................072\n\n     KELSO...................................................073\n\n     KELSO ABBEY.............................................075\n\n     KELSO. TEVIOT IN FOREGROUND.............................076\n\n     MEETING OF TWEED AND TEVIOT NEAR KELSO..................077\n\n     RUINS OF ROXBURGH CASTLE................................079\n\n     JEDBURGH FROM THE PARK..................................091\n\n     JEDBURGH ABBEY..........................................103\n\n     QUEEN MARY'S HOUSE, JEDBURGH............................105\n\n     FERNIHIRST CASTLE.......................................131\n\n     CATCLEUCH RESERVOIR LOOKING SOUTH.......................142\n\n     BRIDGE OVER JED WATER AT OLD SOUDEN KIRK.\n     THE CHEVIOTS BEHIND.....................................148\n\n     OTTERBURNE..............................................162\n\n     OTTERBURNE..............................................163\n\n     SOUDEN KIRK.............................................166\n\n     JOHN LEYDEN'S BIRTHPLACE, DENHOLM.......................179\n\n     CAVERS..................................................185\n\n     HAWICK..................................................186\n\n     THE TOWER INN, HAWICK...................................187\n\n     HORNSHOLE BRIDGE........................................188\n\n     ST. MARY'S, HAWICK......................................189\n\n     VALE OF THE BORTHWICK WATER LOOKING TOWARDS HAWICK......191\n\n     A GLIMPSE OF HARDEN.....................................192\n\n     GOLDIELANDS TOWER AND THE TEVIOT........................193\n\n     BRANKSOME...............................................194\n\n     BRANKSOME...............................................196\n\n     LOOKING DOWN TEVIOTDALE FROM CAERLANRIG.................197\n\n     TEVIOTHEAD KIRK.........................................202\n\n     TOMB OF SIR WALTER SCOTT, DRYBURGH......................207\n\n     SMAILHOLME TOWER........................................210\n\n     THE EILDONS FROM BEMERSYDE HILLS........................211\n\n     EARLSTON................................................218\n\n     THE RIVER AT DRYBURGH ABBEY.............................221\n\n     EILDON HILLS AND GORGE OF THE TWEED FROM LESSUDDEN......223\n\n     MELROSE FROM NEWSTEAD...................................224\n\n     MELROSE CROSS...........................................225\n\n     EAST WINDOW, MELROSE ABBEY..............................226\n\n     DARNICK TOWER...........................................228\n\n     ABBOTSFORD..............................................230\n\n     THE RHYMER'S GLEN.......................................232\n\n     GALASHIELS, THE EILDONS IN THE DISTANCE.................238\n\n     THE TWEED FROM THE FERRY, ABBOTSFORD....................241\n\n     TOR WOOD LEE............................................243\n\n     ABBOTSFORD FROM THE LEFT BANK OF THE TWEED.\n     THE EILDON HILLS BEHIND.................................244\n\n     WHERE TWEED AND ETTRICK MEET............................245\n\n     SELKIRK FROM THE HEATHERLIE.............................250\n\n     THE ETTRICK FROM THE OUTSKIRTS OF SELKIRK...............260\n\n     SELKIRK.................................................264\n\n     THE ETTRICK AT BOWHILL..................................274\n\n     OAKWOOD TOWER...........................................277\n\n     KIRKHOPE TOWER..........................................279\n\n     LOOKING UP ETTRICKDALE FROM HYNDHOPE....................280\n\n     ETTRICK WATER AT THE DELORAINES.........................281\n\n     THE BRIDGE AT TUSHIELAW.................................283\n\n     ETTRICK VALE FROM HYNDHOPE..............................284\n\n     BUCCLEUCH...............................................285\n\n     A GLIMPSE OF CLEARBURN LOCH.............................286\n\n     ETTRICK KIRK............................................288\n\n     MILL GANG AT ETTRICK....................................290\n\n     HYNDHOPE BURN...........................................291\n\n     ST. MARY'S LOCH AND THE LOCH OF THE LOVERS..............293\n\n     ST. MARY'S LOCH.........................................295\n\n     SITE OF ST. MARY'S CHURCH...............................296\n\n     THE DOUGLAS BURN AND BLACKHOUSE TOWER...................297\n\n     COCKBURNE'S GRAVE.......................................299\n\n     COPPERCLEUCH POST-OFFICE AND A GLIMPSE UP MEGGETDALE....301\n\n     TIBBIE SHIEL'S..........................................302\n\n     DRYHOPE TOWER...........................................304\n\n     THE GORDON ARMS.........................................306\n\n     VALE OF YARROW--THE GORDON ARMS IN THE DISTANCE.........307\n\n     DEUCHAR BRIDGE..........................................310\n\n     THE DOWIE DENS..........................................311\n\n     NEWARK..................................................315\n\n     YAIR BRIDGE.............................................317\n\n     FAIRNILEE...............................................320\n\n     CADDONFOOT LOOKING TOWARDS YAIR.........................321\n\n     THE INN AT CLOVENFORDS..................................322\n\n     THOMAS PURDIE'S GRAVE, MELROSE ABBEY....................323\n\n     THE TWEED AT ASHIESTEEL.................................325\n\n     THE TWEED BETWEEN ASHIESTEEL AND THORNILEE..............326\n\n     TOWER OF ELIBANK........................................328\n\n     INNERLEITHEN............................................329\n\n     A ROAD BESIDE THE TWEED, NEAR CADDONFOOT................331\n\n     THE CLOSED GATES AT TRAQUAIR HOUSE......................332\n\n     TRAQUAIR HOUSE..........................................333\n\n     WHERE THE QUAIR ENTERS THE TWEED ABOVE INNERLEITHEN.....335\n\n     ON THE ROAD TO PEEBLES..................................336\n\n     NELDPATH CASTLE.........................................341\n\n     PEEBLES FROM NEIDPATH...................................343\n\n     THE \"BLACK DWARF'S COTTAGE IN THE MANOR VALLEY..........344\n\n     LOOKING UP THE MANOR VALLEY.............................346\n\n     BRIDGE OVER THE LYNE WATER..............................348\n\n     LOOKING UP TALLA FROM TWEEDSMUIR POST-OFFICE............360\n\n     BRIDGE OVER TWEED AT TWEEDSMUIR.........................361\n\n     TWEEDSMUIR..............................................363\n\n     TALLA RESERVOIR FROM TALLA LINN.........................366\n\n     A SKETCH ON THE GAMESHOPE BURN..........................368\n\n     THE DEVIL'S BEEF TUB....................................376\n\n     HERMITAGE CASTLE........................................384\n\n     MEETING OF THE HERMITAGE AND LIDDEL.....................386\n\n     MILLHOLME OR MILNHOLM CROSS.............................389\n\n     ON THE LIDDEL AT MANGERTON..............................390\n\n     CARLISLE CASTLE.........................................393\n\n     CARLISLE AND THE RIVER EDEN.............................394\n\n     CARLISLE FROM THE CASTLE RAMPARTS.......................395\n\n     A BYWAY IN CARLISLE.....................................396\n\n     THE MARKET CROSS, CARLISLE..............................397\n\n     DICK'S TREE. THE BLACKSMITH'S SHOP WHERE\n     KINMONT WILLIE'S FETTERS WERE TAKEN OFF.................399\n\n     THE REPUTED GRAVE OF KINMONT WILLIE IN SARK GRAVEYARD...400\n\n     SARK BRIDGE AND TOLL-BAR................................402\n\n     THE BLACKSMITH'S SHOP, GRETNA GREEN.....................403\n\n     SOLWAY MOSS.............................................404\n\n     ANCIENT CROSS, ARTHURET.................................405\n\n     GORGE ON THE LIDDEL.....................................406\n\n     STUDY IN CARLISLE CATHEDRAL.............................407\n\n     BRAMPTON................................................408\n\n     BEWCASTLE CHURCH AND CASTLE.............................410\n\n     BEWCASTLE CROSS.........................................411\n\n     NAWORTH CASTLE..........................................412\n\n     BEWCASTLE CROSS.........................................414\n\n     KIRK ANDREWS TOWER, NETHERBY............................417\n\n     THE ARMSTRONG TOWER ON THE ESK..........................419\n\n     GILNOCKIE BRIDGE........................................420\n\n     ON THE ESK AT HOLLOWS...................................422\n\n     LANGHOLM................................................424\n\n     MAP--THE ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH BORDER..........End of Volume\n\n\n{001}\n\n\n\n\nHIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS IN THE BORDER\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I BERWICK, TWEED, WHITADDER\n\n|The \"Border\" is a magical word, and on either side of a line that\nconstantly varied in the course of English and Scottish victories and\ndefeats, all is enchanted ground, the home of memories of forays and\nfairies, of raids and recoveries, of loves and battles long ago. In the\nmost ancient times of which record remains, the English sway, on the\neast, might extend to and include Edinburgh; and Forth, or even Tay,\nmight be the southern boundary of the kingdom of the Scots. On the west,\nStrathclyde, originally Cymric or Welsh, might extend over Cumberland;\nand later Scottish kings might hold a contested superiority over\nthat province. Between east and west, in the Forest of Ettrick, the\nplace-names prove ownership in the past by men of English speech, of\nCymric speech, and of Gaelic speech. From a single point of view you may\nsee Penchrise (Welsh) Glengaber (Gaelic) and Skelfhill (English). Once\nthe Border, hereabouts, ran slantwise, from Peel Fell in the Cheviots,\nacross the Slitrig, a water which joins Teviot at{002}Hawick, thence\nacross Teviot to Commonside Hill above Branksome tower, to the Rankle\nburn, near Buccleuch, an affluent of Ettrick. Thence, across Ettrick\nand Yarrow, over Minchmuir, where Montrose rode after the disaster at\nPhiliphaugh, across Tweed, past the camp of Rink, to Torwoodlee, goes\nthat ancient Border, marked by the ancient dyke called the Catrail,\nin which Sir Walter Scott once had a bad fall during his \"grand\nrides among the hills,\" when he beat out the music of _Marmion_ to the\naccompaniment of his horse's hooves. The Catrail was a Border, once,\nand is a puzzle, owing to its ditch between two ramparts. There are many\nhill forts, mounds even now strong and steep in some places, on the\nline of the Catrail. The learned derive the word from Welsh _cad_,\nGaelic _Cath_, \"a battle,\" and some think that the work defended\nthe Border of the Christian Cymric folk of Strathclyde from the pagan\nEnglish of Northumbria. In that case, Sir Herbert Maxwell has expressed\nthe pious hope that \"the Britons were better Christians than they were\nmilitary engineers.\" Is it inconceivable that the word Catrail is a mere\nold English nickname for a ditch which they did not understand, _the\ncat's trail_, like Catslack, the wild cat's gap, and other local cat\nnames? I am no philologist!\n\nOnce when taking a short cut across a hill round which the road runs\nfrom Branksome to Skelfhill, I came upon what looked like the deeply\ncut banks of an extinct burn. There was no water, and the dyke was not\ncontinued above or below. Walking on I met an old gentleman sketching\na group of hill forts, artificial mounds, and asked him what this\ninexplicable deep cutting might be. \"It is the Catrail,\" he said: I had\noften heard of it, and now I had seen it. The old man went on to show\nthat the Border is still a haunted place. \"Man, a queer thing happened\nto me on Friday nicht. I was sleeping at Tushielaw Inn, (on the Upper\nEttrick) I had steikit the door and the windows: I woke in the middle o'\nthe nicht,--there {003}was a body in the bed wi' me!\" (I made a flippant\nremark. He took no notice of it.) \"I got up and lit the candle, and\nlooked. There was naebody in the bed. I fell asleep, and wakened again.\nThe body was there, it _yammered_. I canna comprehend it.\" Nor can I,\nbut a pah of amateur psychical researchers hastened to sleep a night\nat Tushielaw. _They_ were undisturbed; and the experience of the old\nantiquary was \"for this occasion only.\"\n\n\"My work seeks digressions,\" says Herodotus, and mine has already\nwandered far north of the old Border line of Tweed on the east, and\nEsk on the western marches, far into what was once the great forest of\nEttrick, and now is mainly pasture land, _pastorum loca vasta_. In\nthe old days of the Catrail and the hill forts this territory, \"where\nvictual never grew,\" must have been more thickly populated than it has\nbeen in historic times.\n\n[Illustration: 0023]\n\nWe may best penetrate it by following the ancient natural tracks, by the\nsides of Tweed and its tributaries. We cross the picturesque bridge of\nTweed at Berwick to the town which first became part of the kingdom\nof Scotland, when Malcolm II, at Carham fight, won Lothian from\nNorthumbria. That was in 1018, nine centuries agone. Thenceforward\nBerwick was one of the four most important places of Scottish\n{004}trade; the Scots held it while they might, the English took it\nwhen they could; the place changed hands several times, to the infinite\ndistress of a people inured to siege and sack. They must have endured\nmuch when Malcolm mastered it; and again, in 1172, when Richard de Lacy\nand Humphrey de Bohun, at war with William the Lion, burned the town.\nWilliam, after he inadvertently, in a morning mist, charged the whole\nEnglish army at Alnwick, and was captured, surrendered Berwick to\nEngland, by the Treaty of Falaise, when he did homage for his whole\nkingdom. The English strongly fortified the place, though the fragments\nof the girdling wall near the railway station, are, I presume, less\nancient than the end of the twelfth century. William bought all back\nagain from the crusading Richard of the Lion Heart: the two kings were\n\"well matched for a pair of lions,\" but William the Lion was old by this\ntime.\n\nIn 1216, Alexander II attacked England at Norham Castle, but King John,\nthough seldom victorious, was man enough to drive Alexander off, and\nbrute enough to sack Berwick with great cruelty, setting a lighted torch\nto the thatch of the house in which he had lain; and \"making a jolly\nfire,\" as a general of Henry VIII later described his own conduct at\nEdinburgh. Fifty years later the woman-hating friar who wrote _The\nChronicle of Lanercost_ describes Berwick as the Alexandria of the\nperiod; the Tweed, flowing still and shallow, taking the place of the\nmajestic river of Egypt. One is reminded of the Peebles man who, after\nreturning from a career in India, was seen walking sadly on Peebles\nBridge. \"I'm a leear,\" he said, \"an unco leear. In India I telled them\na' that Tweed at Peebles was wider than the Ganges!\" And he had believed\nit.\n\nHowever, Berwick _was_ the Scottish Alexandria, and paid into the\ncoffers of the last of her \"Kings of Peace,\" Alexander III, an almost\nincredible amount of customs dues. After three peaceful reigns, Scotland\nwas a wealthy country, and Berwick was her chief emporium. But then came\nthe death of the {005}Maid of Norway, the usurpation by Edward I, the\nendless wars for Independence: and Berwick became one of the cockpits\nof the long strife, while Scotland, like St. Francis, was the mate of\nPoverty.\n\nWhile Edward was in France, his \"toom tabard,\" King John, (Balliol)\nrenounced his allegiance. Edward came home and, in the last days of\nMarch 1296, crossed Tweed and beleaguered Berwick, in which were many\ntrading merchants of Flanders. The townsfolk burned several of his\nships, and sang songs of which the meaning was coarse, and the language,\nthough libellous, was rather obscure. Edward was not cruel, as a rule,\nbut, irritated by the check, the insults, and the reported murder by the\nScots of English merchants, he gave orders for a charge. The ditch\nand stockade were carried, and a general massacre followed, of which\nhorrible tales are told by a late rhyming chronicler. Hemingburgh, on\nthe English side, says that the women were to some extent protected.\nThe Scots avenged themselves in the same fashion at Corbridge, that old\nRoman station, but the glory and wealth of Berwick were gone, the place\nretaining only its military importance. To Berwick Edward II fled after\nBannockburn, as rapidly as Sir John Cope sought the same refuge after\nPrestonpans.\n\nBerwick is, for historically minded tourists, (not a large proportion\nof the whole), a place of many memories. In July, 1318, Bruce took\nthe castle after a long blockade; an English attempt to recover it was\ndefeated mainly through the skill of Crab, a Flemish military engineer.\nGuns were not yet in use: \"crakkis of war,\" (guns) were first heard in\nScotland, near Berwick, in 1327. In 1333, after a terrible defeat of the\nScots on the slopes of Halidon Hill, a short distance north of Berwick,\nthe place surrendered to Edward III, and became the chief magazine of\nthe English in their Scottish wars.\n\nBy 1461, the Scots recovered it, but in 1481, the nobles of James III\nmutinied at Lauder bridge, hanged his favourites, and made no attempt\nto drive Crook-backed Richard from his {006}siege of Berwick. Since then\nthe town has been in English hands, and was to them, for Scottish wars,\na Calais or a Gibraltar. The present bridge of fifteen arches, the most\nbeautiful surviving relic here of old days, was built under James VI and\nI.\n\n[Illustration: 0026]\n\nThey say that the centre of the railway station covers the site of the\nhall of the castle of Edward I, in which that prince righteously awarded\nthe crown of Scotland to John Balliol. The town long used the castle as\na quarry, then came the railway, and destroyed all but a few low walls,\nmere hummocks, and the Bell Tower.\n\nNaturally the ancient churches perished after the Blessed Reformation:\nindeed the castle was used as a quarry for a new church of the period of\nthe Civil War.\n\nImmediately above Berwick, and for some distance, Tweed flows between\nflat banks, diffusely and tamely: the pools are locally styled \"dubs,\"\nand deserve the title. The anti-Scottish satirist, Churchill, says,\n{007}\n\n               \"Waft me, some Muse, to Tweed's inspiring stream\n\n               Where, slowly winding, the dull waters creep\n\n               And seem themselves to own the power of sleep.\"\n\n\"In fact,\" replies a patriotic Scot, \"'the glittering and resolute\nstreams of Tweed,' as an old Cromwellian trooper and angler, Richard\nFranck, styles them, are only dull and sleepy in the dubs where England\nprovides their flat southern bank.\"\n\nNot flat, however, are the banks on either side of Whitadder, Tweed's\nfirst tributary, which joins that river two or three miles above\nBerwick. From its source in the Lammermuirs, almost to its mouth, a\ndistance of between thirty and forty miles, the Whitadder is quite\nan ideal trouting stream, \"sore fished\" indeed, and below Chirnside,\ninjured, one fears, by discharge from Paper Mills there, yet full of\nrippling streams and boulder-strewn pools that make one itch to throw a\nfly over them. But most of the water is open to the public, and on days\nwhen local angling competitions are held it is no uncommon sight to see\nthree, or maybe four, competitors racing for one stream or pool, the\nsecond splashing in and whipping the water in front of the first,\nregardless of unwritten sporting law; a real case of \"deil tak the\nhindmost.\"\n\n\"Free-fishing\" no doubt, from some points of view, is a thing to be\ndesired, but to him who can remember old times, when the anglers he met\nin the course of a day's fishing might easily be counted on the fingers\nof one hand, the change now is sad. Yet men, they say, do still in the\nopen stretches of Whitadder catch \"a pretty dish\" now and again. They\nmust be very early birds, one would suppose--and perhaps they fish with\nthe lure that the early bird is known to pick up.\n\nOn both sides of Whitadder are to be seen places of much interest.\nFirst, Edrington Castle, on the left bank a few miles from the river's\nmouth, once a place of great strength, now crushed by the doom that has\nwrecked so many of the old strongholds in this part of the country--it\nwas for ages used as {008}a convenient quarry. Then, on the right bank,\nhigher up, on an eminence overhanging the stream, stands Hutton Hall, a\npicturesque old keep of the fifteenth century, with additions of later\ndate. The original tower was probably built by the Lord Home, who\nobtained the lands in 1467 by his marriage with the daughter of George\nKer of Samuelton. Nearly opposite Hutton, about a mile away, are the\nruins of an old castle at Edington. It is remarkable the number of names\nin this district, all beginning with \"Ed\":--Edrington, Edington, Ednam,\nEden, Edrom, Edinshall, all probably taking their origin from Edwin,\nking of Northumbria, 626-633. Or does the derivation go still further\nback, to Odin?\n\nHigher up, we come to Allanton and the junction of Whitadder with\nits tributary, Blackadder. Near this lies Allanbank, haunt for many\ngenerations of that apparition so famous in Scotland, \"Pearlin Jean.\"\nJean, or rather Jeanne, it is said, was a beautiful young French lady,\nin Paris or elsewhere loved and left by a wicked Baronet of Allanbank,\nSir Robert Stuart. The tale is some hundreds of years old, but \"Pearlin\nJean\" and her pathetic story still retain their hold on the imagination\nof Border folk. The legend goes that when the false lover, after a\nviolent scene, deserted his bride that should have been, the poor lady\naccidentally met her death, but not before she had vowed that she would\n\"be in Scotland before him.\" And sure enough, the first thing that\ngreeted the horrified gaze of the baronet as he crossed the threshold\nof his home, bringing another bride than her he had loved and left, wras\nthe dim form of Jeanne, all decked, as had ever been her wont, in the\nrich lace that she loved, and from which the apparition derived the name\nof Pearlin Jean, \"pearlin\" being the Scottish term for lace. Tradition\nsays nothing as to the end of the false lover, but the ghost was still\nknown--so say the country people--to have haunted the house until it was\npulled down sometime early in last century. Sir Thomas Dick Lauder\nin his \"Scottish Rivers\" tells how {009}an old woman then anxiously\nenquired: \"Where will Pearlin Jean gang noo when the house is\ndismolished?\"\n\nThat is the tale of \"Pearlin Jean\" as it is generally told. There is\nanother story, however, less known but much more probable.\n\nWhen the reckless extravagance of succeeding generations ended as it\nalways must end; when cards and dire and the facile aid of wine and\nwomen had sent bit after bit of the broad lands of an old family into\nalien keeping, and not tardily the day had come when the last acre\nslipped through heedless fingers, and even the household furniture--all\nthat remained to the last Baronet of Allanbank--was brought to the\nhammer, there was one room in the old house into which, ere the\ngloaming fell, the country folk peered with awe greater even than their\ncuriosity. It was a room in which for near on two generations the dust\nhad been left to lie undisturbed on table and chair and mantel-shelf,\na room whose little diamond shaped window panes the storms of more than\nfifty winters had dimmed, and on whose hearth still lay the ashes of\na fire quenched half a century back. Here it was that Pearlin Jean had\npassed those few not unhappy months of her life, while yet a false lover\nwas not openly untrue to her. But into this chamber, since Jean quilted\nit for the last time no servant would venture by day or by night,\nunaccompanied, lest in it might be seen the wraith of that unfortunate\nand much wronged lady.\n\nIt is a story common enough, unhappily, that of Jeanne. She was\nthe daughter of a Flemish Jew, very beautiful, very young, very\nlight-hearted and loving, and unsuspecting of evil, of a disposition\ninvincibly generous and self-sacrificing. In an evil hour the Fates\nthrew across her path Sir Robert Stuart of Allanbank, then visiting the\nHague during his travels on the Continent. Sir Robert was a man now no\nlonger in his first youth, self-indulgent, callous of the feelings and\nrights of others where they ran athwart his own wants or desires, one\n{010}to whom the seamy side of life had long been as an open book. His\ncrop of wild oats, indeed, was ere now of rankest growth, and already on\nthe face of the sower were lines that told of the toil of sowing. But he\nwas a handsome man, with a fluent, honeyed tongue, and it did not take\nhim long to steal the heart from one who, like the poor little Jeanne,\nsuspected no evil.\n\nTo the Merse and to Allanbank there came word that the land was\nreturning to his home. The house was to be put in order, great\npreparations to be made. No doubt, folk thought, all pointed to a\nwedding in the near future; the wild young baronet was about to settle\ndown at last--and not before it was time, if what folk said regarding\nhis last visit to Allanbank might be trusted. But the local newsmongers\nwere wrong, in this instance at least of the home-coming and what might\nbe expected to follow. When Sir Robert's great coach lumbered up to the\ndoor of Allanbank, there stepped down, not the baronet alone, but a\nvery beautiful young woman, a vision all in lace and ribbons, whom\nthe wondering servants were instructed to regard in future as their\nmistress. And though neighbours--with a few male exceptions--of course\nkept severely aloof, steadily ignoring the scandalous household of\nAllanbank, yet after a time, in spite of the fact that no plain gold\nband graced the third finger of Jeanne's left hand, servants, and\nthe country folk generally, came to have a great liking, and even an\naffection, for the kindly little foreign lass with the merry grey eyes\nand the sunny hair, and the quaintly tripping tongue. And for a time\nJeanne was happy, singing gaily enough from morning to night some one or\nother of her numberless sweet old French _chansons._ She had the man she\nadored; what mattered neighbours? And so the summer slid by.\n\nBut before the autumn there came a change. The merry lass was no longer\nso merry, songs came less often from her lips, tears that she could not\nhide more and more often {011}brimmed over from her eyes; and day by day\nher lover seemed to become more short in the temper and less considerate\nof her feelings, more inclined to be absent from home. In a word, he was\nbored, and he was not the man to conceal it. Then when April was come,\nand the touch of Spring flushed every bare twig in copse or wooded bank\ndown by the pools where trout lay feeding, when thrush and blackbird,\nperched high on topmost hough, poured out their hearts in a glory of\nsong that rose and fell on the still evening air, a little daughter lay\nin Jeanne's arms, and happiness again for a brief space was hers. But\nnot for long. The ardour born anew in her man's self-engrossed heart\nsoon died down. To him now it seemed merely that a squalling infant had\nbeen added to his already almost insufferable burden of a peevish woman.\n\nMore and more, Jeanne was left to her own society and to the not\ninadequate solace of her little child. Then \"business\" took Stuart to\nEdinburgh. Months passed, and he did not return; nor did Jeanne once\nhear of him. But there came at last for her a day black and terrible,\nwhen the very foundations of her little world crumbled and became as\nthe dust that drives before the wind. From Edinburgh came a mounted\nmessenger, bearing a letter, written by his man of business, which told\nthe unhappy girl that Sir Robert Stuart was about to be married to\none in his own rank of life; that due provision should be made for the\nchild, and sufficient allowance settled on herself, provided that she\nreturned to her own country and refrained from causing further scandal\nor trouble. She made no outcry, poor lass; none witnessed her bitter\ngrief that night. But in the morning, she and the child were gone, and\non her untouched bed lay the lace and the jewels she once had liked to\nwear because in early days it had pleased her to hear the man she loved\nsay that she looked well in them.\n\nTime went by, and Stuart, unheeding of public opinion, brought his\nbride to Allanbank. Of Jeanne he had had {012}no word; she had\ndisappeared--opportunely enough, he thought. Probably she had long ago\ngone back to her own land, and by this time the countryside had perhaps\nfound some other nine days' wonder to cackle over. So he returned,\ndriving up to the house in great state--as once before he had driven up.\n\nSurely an ill-omened home-coming, this, for the new bride! As the\nhorses dashed up the avenue, past little groups of gaping country people\nuncertain whether to cheer or to keep silence, suddenly there darted\nfrom a clump of shrubbery the flying figure of a woman carrying in\nher arms a little child, and ere the postilions could pull up, or any\nbystander stop her, she was down among the feet of the plunging horses,\nand an iron heel had trodden out the life of the woman. It was the\ntrampled body of that Jeanne whom he had lightly loved for a time and\nthen tossed aside when weary of his toy, that met the horrified gaze\nof the white-lipped, silent man who got hurriedly down from inside that\ncoach, leaving his terrified bride to shrink unheeded in her corner.\nAnd perhaps now he would have given much to undo the past and to make\natonement for the wrong he had done. At least, he may have thought,\nthere was the child to look after; and his heart--what there was of\nit--went out with some show of tenderness towards the helpless infant.\nBut here was the beginning of strife, for Jeanne's baby did by no means\nappeal to the new-made bride. Nor was that lady best pleased to find\nin her withdrawing room a fine portrait in oils of her unlawful\npredecessor.\n\nAnd so there was little peace in that house; and as little comfort as\npeace, for it came to pass that no servant would remain there. From the\nday of her death Pearlin Jean \"walked\", they said, and none dared enter\nthe room which once she had called her own. That, of all places, was\nwhere she was most certain to be seen. For one day, when the master\nentered the room alone, they that were near heard his {013}voice\npleading, and when he came out it was with a face drawn and grey, and\nhis eyes, they said, gazed into vacancy like those of one that sees not.\nSo the place got ever an increasingly bad name, and the ghost of the\npoor unhappy Jeanne could get no rest, but went to and fro continually.\nAnd long after that day had arrived when her betrayer, too, slept with\nhis fathers, the notoriety of the affair waxed so great that seven\nlearned ministers, tradition says, united vainly in efforts to lay the\nunquiet spirit of Pearlin Jean. So long as the old house stood, there,\nthey will tell you, might her ghost be seen, pathetically constant to\nthe place of her sorrow. And there may not be wanting, even now, those\nwho put faith in the possibility of her slender figure being seen as it\nglides through the trees where the old house of Allanbank once stood.\n\nSome miles above Allanton, on the left bank of Whitadder, stands\nBlanerne, home of a very ancient Scottish family. And farther back from\nthe river are the crumbling fragments of Billie Castle--\"Bylie,\" in\ntwelfth century charters,--and of Bunkle, or, more properly, Bonkyll,\nCastle. All these have met the fate assigned to them by the old local\nrhyming prophecy:\n\n                   \"Bunkle, Billie, and Blanerne,\n\n                   Three castles Strang as aim,\n\n                   Built whan Davy was a bairn;\n\n                        They'll a' gang doun\n\n                        Wi' Scotland's crown,\n\n               And ilka ane sail be a cairn.\"\n\nA cairn each has been, without doubt, or rather a quarry, from which\nmaterial for neighbouring farm buildings has been ruthlessly torn.\nOf Blanerne, I believe the Keep still exists, as well as some other\nremains, to tell of what has been; but Billie Castle is now little more\nthan a green mound at foot of which runs a more or less swampy burn,\nwith here and there a fragment of massive wall still standing; whilst\nBunkle is a mere rubble of loose stones. AH these were destroyed in\nHertford's {014}raid in 1544, when so much of the Border was \"birnd and\nowaiertrown.\"\n\n[Illustration: 0034]\n\nMore ruthless than Hertford's, however, was the work at Bunkle of our\nown people in 1820. They pulled down an eleventh century church in order\nto build the present edifice. Only a fragment of the original building\nremains, but many of its carved stones may be seen in the walls of the\nexisting {015}church. Possibly the old structure was in a bad state of\nrepair. One does not know for certain; but at date of its demolition the\nbuilding appears to have been entire.\n\n[Illustration: 8035]\n\nOur ancestors of a hundred years ago were not to be \"lippened to\" where\necclesiastical remains were concerned. They had what amounted to a\npassion for pulling down anything that was old, and where they did not\npull down, they generally covered with hideous plaster any inside wall\nor ornamental work, which to them perhaps might savour of \"papistry.\"\nParish ministers, even late in the eighteenth and early in the\nnineteenth centuries, appear to have taken no interest in those\nbeautiful Norman remains, numerous fragments of which even now exist in\nBerwickshire; of all those ministers who compiled the old Statistical\nAccount of this county, but one or two make any mention of such things.\nOne fears, indeed, that to some of those reverend gentlemen, or to\nothers like them of later date, we are indebted for the destruction of\npriceless relics of the past. At Duns, for instance, as late as 1874 the\noriginal chancel of an old Norman church was pulled down by order of\nthe incumbent, \"to improve the church-yard.\" Then, as already mentioned,\nthere is Bunkle, an instance of very early Norman work, pulled down in\n1820. At Chirnside, the tower of its Norman church was sacrificed in\n1750. though great part of the old church walls remain; in the south\nside is a Norman doorway six feet ten inches in height to the lintel\nand two feet ten and three-quarter inches wide. Of Edrom church, a\nvery beautiful Norman doorway, said to be \"the finest of its style in\nScotland,\" has been preserved, entirely owing, apparently, to {016}the\nfact that it had been made the entrance to a burial vault. At Legerwood,\nnear Earlstoun, where stands the chancel of a Norman church, the arch is\nstill entire but is defaced with plaster. Berwickshire, however, is not\nthe only part of the Border where such things have been done.\n\n[Illustration: 0036]\n\nHigher up Tweed, at Stobo in Peeblesshire, there is an interesting\nold church of Norman structure, with sixteenth and seventeenth century\nalterations; roof and interior fittings are modern, and the building\nis still used as the Parish Church. Sixteenth and seventeenth century\nalterations have now at least age to commend them, but it is difficult\nto see what plea can be advanced for some of those of comparatively\nrecent date. According to \"Ecclesiastical Architecture of Scotland,\" the\nmost serious injury inflicted on the building was the entire destruction\nof the Norman chancel arch, in order to insert a modern pointed one, at\nthe restoration of the church in 1868.\n\nOver in Teviotdale, too, the same passion for altering, or for sweeping\naway relics of old times, ran its course. In 1762, the Town Council of\nHawick gave orders for the destruction of the Town's Cross. So Popish a\nthing as a Cross could not be {017}tolerated by those worthy and \"unco\"\npious persons. The treasurer's accounts of the time show that tenpence\nper day was paid to two men for the work of taking down the Cross, and\nthe carved stones seem to have been sold afterwards for eleven shillings\nand sixpence. No doubt the worthy bailies congratulated themselves on\nhaving not only rid the town of an emblem of Popery, but on having made\nquite a handsome monetary profit over the transaction.\n\nBut to return to Whitadder. In his \"Scottish Rivers,\" Sir Thomas Dick\nLauder writes of Billy Castle as the scene of a grisly tale connected\nwith the Homes. He tells how, to the best of his reckoning about a\ncentury prior to the date at which he wrote, an old lady of that family\nresided here in a somewhat friendless condition, but with a considerable\nhousehold of servants, chief of whom was a butler who had been in\nher service for many years, and in whose integrity she had entire\nconfidence. This old lady, it seems, was in the habit of personally\ncollecting rents from her tenants, and as there were then no country\nbanks in which to deposit the money, it was her custom to count it in\npresence of the butler, prior to locking the guineas away in a strong\ncupboard in her bedroom. The door of this room was secured by an\ningenious arrangement, whereby a heavy brass bolt, or cylinder, was\nallowed to fall by its own weight into an opening made exactly to fit\nit. To an eye in the head of the cylinder was attached a cord which\nworked through a pulley fastened to the ceiling, and thence by a series\nof running blocks passed to the bedside. Thus the old lady, without\ntroubling to get out of bed, could bolt or unbolt her door at will, and\nso long as the cylinder was down, no one could possibly enter the room.\nNow, the butler had for years witnessed this counting and stowing away\nof the rent monies, and temptation had never yet assailed him. He might,\nindeed, plume himself on his honesty, and say with Verges: \"I thank God\nI am as honest as any man living that is an old {018}man and no honester\nthan I.\" But alas! there came a night when the guineas chinked too\nseductively, and the devil whispered in the butler's ear. Perhaps some\nsmall financial embarrassment of his own was troubling the man. Anyhow,\nit came to his mind that if he could quietly fill up the hole into which\nthe bolt of his mistress's bedroom door dropped, he might help himself\nto as much money as he needed. The time of year was the cherry season.\nWhat so easy as to fill up the bolt hole with cherry stones? The \"geans\"\ngrew thick in Scotland, and they were black ripe now. \"At midnight,\"\nsays Sir Thomas, \"he stole into his mistress's chamber, cut her throat\nfrom ear to ear, broke open her cabinet, and possessed himself of her\nmoney; and although he might have walked down stairs and out at the door\nwithout exciting either alarm or suspicion, he opened the window and let\nhimself down nearly two stories high, broke his leg, and lay thus among\nthe shrubbery till morning, without ever attempting to crawl away. He\nwas seized, tried, condemned, and executed.\"\n\nIt is grisly enough, but hardly so grisly as the real story of what\nhappened. The scene of the murder, however, was not Billy Castle--which,\nindeed, had then been dismantled and in ruins for two hundred years--but\nLinthill House, a fine old mansion standing on a \"brae\" overhanging\nEye-water, five or six miles from Billy. Linthill is now inhabited by\nfamilies of work-people, but it is still in good preservation, and\nat date of Sir Thomas Dick Lauder's story (1752), must have been a\nvery-fine specimen of the old Scottish ch\u00e2teau.\n\nThe old lady's room was entered as Sir Thomas describes, but the butler\ndid not immediately cut her throat. She was awakened by the sound of the\nstealthy rifling of the cupboard, or strong iron-bound box, in which her\nvaluables were kept, and with that pluck which is characteristic of the\nold-time Scottish lady, she jumped up to grapple with the robber. Then\nhe cut her throat, and leaving her for dead on the bed, {019}proceeded\nwith his rifling. A slight noise, nowever, disturbed him, and, looking\nround, a terrifying sight met his gaze; the woman whom he had believed\nto be dead was on her feet, blindly groping her bloody way along the\nwall to the bell. Before he could seize her and complete his work, she\nhad pulled the rope with all the strength left to her, and had alarmed\nthe other servants. Thus the murderer had no opportunity to leave by way\nof the stairs. He jumped from the window--no great feat for an active\nman with his wits about him. But the butler was flurried; perhaps, also,\nhe was stout, as is not uncommon with pampered servants. In any case,\nhe missed his footing, came down badly, and broke his leg. He did not,\nhowever, lie where he fell, inert and helpless. With painful, effort\nthe man dragged himself to a field near by, where, amongst sweet-scented\nflowering beans, he lay concealed for some days. On the fourth day, as\nhe lay groaning beside a tiny spring of water which still flows near the\nmiddle of the field, he chanced to be seen by some children, who gave\ninformation. The wretched man was taken, tried, and executed--the last\ninstance in Scotland of a criminal being hung in chains. The blood of a\nmurdered person, they say, refuses to be washed clean from any wood-work\ninto which it may have soaked--witness that ghastly dark patch that\ndisfigures a floor in Holyrood. Here at Linthill at least there is no\ndoubt of the fact that those marks remain; in spite of very visible\nattempts to remove the stains from the wood-work by planing them out,\nthe prints of the poor lady's bloody hands still cling to the oak\nwainscoting of the gloomy old room where the deed was committed. About\nhouse and grounds there hangs now an air of dejection and decay, though\nEye ripples cheerily just beyond the garden foot and the surrounding\nlandscape is bright with pleasant woods and smiling fields.\n\nSurely if ever ghost walked, it should be here at Linthill; that\nmidnight bell should clang, a window be thrown open, the thud be heard\nof a heavy body falling on the ground. {020}But it is not mistress or\nman that haunts that house. It is of other things they tell who have\nbeen there; of an upper chamber, to which nightly comes the shuffling\ntramp of men bearing from a vehicle which is heard to drive up to\nthe house door, a heavy weight, which they deposit on the floor. More\nshuffling, a room door quietly closed, the sound of retreating steps,\nthen silence. \"Hout!\" say the womenfolk of those who now inhabit part of\nthe old house, \"it'll no be naething.\" But they look behind them with a\nglance not too assured, and the voice that says t is \"naething\" is not\nover-steady in tone.\n\nA little higher up the river than Blanerne we come to Broomhouse, where\nalso once stood a castle. In a field on this estate is a spot, still\ncalled \"Bawtie's Grave,\" where the body of Sir Anthony Darcy--\"Le Sieur\nde la Beaut\u00e9\"--Warden of the Marches in 1517, is said to lie buried.\nDarcy, or de la Bastie (or de la Beaut\u00e9), as he was generally\ncalled, was a Frenchman, a man possessed of great personal beauty\nand attraction; but the fact that he had been appointed Warden of the\nMarches and Captain of Dunbar Castle in room of Lord Home, who had been\ntreacherously put to death in Edinburgh, rendered him very obnoxious\nto the inhabitants of that part of Berwickshire in which the Homes\nheld sway. It was through Darcy that Lord Home and his brother had been\ndecoyed to Edinburgh, said the kin and supporters of the Home family.\nVengeance must be taken.\n\nNor was time wasted over it. An occasion soon arose when Darcy in his\ncapacity of Warden had to visit Langton Tower, (no great distance from\nDuns), in order to settle some family feud of the Cockburns, relatives\nby marriage of the Homes. Here, outside the tower, Sir David Home, with\na party of horsemen, came up, and speedily picked a quarrel with the\nSieur. Swords were out in a minute, and Home's band was too strong for\nDarcy and his men. Several of the French attendants of the Sieur fell,\nand as the rest of his party were mostly Borderers, and therefore not\nvery eager to fight for him, the Warden found himself {021}compelled to\nride for it. He headed in the direction of Dunbar. But the ground over\nwhich he had to gallop was swampy, and de la Beaut\u00e9's heavy horse\nsank fetlock deep at every stride, finally \"bogging\" in a morass some\ndistance to the east of Duns. Darcy is said to have continued his flight\non foot, but the chase did not last long; Home and his followers bore\ndown upon him--a well-mounted \"little foot-page,\" they say, the first\nman up.\n\n                   \"The leddies o' France may wail and mourn,\n\n                   May wail and mourn fu' sair,\n\n               For the Bonny Bawtie's lang broun lucks\n\n                   They'll never see waving mair.\"\n\nThey were on him at once; his head was fiercely hewn off, carried in\ntriumph to Home Castle, and there fastened to the end of a spear on the\nbattlements, to gaze blind-eyed over the wide Merse, the land he had\ntried to govern. Pitscottie says that Sir David Home of Wedderburn cut\noff Darcy's long flow ing locks, and plaiting them into a wreath, knit\nthem as a trophy to his saddle bow.\n\nPerhaps the Sieur in the end got no more than his deserts, or at least\nno more than he may frequently have dealt out to others. He came of a\nstock famed in France for cruelty and oppression; and the peasants round\nAllevard, in the Savoie,--where stand the fragments of what was once\nhis ancestral home--still tell of that dreadful night when Messire Satan\nhimself wras seen to take his stand on the loftiest battlement of the\ncastle. And they relate how then the walls rocked and swayed and\nwith hideous crash toppled to the ground. Perhaps it was this very\ncatastrophe which sent the \"Bonny Bawtie\" to Scotland.\n\nA cairn once marked the spot where the Sieur's body found a resting\nplace. But, unfortunately, such a ready-made quarry of stones attracted\nthe notice of a person who contracted to repair the district roads.\nIt is many years ago now, and there was no {022}one to say him nay. He\ncarted away the interesting land-mark and broke up the cairn into road\nmetal.\n\nHome Castle still dominates this part of the Border, but no longer is it\nthe building of \"Bawtie's\" day. That was pulled down in the time of\nthe Protector, by Cromwell's soldiers under Colonel Fenwick. Thomas\nCockburn, Governor in 1650 when Fenwick summoned the castle to\nsurrender, was valiant only on paper; a few rounds from the English guns\ncaused his valour to ooze from his fingers' ends, and sent up the white\nflag. That was the end of the old castle. Fenwick dismantled it and\npulled down the walls; the present building, imposing as it seems,\nstanding grim and erect on its rocky height, is but a dummy fortress,\nbuilt in the early eighteenth century on the old foundations, from the\nold material, by the Earl of Marchmont. The original building dated\nfrom the thirteenth century, and a stormy life it had, like many Border\nstrongholds alternately in Scottish and in English hands. In 1547, after\na gallant defence by the widow of the fourth Lord Home, it was taken by\nthe English under Somerset; two years later it was recaptured by that\nlady's son, the fifth Lord Home.\n\n\"Too old at forty,\" is the cry raised in these days--presumably by those\nwho have not yet attained to that patriarchal age--but when a state of\nwar was the chronic condition of the Border-land, men of vastly greater\nage than forty were not seldom able to show the way to warriors young\nenough to be their grandsons. At this taking of Home Castle in the\nclosing days of December 1548, it was a man over sixty, one of the name\nof Home, who was the first to mount the wall. The attack was made at\nnight, on the side where the castle was both naturally and artificially\nstrongest, and where consequently least vigilant guard might probably be\nkept. As Home, ahead of his comrades, began to slide his body cautiously\nover the parapet, the suspicions of a sentry pacing at some little\ndistance were roused, and he challenged and {023}turned out the guard.\nThis man had not actually _seen_ anything, the night was too dark for\nthat, but he had, as it were, _smelt_ danger, with that strange extra\nsense that sometimes in such circumstances raises man more nearly to the\nlevel of his superior in certain things--the wild animal. However,\nin this case the sentry got no credit, but only ridicule, from his\ncomrades, for examination showed that there was no cause whatever for\nhis having brought the guard out into the cold, looking for mares' nests\nover the ramparts. Home and his party had dropped hurriedly back, and\nduring the time that the Englishmen were glancing carelessly over the\nwall, they lay securely hidden close at its base. As soon, however,\nas the English soldiers had returned to the snug warmth of their\nguard-room, and the mortified sentry was once more pacing up and down,\nHome was again the first of the Scots to clamber up and to fall upon\nthe astonished Englishman, whom this time he slew, a fate which overtook\nmost of the castle's garrison. \"Treachery helped the assailants,\"\nsaid the English. \"Home Castle was taken by night, and treason, by the\nScots,\" is the entry in King Edward's Journal.\n\nAgain, in 1569, it was battered by the heavy siege guns of the Earl of\nSussex and once more for a time was held by-England; finally in 1650\ncame its last experience of war. It was at Home Castle that Mary of\nGueldres, Queen of James II of Scotland, lay whilst her husband besieged\nRoxburgh in 1460. One hundred and six years later, Mary Queen of Scots\nwas there on her way to Craigmillar from Jedburgh.\n\nIn days when the bale-fire's red glare on the sky by night, or its heavy\ncolumn of smoke by day, was the only means of warning the country of\ncoming invasion from the south, Home Castle, with its wide outlook, was\nthe ideal centre of a system of beacon signals on the Scottish border.\nThe position was matchless for such purpose; nothing could escape\nthe watchful eyes of those perched on the lofty battlements of\nthis \"Sentinel of the Merse,\" no flaming signal from the fords over\n{024}Tweed fail to be seen. In an instant, at need, fires would be\nflashing their messages over all the land, warning not only the whole\nBorder, but Dunbar, Haddington, Edinburgh, and even the distant shores\nof life. \"A baile is warnyng of ther cumyng quhat power whatever thai\nbe of. Twa bailes togedder at anis thai cumyng in deide. Four balis,\nilk ane besyde uther and all at anys as four candills, sal be suthfast\nknawlege that thai ar of gret power and menys.\" So ran part of the\ninstructions issued in the fifteenth century. But almost in our own\nday--at least in the days of the grandfathers of some now living--Home\nCastle flashed its warning and set half Scotland flying to arms. Britain\nthen lived under the lively apprehension of a French invasion. With\nan immense army, fully equipped, Napoleon lay at Boulogne waiting a\nfavourable opportunity to embark. Little wonder, therefore, that men\nwere uneasy in their minds, and that ere they turned in to bed of a\nnight country folk cast anxious glances towards some commanding \"Law\" or\nFell, where they knew that a beacon lay ready to be fired by those who\nkept watch. In the dull blackness of the night of 31st January, 1804,\nthe long-looked-for summons came. All over the Border, on hill after\nhill where of old those dreaded warnings had been wont to flash, a tiny\nspark was seen, then a long tongue of flame leaping skyward. The French\nwere coming in earnest at last!\n\nJust as ready as it had been in the fiercest days of Border warfare\nwas now the response to the sudden call to arms. Over a country almost\nroadless, rural members of the various Yeomanry corps galloped through\nthe mirk night, reckless of everything save only that each might reach\nhis assembly point in time to fall in with his comrades. Scarce a man\nfailed to report himself as ready for service--in all the Border I\nbelieve there were but two or three. And though it turned out that the\nalarm fires had been lit through an error of judgment on the part of\none of the watchers, there is no doubt that to the bulk of the men\nwho turned out so full of courage and enthusiasm that night, the\n{025}feeling at first, if mixed with relief, was one of disappointment\nthat they had had no chance of trying a fall with \"Boney\" and his\nveterans. The man who was the first to fire his beacon on that 31st\nof January was a watcher at Home Castle. Peering anxiously through the\ngloom, he imagined that he saw a light flare up in the direction\nof Berwick. It was in reality only a fire lit by Northumbrian\ncharcoal-burners that he saw, and its locality was many points to the\nsouth of Berwick, but as the blaze sprang higher, and the flames\nwaxed, the excited watcher lost his head, and, forgetting to verify the\nposition, feverishly set a light to his own beacon and sent the summons\nto arms flying over the Border. Had it not chanced that the watcher by\nthe beacon on St. Abb's Head was a man of cool temperament, all Scotland\nhad been buzzing that night like a hornets' nest. This man, however,\nreasoned with himself that news of an invasion, if it came at all, must\nnecessarily come from a coastal, and not from an inland station, and\ntherefore he very wisely did not repeat the signal.\n\nThe spirit shown on the occasion of this false alarm, and the\npromptitude with which yeomanry and volunteers turned out, are things of\nwhich Borderers are justly proud. Many of the yeomanry rode from forty\nto fifty miles that night in order to be in time; and even greater\ndistances were covered. Sir Walter Scott himself was in Cumberland when\nword of the firing of the beacons came to him, but within twenty-four\nhours he and his horse had reached Dalkeith, where his regiment was\nassembled, a distance of one hundred miles from his starting point. In\none or two instances, where members of a corps chanced to be from home,\nin Edinburgh on private business, mother or wife sent off with the troop\nwhen it marched, the horse, uniform, and arms of husband or son, so that\nnothing might prevent them from joining their regiment at Dalkeith. The\nsubstance of the message then sent to her son by the widowed mother of\nthe writer's grandfather, will be found in Sir Walter's Notes to _The\nAntiquary_. If in our day {026}like cause should unhappily arise, if the\ndread shadow of invasion should ever again fall on our land, no doubt\nthe response would be as eager as it was in 1804; the same spirit is\nthere that burned in our forefathers. But of what value now-a-days\nare half-trained men if they come to be pitted against the disciplined\ntroops of a Continental Power? Of no more avail than that herd of\nwild bulls that the Spaniards in 1670 tried to drive down on Morgan's\nBuccaneers at Panama.\n\nMany a tale is still told of the events of that stirring night of 31st\nJanuary, 1804. One of the Selkirk volunteers, a man named Chisholm, had\nbeen married that day; but there was no hesitation on his part. \"Weel,\nPeggy, my woman,\" he said in parting with his day-old bride, \"if I'm\nkilled, ye'll hear tell o't. And if I'm no killed, I'll come back as\nsune as I can.\" A particularly \"canny\" Scot was another volunteer, whose\nmother anxiously demanded ere he marched if he had any money with him\nin case of need. \"Na, na!\" he said, \"they may kill me if they like, but\nthey'll get nae siller off _me_.\"\n\nA few cases of the white feather there were, of course; in so large a\nbody of undisciplined men there could hardly fail to be some who had no\nstomach for the fight, but instances of cowardice were surprisingly few.\nOne or two there were who hid under beds; and one youth, as he joined\nthe ranks, was heard to blubber, \"Oh, mother, mother, I wish I'd been\nborn a woman.\" But of those who should have mustered at Kelso, only two\nout of' five hundred failed to answer to their names, and possibly they\nmay have had legitimate cause for their absence. Many of the members of\nfoot regiments were long distances away when the alarm was given. Of the\nDuns volunteers, for instance, two members were fifteen miles distant\nwhen the beacons blazed up. Yet they made all speed into the town, got\ntheir arms and accoutrements, marched all through the night, and fell in\nalongside their comrades at Haddington next forenoon. Many--all the men\nof Lessudden, for example--marched without uniforms. An{027}unpleasant\nexperience had been theirs had they fallen, in civilian dress, into the\nhands of the enemy.\n\nTo return to Whitadder.--Some miles above Broomhouse we come to Cockburn\nLaw, a conical hill of about 1100 feet in height, round three sides of\nwhich the river bends sharply. On the northern slope of the hill is the\nsite, and what little remains to be traced, of Edinshall, a circular\ntower dating probably from the seventh century. According to the oid\nStatistical Account of the Parish, the walls of this tower,--Edwin's\nHall,--measured in diameter 85 feet 10 inches, and in thickness 15\nfeet 10 inches, enclosing in their depths many cells or chambers. Their\nheight must once have been very considerable, for even at date of the\nStatistical Account--the end of the eighteenth century--they stood about\neight feet high, and were surrounded on all sides by a scattered mass of\nfallen stones. The ground around shows traces of having been fortified,\nbut the tower itself probably was never a place of strength. The stones\nof which the building was constructed were large, and close fitting, but\nnot bound together with mortar, which indeed was not in use in Scotland\nso early as the date of the building of Edinshall,--hence the tower was\na quarry too convenient to be respected by agriculturists of a hundred\nyears ago. Most of the material of the ancient build ing has been taken\nto construct drains, or to build \"dry stane dykes.\" The \"rude hand of\nignorance\" has indeed been heavy on the antiquities of Scotland.\n\nWhere the stream bends sharply to the left as one fishes up those\nglorious pools and boulder-strewn rapids, there stands a cottage not far\nremoved from Edinshall, which on the Ordnance Survey maps bears the very\nun-Scottish name of Elba. It has, however, not even a remote connection\nwith the place of exile of an Emperor. The learned would have us believe\nthat the name is derived from the Gaelic \"Eil,\" a hill, and \"both,\"\na dwelling. It may be so; but it seems much more likely that \"Elba\" is\nmerely the Ordnance Survey people's spelling of the {028}word \"elbow,\"\nas it is pronounced in Scotland; the river here makes an extremely sharp\nbend, or elbow. Near Elba is an old copper mine which was worked to\nadvantage by an English company midway in the eighteenth century.\nAbandoned after a time, it was reopened in 1825, but was soon again\nclosed. Copper was not there in sufficient quantity to pay; probably\nit had been worked out before. Four or five miles from here we come\nto Abbey St. Bathans, a name which conjures up visions of peaceful old\nruins nestling among whispering elms by clear and swift flowing waters.\nThere is now, however, little of interest to be found. St. Bathans was\noriginally a convent of Cistercian Nuns, with the title of a Priory, and\nwas founded towards the end of the twelfth century by Ada, daughter of\nWilliam the Lion. As late as 1833, the then recently written Statistical\nAccount of the Parish says that the north and east walls of the church\n\"still bear marks of antiquity,\" and that in the north wall is \"an\narched door which communicated with the residence of the Nuns\"; but,\nsays the Account, this door \"is now built up.\"\n\n\"Adjoining the church, and between it: and the Whitadder, remains of\nthe Priory were visible a few years ago.\" Where are they now? Built into\nsome wall or farm building, no doubt, or broken up, perhaps, to repair\nroads or field drains. And where is the font, with its leaden pipe,\nthat stood \"in the wall near the altar\"? Perhaps--if it still exists,\nunbroken,--it may now be used as a trough for feeding pigs, as has been\nthe fate of many another such vessel. It is hard to forgive the dull,\nbrutish ignorance that wilfully wrecked so much of the beauty and\ninterest that the past bequeathed to us.\n\nIt is not easy to say who was the saint from whom Abbey St. Bathans\ninherited its name. Probably it was Bothan, Prior of Old Mailros in the\nseventh century, a holy man of great fame in the Border. There is a\nwell or spring not far distant from the church of St. Bathans, whose\nmiraculous powers of healing all sickness or disease were doubtless\nderived {029}from the good Father. These powers have now long decayed,\nbut as late as 1833--possibly even later--some curious beliefs regarding\nthe well were held in the neighbourhood, and its waters, it was well\nknown, would \"neither fog nor freeze\" in the coldest weather.\n\nShortly after leaving Abbey St. Bathans, as we gradually near the\nLammermuirs, the land on both sides of Whitadder begins more to partake\nof the hill-farm variety, where grouse and blackgame swarm thick on\nthe stooked corn in late autumn. From the south side, a little above\nEllemford, there enters a considerable stream, the water of Dye, said to\nbe of good repute as regards its trout. One of these high, round backed\nhills here is probably the scene of some great battle of old times.\n\"Manslaughter Law\" is the satisfying name of the hill. There is a\ntumulus still remaining on the north side of it, and near at hand\nweapons have been dug up, says the Statistical Account. One wonders what\ntheir fate may have been. They, at any rate, would surely be preserved?\nIt is by no means so sure. One sword, at least, that was found many\nyears ago on the west side of Manslaughter Law, met with the fate one\nmight expect from the kind of people who used to quarry into beautiful\nold abbeys in order to get material to build a pig-stye. It was taken\nto the village smithy, and there \"improved\" out of existence--made into\nhorseshoes perhaps, or a \"grape for howkin' tatties.\" Had it been a\nhelmet that was then unearthed, no doubt a use would have been found for\nit such as that which the Elizabethan poet sadly suggests for the helmet\nof the worn out old man-at-arms:\n\n               \"His helmet now shall make a hive for bees.\"\n\nEastward from the spot where this sword was found is a barrow which,\nsays the Statistical Account, \"probably covers more arms\"; and on a hill\nby Waich Water, a tributary of the Dye, are the Twin-Law Cairns,\nwhich are supposed to mark the resting place of twin brothers who fell\nhere,--perhaps in pre-historic {030}times. Tradition says that these two\nwere commanders of rival armies, Scottish and Saxon, and that, neither\nat the time being aware of their relationship, they undertook to fight\nit out, as champions of the rival hosts. When both lay dead, some old\nman, who had known the brothers in their childhood, gazing on them, with\ngrief discovered the relationship of the slain men; and to commemorate\nthe tragedy, the soldiers of both hosts formed lines from Waich Water\nto the hill's summit, and passed up stones wherewith they built these\ncairns.\n\nAt Byrecleuch Ridge, towards the head of Dye Water, is another enormous\nand very remarkable cairn called the Mutiny Stones. This great mass\nof piled up stone measures two hundred and forty feet in length; where\nbroadest, seventy-five feet; and its greatest height is eighteen feet.\nWhat does it commemorate? A great fight, say some, that took place in\n1402 between the Earl of Dunbar and Hepburn of Hailes, in which the\nlatter was killed. A prehistoric place of sepulture, hazards Sir Herbert\nMaxwell. But it was not here that Hepburn fell; that was elsewhere in\nthe Merse. And they were little likely in the fifteenth century to\nhave taken such titanic pains to hand his memory down to posterity. The\nprehistoric place of sepulture sounds the more probable theory. But\nwhy \"Mutiny Stones\"? There must surely be some local tradition more\nsatisfying than that of the Hepburn-Dunbar fight.\n\nThe upper part of Whitadder must once have been well fitted to check\nhostile raids from the south whose object was to strike the fat Lothians\nthrough the passes over the Lammermuirs. In the few miles of wild hill\ncountry that sweep from its source on Clint's Dod down to its junction\nwith Dye Water, there formerly stood no fewer than six castles, Chambers\ntells us,--John's Cleuch, Gamelshiel, (the lady of which was killed by a\nwolf as she walked near her home one evening in the gloaming) Penshiel,\nRedpath, Harehead, and Cranshaws. Except in the case of Cranshaws, there\nare now {031}few traces left standing of these strongholds. Cranshaws,\na building of the sixteenth century, is in good preservation; of\nGamelshiel there remains a bit of wall, of Penshiel a fragment of\nvaulting; of the others no stone. Cranshaws of old, it is said, was long\nthe haunt of one of those Brownies, or familiar spirits, that were wont\nin the good old days of our forefathers mysterious ly to do by night,\nwhen the household slept, all manner of domestic or farm work for those\nwho humoured them and treated them well in the matter of food, or other\nindulgence affected by their kind. There was nothing a Brownie would not\ndo for the family he favoured, provided that he was kept in good humour;\notherwise, or if he were laughed at or his work lightly spoken of, it\nwere better for that family that it had never been born; their sleep was\ndisturbed o' nights, malevolent ill-luck dogged them by day, until he\nwas propitiated. But leave out for him each night a jug of milk and\na barley bannock,--they were not luxurious in their tastes, those\nBrownies,--and at dawn you would find\n\n                   \".... how the drudging goblin sweat\n\n               To earn his cream bowl duly set;\n\n               When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,\n\n               His shadow'y flail hath threshed the corn\n\n               That ten day-lab'rers could not end;\n\n               Then lies him down, the Lubber-fiend,\n\n               And stretched out all the chimney's length,\n\n               Basks at the tire his hairy strength;\n\n               And crop-full out of doors he flings\n\n               Ere the first cock his matin rings.\"\n\nThey tell that this particular Brownie at Cranshaws, being offended at\nsome reflection made on his work, the following night took up an entire\ncrop that he had thrashed, curried it to the Raven Craig, two miles down\nthe river, and threw it over the cliff. Belief in the Brownie died hard\nin the Border I am not sure that in remote \"up the water\" districts he\ndid not survive almost till the advent of motor cars and bicycles.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II BLACKADDER, NORHAM, FLORDEN, COLDSTREAM, WARR, AND THE EDEN\n\n|But {032}a step over the moor from Waich Water, across by Twin-Law\nCairns and down by the Harecleuch Hill we come to the head-waters of the\nmost considerable of Whitadder's tributaries--Blackadder, \"vulgarly\nso pronounced,\" says the old Statistical Account. Its real name is\n\"Blackwater,\" according to that authority, because it rises out of peaty\nswamps that impart to its waters a look of sullen gloom. I am unable to\nsay what now may be its reputation as a trout stream, but long years ago\nit abounded with \"a particular species of trout, much larger than the\ncommon burn trout, and remarkably fat.\" The Statistical Account mentions\na notable peculiarity of Blackadder, on the accuracy of which one would\nbe inclined to throw doubt. It says that though every other stream in\nthe country which eventually mingles its waters with Tweed, swarms with\nsalmon in the season, yet into Blackwater they do not go; or if they\nenter at all, it is found that they die before they can ascend many\nmiles. The swampy source of the stream \"is commonly ascribed as the\nreason why the fish cannot frequent the river,\" says the Account.\nDrainage, one would be inclined to think, has long ago removed that\nfatal nature from the water, if it ever existed. Trout throve on it,\nat all events, red-fleshed beauties, \"similar,\" says the clerical\n{033}writer of the Statistical Account of the Parish of Fogo--a man and\na fisher, surely--\"to those of Eden Water, which joins Tweed three miles\nbelow Kelso. The Eden rises also in a marshy district, which may be\nthe cause of this similarity of the fish.\" But most Border streams take\ntheir rise in more or less marshy districts, though they may not flow\ndirect from a swamp.\n\nWas it in the Eden that Thomson, author of \"The Seasons,\" learned to\nfish? Or was it in Jed? He was born at Ednam,--Edenham,--a village on\nthe Eden, and he may have loved to revisit it in later years, and to\ncatch the lusty speckled trout for which the stream has always been\nfamous. Probably, however, he learned to throw a fly on Jed, for he\npassed his boyhood at Southdean--to which parish his father had been\ntransferred as Minister long ere the son was fit to wield a rod--and he\nhimself got his early education at Jedburgh. In Jed or in Eden, then,\nand perhaps in Teviot and Ale--he was much at Ancrum--he learned the\nart; and not unskilled in it indeed must he have been. Where in all\nliterature can one find a description of trout-fishing so perfect as the\nfollowing?\n\n               \"Just in the dubious point, where with the pool\n\n               Is mix'd the trembling stream, or where it boils\n\n               Around the stone, or from the hollow'd bank\n\n               Reverted plays in undulating flow,\n\n               There throw, nice judging, the delusive fly;\n\n               And, as you lead it round in artful curve,\n\n               With eye attentive mark the springing game.\n\n               Strait as above the surface of the flood\n\n               They wanton rise, or, urged by hunger, leap,\n\n               There fix, with gentle twitch, the barbed hook;\n\n               Some lightly tossing to the grassy bank\n\n               And to the shelving shore slow dragging some\n\n               With various hand proportion'd to their force.\n\n               If yet too young, and easily deceived,\n\n               A worthless prey scarce bends your pliant rod,\n\n               Him, piteous of his youth, and the short space\n\n               He has enjoy'd the vital light of heaven,\n\n               Soft disengage, and back into the stream {034}\n\n               The speckled captive throw; but, should you lure\n\n               From his dark haunt, beneath the tangled roots\n\n               Of pendent trees, the monarch of the brook,\n\n               Behoves you then to ply your finest art.\n\n               Long time he, following cautious, scans the fly,\n\n               And oft attempts to seize it, but as oft\n\n               The dimpled water speaks his jealous fear.\n\n               At last, while haply o'er the shaded sun\n\n               Passes a cloud, he desperate takes the death\n\n               With sullen plunge: at once he darts along,\n\n               Deep struck, and runs out all the lengthen'd line,\n\n               Then seeks the farthest ooze, the sheltering weed,\n\n               The cavern'd bank, his old secure abode,\n\n               And (lies aloft, and flounces round the pool,\n\n               Indignant of the guile. With yielding hand\n\n               That feels him still, yet to his furious course\n\n               Gives way, you, now retiring, following how,\n\n               Across the stream, exhaust his idle rage,\n\n               Till floating broad upon his breathless side,\n\n               And to his fate abandon'd, to the shore\n\n               You gaily drag your unresisting prize.\"\n\nMany a long day of Spring and Summer must the man who could paint so\nperfect a picture have passed, rod in hand and creel on back, by the\nhurrying streams and quiet pools of some Border Water, many a time have\nlistened to the summer breeze whispering in the leafy banks, and heard,\nas in a dream, the low murmur of Jed or Ale. And what sport must they\nhave had in the old days when Thomson fished--and even in the days when\nStoddart fished--when farmers were ignorant, or careless, of the science\nof drainage, and rivers ran for days, nay, for weeks after rain, clear\nand brown, dimpled with rising trout. What sport indeed of all kinds\nmust there have been here in the south of Scotland in very ancient days\nwhen the country was mostly forest or swamp, and wild animals, now long\nextinct, roamed free over hill and dale. It has been mentioned a page or\ntwo back how the lady of Gamelshiel Tower was killed by a wolf. Here, at\nthe bead waters of Blackadder--as the crow flies not a dozen miles from\nGamel{035}shiel--we are in the midst of a district once infested\nby wolves. Westruther, through which parish Blackadder runs, was\noriginally \"Wolfstruther,\" the \"swamp of the wolves.\" And all over the\nsurrounding country, place names speak of the beasts of the field. An\nMS. account of Berwickshire tells how Westruther was \"a place of old\nwhich had great woods, with wild beasts, fra quhilk the dwellings and\nhills were designed, as Wolfstruther, Raecleuch, Hindside, Hartlaw and\nHarelaw.\"\n\n                   \"There's hart and hynd, and dae and rae,\n\n                   And of a' wilde hestis grete plentie,\"\n\nas we read in the \"Sang of the Outlaw Murray.\n\nThe last-mentioned name, Harelaw, calls up visions of another chase\nthan that of the hare. Sir Thomas Dick Lauder in his \"Scottish Rivers,\"\n(written sometime about 1848), mentions that one of the most curious\nfacts connected with Harelaw Moor was that a man, who, Sir Thomas says,\ndied \"not long ago,\" recollected having seen Sir John Cope and his\ndragoons in full flight across it from the battle of Prestonpans,\nbreathlessly demanding from all the country people they met information\nas to the shortest road to Coldstream.\n\n               \"Says the Berwickers unto Sir John,\n\n                   'O what's become o' all your men?'\n\n                   'In faith,' says he, 'I dinna ken;\n\n               I left them a' this morning.'\"\n\nHe must have been a very aged man, but if \"not long ago\" meant any time,\nas late, say, as the Twenties of last century, no doubt it would\nbe possible that as a boy of eight or ten, he might have seen the\npanic-stricken dragoons spurring over the moor. Such a sight would\nremain vivid in the memory of even a very old man. Childhood's incidents\noutlive all others.\n\nAbove Harelaw Moor, on a feeder of the Blackadder, is Wedderlie,\nformerly an old Border keep of the usual pattern, but towards the close\nof the seventeenth century embodied with a fine building in the Scottish\nstyle of that day. It is {036}said to have belonged originally to that\nfamily, the Edgars, the graves of two members of which are commemorated\nby the Twin-Law Cairns. The family name lives still in that of the\nneighbouring Edgar-burn, near to which streamlet is Gibb's Cross, said\nto be the scene of a martyrdom for sake of the Reformed Faith; and\nhard by is Evelaw Tower--a house apparently without a history--still in\ntolerable preservation. At Wedderlie, of old time, says Sir Thomas Dick\nLauder, there stood a very ancient chapel, of which some traces of a\nvault remain, or remained at a recent date. Local tradition had it that\nat time of the Reformation the monks hid in this vault all their church\nplate and other precious possessions, meaning at the first convenient\nopportunity to remove them to a place of greater safety. The convenient\nopportunity, it was thought in more modern times, had never come, for in\na cave hard by the vault there was one day discovered a great\nquantity of coins--all of which, by the way, speedily and mysteriously\ndisappeared. It is said, however, that they were not of dates that\ncould in any degree connect this _cache_ with the Reformation, and it\nis suggested in Sir Thomas's book that they were concealed there by the\ninhabitants of Wedderlie during the Religious wars of the seventeenth\ncentury. Those \"in the know\" may all have been killed, of course; the\nsecret of the hiding place was not likely to be within the ken of more\nthan one or two.\n\nThese finds of coins of all dates are by no means rare in the Scottish\nborder counties. One would fain know something of those who hid them,\nand of the events which were passing at the time when they were buried.\nWere they the spoil of some reiver, ravished from a roof-tree blackened\nand left desolate south from Cheviot and Tweed; spoil for convenience\nsake thus put away by one to whom the chance of a more convenient season\nto recover it was ended by a bloody death? Or were they, sometimes,\nstore, of coins hastily secreted by quiet country folk fleeing in terror\nfrom the violence of English {037}soldiery--men such as they who came\nnorth with Hertford in 1544, whose orders were to put man, woman, and\nchild to fire and the sword, without exception, if any resistance should\nbe met with? What wonder if the harmless country people then left all,\nand fled for their lives and the honour of their women! For what so easy\nas to find excuse to carry out such orders? A child ill treated, a\nwoman outraged; and a man--husband, father, lover--mad with horror and\nimpotent rage, \"resisting!\"\n\nCoins, in greater or less number, are continually turning up in all\nsorts of unlikely spots. Sometimes in a marshy field (where one would\nleast expect buried treasure), the spade of an Irish drainer has been\nknown to throw out Elizabethan crowns. How did _they_ get there? Perhaps\nit might have been when the horse of some rider, bogged and struggling\nto get clear, in its violent efforts burst the fastenings of a saddle\nbag or wallet, or unseated its rider, emptying whatever may have been\nthe equivalent of a trousers' pocket in days when men wore mail. Some\nof these Elizabethan coins, perhaps, found their resting place in 1570,\nwhen the English under the Earl of Sussex harried and burnt the border,\nin \"Tyvydale bernyng on bothe hands at the lest two myle, levyng neyther\ncastell, towne, nor tower unbrent, tyll we came to Jedworth.\" And so on,\nacross by Hawick and Branxholm, up by Oxnain Water and Kale and Bowmont,\nand round about Kelso, burning and destroying homes, and hanging\nprisoners. \"Thus,\" says Lord Hunsdon in a letter to Sir W. Cecil, \"Thus\nhathe hyr Majesty had as honorable a revenge of the recevars of hyr\nrebels, and of all such as have byn common spoylars of hyr pepoll, and\nburners of her cuntrey, as ever any of hyr predecessors had.\" They were\nnot weakly addicted to half measures in those days, whichever side was\n\"top dog.\"\n\n\"And so we pray to God to send youre Majestie a longe and prosperowse\nraigne, and all youre enemyes to feare youe as moch as the Scottish\nBorderers feare youe at this present,\" {038}ended Lords Sussex and\nHunsdon in a despatch written by them to the Queen from \"Barwick\" on\n23rd April, 1570.\n\nThe lost Pay-chest of Montrose's army at Philiphaugh has given rise to\nmany a story of treasure hunted for or recovered. Sir Walter Scott\ntells how on the day of the battle the Earl of Traquair and one of his\nfollowers, a blacksmith, carrying with them a large sum of money, the\npay of the troops, were on their way across the hills to join Montrose\nat Selkirk. When as far away as Minchmuir, they heard the sound of heavy\nfiring, to which Lord Traquair attached little importance, believing\nit to be merely Montrose exercising his men, but which, from the long\ncontinued and irregular nature of the firing, the blacksmith made\ncertain was an engagement. By the time they reached Broadmeadows, there\nwas no question as to whose conjecture was the correct one. By ones and\ntwos, like the first heavy drops, forerunners of a deluge to follow from\nsome ink-black cloud, came men flying for their lies, on horses pushed\nbeyond the utmost limits of their speed; then more fugitives, and more,\nand hard on their heels, Leslie's troopers thundering. Lord Traquair\nand the blacksmith turned and fled with the throng. But the money was in\nLord Traquair's saddle-bags, and the weight was great; he was like to be\ncaptured, for his horse thus handicapped could not face the hill and\nthe heavy ground. Whether the blacksmith offered to sacrifice himself to\nsave his master, or the master ordered the servant to dismount, one does\nnot know, but the outcome was that Lord Traquair fled over the moor on\nthe blacksmith's comparatively fresh horse, and the blacksmith, on a\nspent animal, was left to make the best of his way with the silver.\nLeaving the press of fugitives, he fled up Yarrow at the top speed of\nhis tired horse, but finding himself closely pursued, to save himself\nand to lighten the animal's load, he flung away the bags of money. He\nsaid afterwards that he threw them into a well or pond near Tinnis, a\nlittle above Hangingshaw, and many a well and many a pond has since been\nvainly dragged for the lost treasure. No man {039}has yet recovered it.\nProbably that blacksmith knew a thing or two, and he was not likely\nto give away the show. Whether or no, however, it is certain that many\nsilver coins having dates of about the time of the battle were in Sir\nWalter's day ploughed up on the river haughs of Tinnis. And at a much\nlater date, a quantity of coins and some silver plate were unearthed\nnearer Philiphaugh, on the actual scene of the fight. These coins were\nclaimed by the Exchequer. A dozen wine bottles, also, of old pattern,\nwere found buried here, but what had been the liquor contained in them\nit was not possible to say; the bouquet had entirely perished, and even\nthe colour.\n\nThere is a pool in Yarrow, near Harehead, into which tradition says that\nMontrose flung his treasure chest, telling the Devil to keep it till\nhe should return to claim it. Up to the present the Foul Fiend has\nnot released his care, for when--as is said,--the pool was run dry, or\nnearly dry, a good many years ago, only a Lochabar-axe was found in it.\nA somewhat more probable story of the chest is that the bearer, as he\nhurried past, flung it into a cottage, near Foulshiels, and then rode\nfor his life. Some of Leslie's men got it there, and looted it.\n\nWhose is the portrait that is contained in the little locket which was\nfound, years ago, on the field of Philiphaugh? On the one side is the\nrepresentation of a heart pierced by darts, and the motto \"I dye for\nLoyalty\"; on the other, a long straight sword is engraved. Inside is a\nportrait, and opposite the portrait, the words \"I mourne for Monarchie.\"\n\nSometimes coins have been found, too, as at Blackcastle Rings, on\nBlackadder, at its junction with the Faungrist Burn. Here, on the\nnorthern bank of the river, is what must once have been a strongly\nfortified camp; opposite, on the southern side, and running along the\nriver's bank for fully half a mile, after which it branches to the\nsouth, is a well marked line of entrenchment. Eighty years ago, or\nthereabouts, an old silver chain was unearthed in the camp; and in the\n{040}trench, a little distance away, when turf was being removed, they\ncame upon quite a number of gold and silver coins of the reign of Edward\nIII. It was somewhere in this neighbourhood, (though probably nearer\nDuns,) that Lord Percy the English Warden, at the head of seven thousand\nmen, lay encamped in the year 1372, when (as is mentioned by Redpath),\nhis host was dispersed, or at least was said to have been compelled to\nretire across the Tweed, on foot and without their baggage, owing to\na simple stratagem of the Scots. To scare away from their poor little\ncrops the deer and wild cattle that were wont when night fell to ravage\nthe ill-cultivated patches, the country folk of that district were\naccustomed to sound at frequent intervals a primitive kind of drum. To\nthe ends of long poles were fixed what may best be termed huge rattles,\nmade of dried skins tightly stretched over semi-circular ribs of wood.\nInside each skin were put a few round pebbles. Obviously, when shaken\nvigorously, these rattles would give out a noise quite terrifying to\nany four footed animal, especially when heard in the stillness of night.\nAccordingly, one pitchy night, in the hour before dawn when sleep lay\nheavy on the invading force, a certain number of the Scots, bearing with\nthem those unwarlike instruments, stole quietly through the tangled\ngrowth to the heights on either side of the English camp.\n\nThen broke out a din truly infernal. Picketed horses, mad with terror,\nstrained back on their head-ropes, and breaking loose, stampeded through\nthe camp, trampling over the recumbent forms of men wearied and even yet\nbut halt-awake, many of the younger among them more than ready to share\nthe panic of their horses. If the tale be not exaggerated, daylight\nshowed an army deprived of its transport animals, its horsemen compelled\nto foot it, their steeds the prey of the wily Scots; a baggageless force\ncompelled to fall back in disorder across Tweed.\n\nIn this part of Berwickshire you may still faintly trace here and there\nthe outline of a ditch and earthen rampart called {041}Herrits Dyke,\nwhich, local tradition says, once ran from Berwick inland to near\nLegerwood on Leader Water,--a work not dis-similar to the Catrail,\n(which cuts across something like fifty miles of the Border, from Peel\nFell in the Cheviots to Torwoodlee on Gala), but without the double wall\nof Catrail. There are various sections of defensive works of this nature\nin the Border--if they were defensive, for instance, on the hill less\nthan half a mile from the old castle of Holydean, near St. Boswells,\nin Roxburghshire, there is a particularly well-marked ditch and double\nrampart running for some distance across the moor. It can scarcely be a\ncontinuation of Herrits Dyke, for its construction is different, and its\ncourse must run almost at a right angle to Herrits, which is, indeed,\nmany miles away from Holydean. This ditch points almost directly towards\nTorwoodlee, but it is out of the accepted Catrail track, unless the\nlatter, instead of stopping at Torwoodlee, (as one has been taught),\nturned sharply and swept down the vale-of Gala, and once more crossed\nTweed. It is curious, if these works are defensive, that no ancient\nweapons have ever been found in or near them.\n\nDown the water a few miles from Blackcastle Rings stands the little town\nof Greenlaw, a settlement which dates from very early times, but not on\nits present site. Originally the village stood about a mile and a half\nto the south east, on the isolated green \"law\" or hill from which it\ntakes its name. The history of the present town goes no farther back\nthan the end of the seventeenth century, a date about contemporaneous\nwith that of its Market Cross, which stands now on the west side of the\nplace. This cross is said to have been erected by Sir Patrick Home of\nPolwarth (afterwards created Earl of March-mont) in the year 1696.\nIn 1829 it was pulled down, to make room for something else--in the\nmaddening fashion that possessed our ancestors of the period--and, in\nthe usual manner, it was chucked aside as \"auld world trash.\" In 1881,\nhowever, the cross, or at least the greater part of it, minus the\ntop, which {042}originally bore a lion rampant, was discovered in the\nbasement of the old church tower, and was then re-erected where it now\nstands.\n\nStill farther down the river is the Roman camp at Chesters. But even as\nlong ago as 1798, the writer of the Statistical Account of the Parish of\nFogo complained that the old camp was \"very much defaced,\" and that the\nstones had mostly been \"removed to make room for the plough.\" The rage\nfor agricultural improvement was in 1798 but in extreme infancy; and as\nno Society for the preservation of ancient monuments came into existence\nfor many a long year afterwards, and interest in such things was\nconfined to the very few, it is safe to infer that not a great deal of\nthis camp now exists.\n\nFrom Chesters to Marchmont is but a step. Marchmont House dates from\nabout 1754, and was built by the third Earl of Marchmont, near the site\nof Redbraes, the residence of his grandfather, that Sir Patrick Home of\nPolwarth who erected the cross in Greenlaw. The village and church of\nPolwarth are at no great distance. The original church was consecrated\nin the tenth century, and was restored in 1378, from which date it stood\ntill 1703, when Sir Patrick Home (then Earl of Marchmont) rebuilt it. In\nthe family vault of this church, Sir Patrick lay in hiding for several\nweeks in 1684, when the search for him was hot and discovery would have\ncost him his head. The secret of his whereabouts was known to three\npersons--to his wife, his daughter Grisell (whose name as Lady Grisell\nBaillie, lives still in the affectionate remembrance of the Scottish\nBorder), and to Jamie Winter, a faithful retainer. Grisell Home, then a\ngirl of eighteen, during all the time of his concealment contrived,\nwith very great risk and difficulty, to convey food to her father in\nhis gruesome lodging. Each night, she slipped stealthily from the house,\nand--sorest trial of all to the nerves of an imaginative Scot,--made her\ncautious way in the darkness across the \"bogle\"-haunted churchyard to\nher father's lair. Many a shift were she and her {043}mother put to\nin order to get food sufficient for their prisoner without rousing\nsuspicion among the servants, and more than once the situation was all\nbut given away by the innocent hut embarrassing comments of young and\nirresponsible members of the family. Sometimes the servants cannot have\nbeen present at meals, one would think; or else they smelt a rat, and\nwere discreetly blind. One day at dinner, Grisell had with careful\ncunning succeeded in smuggling an entire sheep's head off the dish on to\nher own lap, thence presently to be borne surreptitiously from the room,\nwhen her young brother, with the maddening candour and persistency of\nchildhood, called the company's attention to his sister's prodigious\nappetite, which not only enabled her to gobble up in next to no time\nso much good meat, but even rendered her able to make the very bones\nvanish.\n\nBut the scent at length began to grow hot; they had nearly run the fox\nto his earth. Suspicion hovered over the neighbourhood of the church,\nand no longer could the vault be deemed even a moderately safe hiding\nplace. A new den was necessary; and a new den was found, one perhaps\neven more cramped than the old quarters, if a trifle less insanitary. A\nlarge deal box was made by the faithful Jamie Winter, and was secretly\nconveyed into a cellar at Redbraes, of which Lady Home kept the key. But\nto get the \"muckle kist\" snugly into its resting place, it was necessary\nto scrape away the earthen floor of the cellar under the flooring\nhoards, so that the box might be entirely hidden when the boards were\nre-laid. This work could not be done with pick and shovel, lest the\nnoise should betray what was going on. Grisell, therefore, and Jamie\nWinter literally with their own hands carried out the arduous job;\nthe earth was _scraped_ away, and poor Grisell Home's nails had almost\nentirely disappeared ere the work wyas finished and the hiding\nplace made ready for her father. It was scarcely an ideal place of\nconcealment; water oozed in so quickly that one night when Sir Patrick\nwas about {044}to descend into his narrow lodging, it was found that\nthe bedding on which he was used to lie was afloat. And, with its other\ndrawbacks, it had not even the advantage, as a hiding place, of being\nabove suspicion. Had it not been, indeed, for the presence of mind of\na kinsman and namesake, Home of Halyburton, a party of dragoons had\ncertainly captured Sir Patrick one day. But Halyburton's liquor was\ngood, and after their thirty mile march from Edinburgh, the temptation\nto wet their whistle could not be resisted. It did not take long, but it\nwas long enough; a groom on a fast, powerful horse slipped away over\nthe moor to Redbraes, bearing with him no word of writing, but a\nletter addressed to Lady Home, of which the contents were nothing but a\nfeather,--a hint sufficiently well understood. Ere the dragoons arrived\nat Redbraes, Sir Patrick was clear away and well on the road to the\ncoast and Holland, and safety.\n\nAs we travel down Blackadder towards its junction with the Whitadder,\nabout equidistant between the two rivers we come to the only town of\nany importance in the district--Duns, or Dunse as it used, not very\nappropriately, to be spelled from 1740 to 1882, in which latter year the\nancient spelling was revived. The original hamlet or settlement stood on\nthe Dun or Law which adjoins the present town. But Hertford wiped that\npretty well out of existence in 1545, as he wiped out many another\nstronghold and township in the south of Scotland. What was left of the\nplace soon fell into utter decay and ruin, and a new settlement on the\npresent site, then guarded On three sides by a more or less impassable\nswamp, sprung up in 1588. Duns is one of several places which claim\nthe honour of having been the birthplace of the learned Duns Scotus\n(1265-1338), but even though she be unable quite to substantiate this\nclaim, her record of worthy sons is no short one. And was not that\nwoman, famed in the seventeenth century, she who was possessed of an\nevil spirit which caused her, an illiterate person, to talk fluently in\nthe Latin tongue, a {045}native of Duns! The Privy Council Record, under\ndate 13th July, 1630, contains an order for bringing before it Margaret\nLumsden, \"the possessed woman in Duns,\" along with her father-in-law and\nher brother, that order might be taken in the case, \"as the importance\nand nature of such a great cause requires.\" A fast for her benefit was\neven proposed by sundry clergymen; interest in her case was acute and\nwidespread. Twenty-nine years later, an account of the circumstances\nwas written by the Earl of Lauderdale, and was published in Baxter's\n\"Certainty of the World of Spirits.\" Lord Lauderdale was a schoolboy in\n1630, but he was accustomed to hear the case very fully discussed by his\nfather and the minister of Duns, the latter of whom, at least, firmly\nbelieved that the woman was possessed by an evil spirit. The Earl wrote\nas follows to Baxter: \"I will not trouble you with many circumstances;\none only I shall tell you, which I think will evince a real possession.\nThe report being spread in the country, a knight of the name of Forbes,\nwho lived in the north of Scotland, being come to Edinburgh, meeting\nthere with a minister of the north, and both of them desirous to see\nthe woman, the northern minister invited the knight to my father's house\n(which was within ten or twelve miles of the woman), whither they came,\nand next morning went to see the woman. They found her a poor ignorant\ncreature, and seeing nothing extraordinary, the minister says in Latin\nto the knight: '_Nondum audivimus spiritum loquentem_.' Presently\na voice comes out of the woman's mouth: '_Andis loquentem, audis\nloquentem_.' This put the minister into some amazement (which I think\nmade him not mind his own Latin); he took off his hat, and said:\n'_Misereatur Deus peccatoris!_' The voice presently out of the woman's\nmouth said: '_Dic peccatricis, dic peccatricis_'; whereupon both of\nthem came out of the house fully satisfied, took horse immediately,\nand returned to my father's house at Thirlestane Castle, in Lauderdale,\nwhere they related this passage. This I do exactly remember. Many more\nparticulars {046}might be got in that part of the country; but this\nLatin criticism, in a most illiterate ignorant woman, where there was\nno pretence to dispossessing, is enough, I think.\" It was, of course,\nan infallible sign of demoniac possession that the victim, mostly an\nilliterate person, should break out into Latin or Greek, Hebrew or what\nnot. That was how the devil usually betrayed himself; he could by no\nmeans control his weakness for talking--generally very badly--in foreign\ntongues.\n\n[Illustration: 0066]\n\nThe wonders of Duns in the seventeenth century by no means ceased,\nhowever, with this demon-possessed Margaret Lumsden. In 1639, when\nLeslie camped on Duns Law with the Covenanting army and its superfluity\nof ministers, there occurred a remarkable land-slide which the excited\nimaginations of those witnessing its effects could not fail to interpret\nas an assured sign that Providence meant to fight on their side. A bank\non the slope of the hill near to the camp slid down,--it had\nprobably become water-logged as the result of heavy rain.--disclosing\n\"innumerable stones, round, for the most part, in shape, and perfectly\nspherical,... like ball of all sizes, from a pistol to fixed pieces,\nsuch as sakers or robenets, or battering pieces upwards.\" Men looked on\nthem with awe, and bore {047}about with them specimens in their pockets,\ngravely showing them to excited throngs. \"Nor wanted there a few who\ninterpreted this stone magazine at Duns Hill as a miracle, as if God had\nsent this by ane hid providence for the use of the Covenanters.\"\n\n[Illustration: 0067]\n\nWe return now to Tweed, where on a steep slope stand the mighty ruins of\nNorham Castle, guarding the ford; we all know the scene, castle and ford\nin the gloaming, from Turner's beautiful plate in _Liber Studiorum_.\nBishop Flambard of Durham built the castle to bridle the wild Scots, in\n1121; some twenty years later it was taken, under David; but the eastern\nside shows the remains of the warlike prelate's work. \"The {048}Norman\nKeep still frowns across the Merse,\" and few of the castles of the age\nof chivalry display more of their ancient strength than Norham. Yet it\nyielded promptly to James IV. in the first week of the campaign which\nclosed in the terrible defeat of Flodden Edge. In this castle, in the\nLent of 1200, William the Lion kept his fast on fourteen kinds of fish,\nincluding salmon; he certainly \"spelled his fasts with an e.\" While\nBerwick yielded to the Scots in the dark days of Edward II., good Sir\nThomas de Grey, of that ancient Northumbrian house, held Norham\nstoutly, with pretty circumstances of chivalry, as his son tells in\n_Scalacronica_.\n\nOver against Norham is Ladykirk, with its ancient church, dedicated,\ntradition says, by James IV. to the Virgin Mary, in gratitude for his\nnarrow escape from death here when fording the swollen Tweed. A field to\nthe east of the village shows some, remains of military works, ramparts\nfor guns probably, from which to fire on Norham. In a line between this\nspot and the castle there was found in the river a stone cannon-ball,\nfifty-seven inches in girth, probably one fired from \"Mons Meg\" when she\nwas here in 1497.\n\nFollowing the light bank of Tweed we reach Carham burn, where Malcolm\nII. won Lothian in battle; from Carham to the sea the right bank is\nEnglish. The next important tributary on the English side, as we ascend\nthe stream is Till, formed by Bowmont and Breamish Waters, which rise in\nthe \"Cheeviots,\" as the Scots pronounce the name.\n\n                   \"T weed says to Til'\n\n                        'What gars ye rin sae still?'\n\n                   Says Till to Tweed,\n\n                        'Though ye run wi' speed,\n\n                   And I rin slaw,\n\n                        Whaur ye droon ae man,\n\n                        I droon tw'a.'\"\n\nThe ominous rhyme sounds with the slow lap of the green-grey waters of\nTill among her alders, and appears to hint at {049}the burden of the\nruinous fight of Flodden.\n\n[Illustration: 0069]\n\nOn August 22nd, James IV., \"a fey man,\" kept his plighted word to\nFrance, which Henry VIII. was invading, and led the whole force of\nHighlands and Lowlands across the Border. He made his quarters at Ford\nCastle, where he did not, as legend says, dally with Lady Heron, still\nless did his young son, the Archbishop of St. Andrews, fleet the\ntime carelessly with her daughter. {050}James cleared his position by\ncapturing Wark (now scarcely visible in ruin), Chillingham, and Eital\ncastles.\n\n[Illustration: 0070]\n\nSurrey with the English levies, including the Stanleys, sent a challenge\nfrom Alnwick. On September 3rd, the Scots are said to have wrecked Ford\nCastle, now a substantial and comfortable home, still containing the\nking's rooms. James crossed the Till by a bridge at Ford, as the tourist\nalso does, if he wishes to see the field of the famous battle. We climb\nto the crest of Flodden Edge; look south to the wooded hills beyond the\nTill, and northwards note three declivities like steps in a gigantic\nstaircase.\n\nThe Scots were well provisioned, and should easily have held the\nhill-crest against Surrey's way-worn and half-starved mutinous men.\n\n[Illustration: 0071]\n\nThey pitched their camp on the wide level of Wooler haugh, six miles to\nthe right of Flodden; and on this plain Surrey challenged James to\nmeet him, \"a fair field and no favour.\" For once chivalry gave place to\ncommon sense in James's mind: \"he would take and keep his ground at his\nown pleasure.\" But he neglected his scouting, though he had hundreds of\nBorder riders under Home, who should never have lost touch of Surrey.\nThat wily \"auld decrepit carl in a chariot\" as Pitscottie calls him,\ndisappeared; James probably thought that he was retiring to\nBerwick. Really, he was throwing himself, unseen, on James's line\nof communication with the north: he camped at Barmoor wood, and then\nrecrossed Till by Twizel bridge. Scott, in _Marmion_ and elsewhere,\nblames the king for failing to see this manouvre and discuss Surrey\nbefore his men could deploy after crossing by Twizel bridge and at\nMillford. But Twizel bridge you cannot see from Flodden Edge; Sir Walter\nhad forgotten the lie of the ground. Unseen, the English crossed and\nformed, advancing from the north towards the second of the three great\nsteps in the declivity, called Branxton hill. In the early evening,\n_Angli se ostentant_, the English come into view. In {072}place of\nholding his ground, which he is said to have entrenched, James yielded\nto his impetuous temper, fired his camp, and his men throwing off their\nboots, for the ground was wet and slippery, rushed down to the Branxton\nplateau.\n\n[Illustration: 0072]\n\n\"The haggis, Cott pless her, could charge down a hill,\" like Dundee's\nmen at Killiecrankie, but the expected impetus must have been lost\nbefore James's Highlanders under Lennox and Argyll, his right wing,\ncould come to sword-strokes. James's right, in addition to the clans,\nhad a force led by d'Aussi and Both well, with whom may have been the\nancestors of John Knox, as the Reformer told the wild Earl, Queen\nMary's lover. The main body, the centre, under the flower of Scottish\n_noblesse_, were with the king; who \"always fought before he had given\nhis orders,\" says Ayala, the ambassador of Spain. His left was led by\nCrawford and Errol; his extreme left by Huntly with the gay Gordons; and\nHome with his Border spears, mounted men. {053}The English front appears\nto have been \"refused\" so that Edward Howard was nearest to Home, and,\nslanting back wards to the right of James, were the forces of Edmund\nHoward, the Admiral, the Constable, Dacre, Surrey with the rear, and the\nlarge body of Cheshire and Lancashire, led by Stanley.\n\n[Illustration: 0073]\n\nThe Admiral sent a galloper to bring Surrey forward; and Home and Huntly\ncharged Edward Howard, while Dacre's Tyneside men ran, as he advanced to\nsupport Howard. The Borderers, fond of raiding each other, could\nnever be trusted to fight each other in serious war; they were much\nintermarried. Brian Tunstal fell, Dacre stopped Huntly; Home's men\nvanished like ghosts, no man knew whither; for they appeared on the\nfield next morning. Probably they were plundering, but \"Down wi' the\nEarl o' Home,\" says the old song of the Souters of Selkirk. In the\ncentre of the vanguard the Admiral and the Percys clashed with Crawford\nand Errol. Both leaders fell, and James threw the weight of his centre\nagainst Surrey. To slay that general with his own hand was the king's\nidea of the duty of a leader. But the English guns {054}mowed down his\nranks, and the Scots could not work their French artillery. The king\npressed in with Herries and Maxwell at his side; the ranks of England\nreeled, but the Admiral and Dacre charged James's men in flank. \"Stanley\nbroke Lennox and Argyll\" on the king's right; the noble leaders fell,\nand the nimble Highlanders rapidly made a strategic movement in the\ndirection of safety. Stanley did not pursue them, but fell on James's\nright, which now had the enemy on each flank and in front.\n\n               \"The stubborn spearmen still made good\n\n                   Their dark impenetrable wood\"\n\nunder a rain of arrows, against the charging knights, and the terrible\nbill strokes of the English infantry.\n\nThe king was not content to remain within the hedge of spears. Running\nout in advance, he fought his way to \"within a lance's length\" of\nSurrey, so Surrey wrote; his body was pierced with arrows, his left arm\nwas half severed by a bill-stroke, his neck was gashed, and he fell.\nJames was not a king to let his followers turn his bridle-rein; he\nfought on foot, like a Paladin, and died with honour. His nobles\nadvanced; the spears defended the dead, and the bodies of thirteen of\nhis peers and of two Bishops who, like Archbishop Turpin at Roncesvaux,\ndied in harness, lay round him. An episcopal ring with a great sapphire,\nfound at Flodden, is in the Gold Room at the British Museum.\n\nSuch was the great sorrow of Scotland; there is perhaps not a family of\ngentle blood in the Lowlands which did not leave a corpse on Branxton\nslope, where\n\n               \"Groom fought like noble, Squire like Knight,\n\n                        As fearlessly and well.\"\n\nAs matter of plain history, this honourable defeat was to my country\nwhat, as matter of legend, the rear-guard action of Roncesvaux has\nbeen to France. It was too late in literary times for an epic like the\n_Chanson de Roland_; the burden of {055}the song was left for the author\nof Marmiott. But Flodden, till my own boyhood, left its mark on Scottish\nmemories. When any national trouble befell us, people said, \"There has\nbeen nothing like it since Flodden.\"\n\n[Illustration: 0075]\n\nMy friend the late Lord Napier and Ettrick told me that when his father\ntook him to Flodden in his boyhood, tears stood n the eyes of the\nsenior.\n\nThis is the difference between us of the north, and you of the south.\nAlong the Border line, my heart, so to speak, bleeds at Halidon and\nHomildon hills, where our men made a {056}frontal attack, out-flanked\non either hand by lines of English archers, and left heaps as high as\na lance's length, of corpses on corpses, (as at Dupplin); but an\nEnglishman passes Bannock burn \"more than usual calm,\" and no more\nrejoices on the scene of the victories ol his ancestors, than he is\nconscious of their defeats. Pinkie is nothing to him, and a bitter\nregret to us! Dunbar to him means nothing; to us it means the lost\nchance which should have been a certainty, of annihilating Cromwell's\nforce. Our preachers ruined our opportunity, bidding Leslie go down,\nin accordance with some Biblical text, from his safe and commanding\nposition, after they had purged our army of the Royalist swords.\n\nSurrey \"had his bellyful\" at Flodden. In Edinburgh\n\n                   \"The old men girt on their old swords,\n\n                        And went to man the wall,\"\n\nwhich was hastily erected. But the English general had enough, and\nwithdrew southwards. I visited Flodden Edge on my return from the west\nof Ireland, where I found the living belief in Fairies. I picked up a\ntrifle of the faith at Flodden. The guide, a most intelligent elderly\nman, named Reidpath, told me this yarn: \"A woman came to my brother,\" (I\nknew that he meant a woman of the Faery), \"and told him to dig in such\na place. He would find a stone, below it a stone pillar; and another\nstone, and beneath it a treasure. My brother and my father dug, found\nthe stone, and the pillar, and the stone below--but no treasure!\"\nProbably you will not find even this last trace of the fairy belief on\nthe Border, but, from notes of my grandfather, it was not quite dead in\nhis day.\n\nHere we leave Till to those who choose to fish it up towards the\nCheviots, and move up the right bank of Tweed towards its junction with\nTeviot.\n\nBefore reaching that point, however, there are one or two places to\nnotice on both sides of the river--Coldstream, for {057}example, where\nLeet water enters Tweed; Eden water, a few miles higher up; and, on the\nEnglish side, Wark Castle.\n\n[Illustration: 0077]\n\nRegarding the Leet, in order to find oneself filled with envy and with\nlonging unutterable, it is only necessary to read Stoddart's account of\nthe fishing to be had in his day in that curious little stream. \"Of\nall streams that I am acquainted with,\" says Stoddart, \"the Leet, which\ndischarges itself into the Tweed above Coldstream, was wont, considering\nits size, to contain the largest trout. During the summer season it is\na mere ditch, in many places not above four or five span in width, and,\nwhere broadest, still capable of being leapt across. The run of water\nis, comparatively speaking, insignificant, not exceeding on the average\na cubic foot. This, however, as it proceeds, is every now and then\nexpanded over a considerable surface, and forms a pool of some depth;\nin fact, the whole stream, from head to foot, pursuing, as it does,\na winding course for upwards of twelve miles, is a continued chain of\n{058}pools, fringed, during the summer, on both sides, with rushes and\nwater-flags, and choked up in many parts with pickerel weed and other\naquatic plants. The channel of Leet contains shell marl, and its banks,\nbeing hollowed out beneath, afford, independent of occasional vines and\ntree roots, excellent shelter for trout. Not many years ago the whole\ncourse of it was infested with pike, but the visit of some otters,\nirrespective of the angler's art, has completely cleared them out,\nand thus allowed the trout, which were formerly scarce, to become more\nnumerous. On the first occasion of my fishing Leet, which happened to\nbe early in April 1841, before the sedge and rushes had assumed the\nascendency, I captured, with the fly, twenty-six trout, weighing in\nall upwards of twenty-nine pounds. Of these, five at least were\ntwo-pounders, and there were few, if any, small-sized fish.\" On another\noccasion, in June 1846, Stoddart caught in the same water, in four\nhours, three dozen and five fish, the biggest of which weighed 3\nlbs., and a dozen of the others 1 lb. apiece. This stream, in its\ncharacteristics so unlike the usual Scottish burn, is not open to the\npublic, but it may be assumed that no such fishing is now obtainable\nthere, any more than it is to be got elsewhere in Scotland. Once they\nestablish themselves and make unchecked headway, pike are very hard\nto extirpate; it is not in every stream that one finds otters so\naccommodating, and so careful of the interests of anglers, as they\nappear to have been in Leet in Stoddart's day.\n\nColdstream, where Leet joins Tweed, was of old chiefly known for its\nford, the first of any consequence above Berwick. It was here that the\ninvading army of Edward the First crossed the river into Scotland\nin 1296; here, indeed, it was that most armies, English or Scottish,\nplunged into country hostile to them once they had quitted their own\nbank of the river; it was here that all Scottish travellers, from\nroyalty to peasant, must halt when southward bound, and await the\nfalling of the waters should Tweed chance to be in flood. Consequently,\nat {059}a very early date a settlement sprang up, and in it many an\nhistorical personage has temporarily sojourned. Sir Thomas Dick Lauder\nsays that as late as his own day an old thatched two storied building\nin the village was pointed out as the house in which \"many persons of\ndistinction, including kings and queens of Scotland, are enumerated by\ntradition as having resided.... occasionally several days at a time,\"\nwaiting till the river was fordable. It was not till 1766, when Smeaton\ncompleted his fine bridge, that any other crossing of the stream than by\nthe ford was possible. In pre-Reformation times, there was in Coldstream\na rich Priory of Cistercian Nuns, not a stone of which, however, now\nremains. But in its little burial ground, between the river and what\nused to be the garden of the Priory, in 1834 there was dug up a great\nquantity of human bones, and a stone coffin. The bones were supposed\nto be probably those of various Scottish persons of rank who fell but\na short five or six miles away on the fatal field of Flodden. Tradition\ntells that the Abbess of that day, anxious to give Christian burial to\nher slain countrymen, caused the bodies of many Scots of rank and birth\nto be borne from the field of battle to the Priory, and there laid them\nto rest in consecrated ground.\n\nTill about 1865 there stood in the village another interesting old\nhouse, and on the building which now occupies its site may be read the\nfollowing inscription: \"Headquarters of the Coldstream Guards, 1659;\nrebuilt, 1865.\" Here it was that General Monk formed that famous\nregiment, than which there is but one in the British army whose history\ngoes further back, none which in achievements can surpass it. In one\nof his works on England at the period of the Restoration of Charles the\nSecond, M. Guizot, the French historian, records that Monk \"spent about\nthree weeks at Coldstream, which was a favourable spot for the purpose,\nas the Tweed was there fordable; but he seems to have found it a dismal\nplace to quarter in. On his first arrival, he could get no provisions\nfor his own {060}dinner, and was obliged to content himself with a quid\nof tobacco. His chaplains, less easily satisfied, roamed about till they\nobtained a meal at the house of the Earl of Home, near by.\" This place,\nto which the fine instinct of those preachers guided them, was no doubt\nThe Hirsel, which is at no great distance from Coldstream.\n\n[Illustration: 0080]\n\nThere is yet another thing for which this little town was famed in\nformer days. In the time of our grandsires, and indeed, down to as late\na date as 1856, when clandestine weddings were prohibited by Act of\nParliament, it was a common sight to see a post-chaise come racing\nover Coldstream Bridge, or, in days before a bridge existed, splashing\nthrough the water from the English side, bearing in it some fond couple\n(like Mr. Alfred Jingle and the Spinster Aunt), flying on love's wings\nfrom stony-hearted parent or guardian. Coldstream was almost as famous\na place for run-away marriages as was Gretna Green itself. At the former\nplace, the ceremony was usually performed in the toll-house at the\nScottish end of the bridge, where \"priests\" were always in readiness\nto tie up the run-away {061}couples, and to issue to them thereafter a\nCertificate of Marriage, such as the following, which is a copy of one\nissued in 1836: \"This is to certify that John Chambers, Husbandman, from\nthe Broomhouse, in the Parish of Chatton, with Mary Walker from Kelso,\nin the Parish of Kelso, in Roxboroughshire, was married by me this Day.\nAs witness to my hand, William Alexander, Coldstream, 15th Dec., 1836.\nWitnesses' names: Miss Dalgleish, Miss Archer.\"\n\nBut though for convenience' sake, and probably for speed of dispatch,\nthe toll-house was chiefly patronised, those who had command of money\nand were not unduly pressed for time could arrange to have their\nnuptials celebrated in less public fashion than would probably be the\ncase at the bridge-end. It is I believe an undoubted fact that in 1819\nLord Brougham was married in the chief inn of the village.\n\nThose irregular marriages were in the eighteenth century a great source\nof trouble and annoyance to the Kirk Session of Kelso. A good many of\nthem at one time were celebrated by a certain Mr. Blair, whom the Privy\nCouncil had ejected from the incumbency of Coldstream in 1689 because\nhe had refused to pray for the King and Queen, (William and Mary),\nand would neither read the proclamation of the Estates nor observe\nthe national thanksgiving. Mr. Blair, however, after the loss of his\nincumbency continued to live in the village, and, it was alleged,\nwas, in the matter of these marriages sometimes over accommodating and\ngood-natured regarding dates; in his certificates he did not always\nrigidly adhere to the true day of month or year in cases where it might\nbe represented to him that a fictitious date would be less compromising\nto the contracting parties. Mr. Blair was \"sharply rebukit\" by the\nSession. The reverend gentleman was not in Coldstream later than 1728,\nand he died at Preston, in Northumberland, in 1736, {062}at the age of\neighty-five. The following is the epitaph composed on him:\n\n               \"Here lies the Reverend Thomas Blair,\n\n                   A man of worth and merit,\n\n               Who preached for fifty years and mair,\n\n                   According to the spirit.\n\n               He preached off book to shun offence,\n\n                   And what was still more rare,\n\n               He never spoke one word of sense--\n\n                   So preached Tammy Blair.\"\n\nIn examining Scottish Border records of those times, nothing strikes one\nmore than the power of the Kirk Sessions; it is indeed hard to imagine a\ncountry more priest ridden than Scotland in the eighteenth century. The\n\"Sabbath\" was then as easy to break as a hedge-sparrow's egg, and there\nwere a thousand--to modern eyes not very heinous--ways of breaking it.\nWhat in the way of punishment may have been meted out to the unfortunate\nwho fell asleep under the infliction of a long, dull, prosy sermon in a\nstuffy, ill-ventilated church on a warm summer's day, one hardly cares\nto conjecture, so rigidly enforced was the duty of listening to sermons;\nwhilst to be abroad \"in time of sermon\" was sin so heinous that Elders\nwere, so to speak, specially retained to prowl around and nose out\noffenders. Walking on the Sabbath day--\"vaguing,\" they called it,--was\nlooked on with horror, and called for stern reprimand. In 1710, it was\nobserved that sundry persons in Kelso were \"guiltie of profaning the\nSabbath by walking abroad in the fields after sermons,\" and the Session\ncalled on the parish minister to \"give them a general reproof out of the\npulpit the next Loird's Day, and to dehort them from so doing in time\ncoming, with certification that the Session will take strict notice of\nany one guiltie of it.\" For less than \"vaguing,\" however, a man might be\nbrought before the Session. In 1710, Alexander Graemslaw of Maxwellheugh\nwas \"dilated for bringing in cabbage to his house the last Lord's Day\nbetween sermons,\" {063}and was \"cited to the next Session.\" (\"Dilate\" is\nprobably less painful than it sounds). He was only \"rebuked\" about the\ncabbages: but then they fell on him and demanded an explanation of his\nnot having been at church. Altogether they made things unpleasantly warm\nfor Alexander. In 1708, Alexander Handiside and his son, and a woman\nnamed Jean Ker were had up for \"walking to and fro on the Sabbath.\"\nAt first they \"compeared not\" on being cited, but on a second citation\nHandiside \"compeared,\" and vainly advanced the plea that his walking to\nand fro was occasioned by the fact that he had been attending a child\nwho had broken a leg or an arm. He \"was exhorted to be a better observer\nof the Sabbath.\" A Scot, apparently, might not upon the Scottish Sabbath\ndraw from a pit his ox or his ass which had fallen in. This same year,\n\"those who searched the town\" discovered two small boys \"playing on\nthe Sabbath day in time of sermon.\" The Session dealt sternly with the\nhardened ruffians. Amongst other cases that one reads of there is that\nof Katherine Thomson. One's sympathies rather go with Katherine, who\nwhen reproved by a sleuth-hound Elder for \"sitting idly at her door in\ntime of sermon,\" abused her reprover. But the Session made it warm for\na woman who thus not only, as they said, \"profaned the Sabbath,\" but was\nguilty of \"indescreet carriage to the Elder.\" One trembles to think how\neasy it was to slip into sin in those days.\n\nBut over and above this Juggernaut power of the Session, there was\nanother weapon much used by eighteenth century ministers, whereby they\nkept a heavy hand on the bowed backs of their congregations. It was\ntheir habit, where the conduct, real or fancied, of any member of\ntheir flock offended them, to speak _at_ the culprit during service\non Sundays, and to speak at him in no uncertain voice. The practice is\nprobably now dead, even in remote country parishes, but fifty years ago\nit was still a favourite weapon in the hands of old-fashioned\nministers, and in the eighteenth century it seems to have been in almost\n{064}universal use. The Reverend Mr. Ramsay, minister of Kelso from 1707\ntill his death in 1749, was a dexterous and unsparing wielder of this\necclesiastical flail. It chanced once that there \"sat under\" him--as we\nsay in Scotland--a Highlander, a man who had deserted from the ranks of\nthe rebel army in the '15, and had afterwards managed to get appointed\nto a post in the Excise at Kelso. This man's seat in church was in the\nfront pew of the gallery, immediately facing Mr. Ramsay, and his every\nmovement, therefore, was likely to catch the minister's eye. Now, the\nexciseman had a habit which greatly annoyed Mr. Ramsay. As soon as\nthe sermon commenced, the Highlander produced a pencil, with which he\nproceeded to make marks on a slip of paper. He may, perhaps, have been\nmaking calculations not unconnected with his duties as exciseman,--a\nscandalous proceeding when he should have been all ears for the Word as\nexpounded by the minister; or, again, on the other hand he may really\nhave been devoutly attentive to the sermon, and engaged in making notes\non it,--a thing perhaps not over and above likely in an ex-Highland\nrebel. In any case he annoyed Mr. Ramsay, and one day the irritation\nbecame acute. Pausing in his discourse in order to give emphasis to his\nwords, and looking straight at the exciseman, he cried: \"My brethren, I\ntell ye, except ye be born again, it is as impossible for you to enter\nthe Kingdom of Heaven as it is for a Hielander no to be a thief! Man wi'\nthe keel-o-vine,\" he thundered, \"do ye hear _that?_\" (For the benefit of\nnon-Scottish readers it may be necessary to explain that a \"keel-o-vine\"\nis a pencil).\n\nA few miles above Coldstream, after a course of about four and twenty\nmiles, the beautiful little Eden Water joins Tweed. Its capabilities as\na trout stream are spoken of elsewhere in this volume, and the little\nriver is now mentioned only to record a tragedy of unusual nature which\noccurred in it in the earlier half of the nineteenth century. Two young\nladies, sisters of the then proprietor of Newton Don, a beautiful estate\non the right bank of Eden, had come from Edinburgh to {065}pass the\nsummer and autumn at their brother's house. With them was a friend, a\nMiss Ramsay. It chanced that one afternoon these three young ladies were\nwalking along the banks of the river, on the side opposite to Newton\nDon. They had strolled farther than at starting had been their\nintention, and time had slipped past unnoticed, and while they still\nhad some distance to go on their return way, they were surprised by the\nsound of the house bell ringing for dinner. Now, a little below the spot\nwhere they then were, it was possible to cross the river by stepping\nstones, an easy, and to every appearance a perfectly safe way by which\nanybody beyond the age of childhood might gain the other side, without\nmuch risk even of wetting a shoe. The three girls, accordingly, started\nto go over by these stones. The water was low and clear, the weather\nfine; there had been no thunderstorm that might have been capable of\nbringing down from the hills a sudden spate; the crossing could have\nbeen made a million times in such circumstances without peril greater\nthan is to be met with in stepping across a moorland drain. Yet now the\none thing happened that made it dangerous.\n\nAt some little distance up stream there stood a mill, the water power\nof which was so arranged, that if the sluice of the mill should for any\nreason be suddenly closed, that body of water which normally flowed down\nthe mill dam after turning the wheel, was discharged into the river some\nway above the stepping stones. In the narrow channel of the Eden at this\npoint, this sudden influx of water was quite sufficient to raise the\nstream's level to a height most dangerous to anyone who at the time\nmight be in the act of crossing by these stones. Unhappily, at the exact\nmoment when the three poor girls were stepping cautiously and with\nnone too certain foot from stone to stone, and had reached to about\nmid-channel, the miller, ignorant of their situation and unable from\nwhere he stood to command a view to any distance down stream, closed his\nsluice. Down Eden's bed surged a wave crested like some inrushing sea\nthat sweeps far up a shingly beach. In an instant the three girls,\n{066}afraid to make a dash for the safety of the hank, were swept off\nthe stones where they clung, and were carried shrieking down the swollen\nstream. One, Miss Ramsay, buoyed to a certain extent by the nature of\nher dress, floated until she was able to grasp the overhanging branch of\na tree, and she succeeded in getting out. The other two, rolled over\nand over, buffeted by the sudden turmoil of waters, were swept away and\ndrowned. No one was near to give help; none even heard their cries.\n\nOn the southern bank of Tweed, a mile or two up the river from\nColdstream and Cornhill, stands all that is left of Wark Castle, a place\nonce of formidable strength, and greatly famed in Border history. Except\na few green mounds, and portions of massive wall, there remains now but\nlittle to speak of its former greatness, or to remind one of the mighty\nfeats that were performed here during its countless sieges and bloody\nfights. But the old Northumbrian saying still tells its tale with grim\nsimplicity:\n\n                   \"Auld Wark upon the Tweed\n\n                   Has been mony a man's dead.\"\n\nRegarding this couplet, the following comment is made in the _Denham\nTracts_: \"Mark's history, from the twelfth down to at least the\nsixteenth century, is perhaps without a parallel for surprises,\nassaults, sieges, blockades, surrenders, evacuations, burnings,\nrestorations, slaughters. These quickly recurring events transformed the\nmount on which the castle stood into a Golgotha, and gave a too truthful\norigin to the couplet which still occurs on the Borders of the once\nrival kingdoms.\" The castle was erected during the reign of King Henry\nI., by Walter d'Espec, somewhere about the year 1130; and before it had\nbeen many years in existence, in 1135, David I. of Scotland captured it.\nFrom that time onwards, at least down to 1570, when Sussex spent a night\nwithin its walls on his way to harry Teviotdale, there is not one item\nof that formidable list of \"surprises, assaults, sieges, blockades,\nsurrenders, {067}evacuations, burnings, restorations, slaughters,\" that\nhas not been amply borne out by its history, many of them again\nand again. David took it in 1135, but restored it to England in the\nfollowing year. Twice afterwards, the same monarch vainly attempted to\ntake it by storm, but finally, after the fall of Norham, he reduced\nit by means of a long blockade. After this it remained in Scottish\npossession till 1157, when England again seized, and at great expense\nrebuilt, the castle. In 1216 it was destroyed by fire; in 1318, reduced\nby King Robert the Bruce; in 1385, taken by storm by the Scots. Then in\n1419, William Halliburton of Fast Castle surprised the English and took\nthe castle, putting all the garrison to the sword. But the same fate was\ndealt out to the Scots themselves a few months later; Sir Robert Ogle\nand his men gained access to the building by way of a sewer from the\nkitchen, which opened on the bank of Tweed. Creeping up this unsavoury\npassage, they in their turn surprised and slew the Scotsmen. Again in\n1460, after the widow of James II. had dismantled Roxburgh and razed it\nalmost to the foundations, the Scots forded Tweed and retook Wark. But\nthey did not hold it long. More valuable now to the English than ever\nit had been before, owing to the loss of Roxburgh, it was partially\nrepaired by them, only, however, to be again pulled down by the Scots\nbefore the battle of Flodden; after which Surrey for the last time\nrestored and strengthened it. After the accession of James VI to the\nthrone of England, Wark, like other Border strongholds, began to fall\ninto decay; the need for them was gone. Buchanan, the historian, has\nleft a description of Wark as it was in 1523, when he was with the\nScottish army at Coldstream, which then besieged it. \"In the innermost\narea,\" he says, \"was a tower of great strength and height; this was\nencircled by two walls, the outer including the larger space, into which\nthe inhabitants of the country used to fly with their cattle, corn, and\nflocks in time of war; the inner of much smaller extent, but fortified\nmore strongly by ditches and {068}towers. It had a strong garrison,\ngood store of artillery and ammunition, and other things necessary for\ndefence.\"\n\nOn this occasion the Scottish commander sent against the castle a picked\nforce of Scottish and French troops, supported by heavy siege artillery,\nall under the command of Ker of Fernihurst. \"The French,\" says Sir\nWalter Scott, \"carried the outer enclosure at the first assault, but\nwere dislodged by the garrison setting fire to the corn and straw laid\nup in it. The besiegers soon recovered their ground, and by their\ncannon effected a breach in the inner wall. The French with great\nintrepidity mounted the breach, sustaining great loss from the shot\nof that part of the garrison who possessed the keep; and being warmly\nreceived by the forces that defended the inner vallum, were obliged to\nretire after great slaughter. The attack was to have been renewed on the\nsucceeding day, but a fall of rain in the night, which swelled the Tweed\nand threatened to cut off the retreat of the assailants to the main\narmy, and the approach of the Earl of Surrey, who before lay at Alnwick\nwith a large force, obliged the Duke [of Albany] to relinquish his\ndesign and return into Scotland.\"\n\nWark, it is said, once belonged to the Earl of Salisbury, and the tale\nis told how, in the time of King David Bruce, a gallant deed was done\nby Sir William Montague, Lord Salisbury's governor of the castle. King\nDavid, returning from a successful foray into England, passed close to\nWark, making for the ford over Tweed at Coldstream, and his rear-guard,\nheavily laden with plunder, was seen from the castle walls by\nMontague's garrison. The rear was straggling. Such an opportunity was\nnot to be wasted. The Governor, with forty mounted men, made a sudden\ndash, slew a great number of the Scots, cut off one hundred and sixty\nhorses laden with booty, and brought them safely into the castle. David\ninstantly assaulted the place, but without success; and he thereupon\ndetermined to take it by siege. There was but one way whereby the place\nmight be saved; a message must be conveyed to King Edward III., {069}who\nwas then on his way north with a great army. The risk was great; failure\nmeant death, and the castle was closely invested. Sir William himself\ntook the risk. In a night dark and windy, with rain falling in torrents,\nthe Governor dashed out on a swift horse and cut his way through the\nScottish lines before almost the alarm had been raised; and so rapidly\ndid Edward advance on hearing of the plight of the garrison, that the\nrear of the Scottish force was barely over the ford before the English\nvan had reached the southern bank of Tweed. It is of this occasion\nthat the more or less mythical tale of King Edward and the Countess of\nSalisbury's Garter is told. In the great Hall of Wark Castle the story\nfinds a dubious resting place.\n\nThe countless war-like events that have taken place in and around Wark\ngive to the place an interest which is perhaps hardly appreciated by the\nmajority of us, and that interest is largely added to when one thinks\nof the many characters noted in history who from time to time sojourned\nwithin its walls. King Stephen lay here with a large army in 1137; Henry\nIII remained in the castle for some time with his queen in 1255; in\n1296 Edward I paid it a visit: Edward II mustered here his army in\n1314 before his crushing defeat at Bannockburn, and, as already stated,\nEdward III, after he had driven off the Scottish marauding force, was\nentertained here for a time by the Countess of Salisbury.\n\nWark, one thinks, would be an ideal place in which to conduct\nexcavations,--though, indeed, a little in that line has already been\nundertaken. In the volume for 1863-68 of the \"Proceedings of the\nBerwickshire Naturalists' Club,\" it is recorded that a good many years\nago Mr. Richard Hodgson had traced a wide sewer to the north of the\ncastle, opening on to the river bank. This sewer is said to be so wide\nthat it might easily have been used for the passage of men or material.\nProbably it was by this bidden way that Sir Robert Ogle in 1419 forced\nhis way into the interior. But if the opening was so wide, {070}how\ncame it to be undefended? Was there a traitor inside who kept guard that\nnight, a Northumbrian perhaps, masquerading as a Scot, whose burr did\nnot betray him? In the course of his investigations Mr. Hodgson came\nalso on a \"long flight of stone steps leading from the keep to the outer\ncourt, with a portcullis about half way.\" Quantities of cannon balls\nhave also been found, but there must surely be unlimited scope for the\ndiscovery of such like treasure trove in the fields surrounding the\ncastle, and down by the ford where so many armies of both nations have\ncrossed Tweed. They did not always make a leisurely and altogether\nunmolested passage.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III KELSO, ROXBURGH, TEVIOT, KALE, AND OXNAM\n\n|Coming{071} now to Kelso,--with Melrose the most pleasing of the towns\non Tweed,--we pass the meeting of the waters of Tweed and its largest\naffluent, Teviot. Kelso has a fine airy square, good streets, and an air\nof quiet gentility, neighboured as it is by Floors, the palatial seat\nof the Duke of Roxburghe, and by the trees of Springwood Park, the\nresidence of Sir George Douglas.\n\nWe are now in the region of the clan of Ker of Cessford, from which the\nducal family descends: while the Lothian branch descends from the Kers\nof Fernihurst. The name, Ker, is said to mean \"left handed,\" and like\nthe left handed men of the tribe of Benjamin, the Kers were a turbulent\nand grasping-clan, often at deadly feud with their neighbours and\nrivals, the Scotts of Buccleugh. These, with the Douglases, for long\npredominant, were the clans that held the Marches, and freely raided the\nEnglish Borderers, while they fought like fiends among themselves.\n\nIt is in the early sixteenth century that the chiefs of the two branches\nof Ker, or Kerr, and of the Scotts, become more and more prominent in\nhistory, both as warriors and politicians. From these Houses the Wardens\nof the Border were often chosen, and were not to be trusted to keep\norder; being more disposed to use sword and axe. Within a century the\nchiefs {072}throve to Earl's estate, and finally \"warstled up the brae\"\nto Dukedoms.\n\n[Illustration: 0092]\n\nMeanwhile the Douglases, for long the most powerful House in Scotland,\nthe rivals of the Crown, were crushed by James II, and of the Douglases,\nSir George, of Springwood Park, is descended from the House of Cavers,\n(on Teviot, below Hawick), scions sprung from Archibald, natural son of\nthe Earl of Douglas who fell at Otterburne (1388) and is immortal in the\nballad. The whole land is full of scenes made famous by the adventures\nof these ancient clans; they may be tracked by blood from Hermitage\nCastle to the dowie dens of Yarrow and the Peel Tower on the Douglas\nburn.\n\nSir Herbert Maxwell, in \"The Story of the Tweed\" (p. 139) not\nunnaturally laments the \"sadly suburban\" name of Springwood Park,\nstanding where it ought not, in place of the {073}ancient name of\nMaxwell, originally \"Maccus whele,\" \"the pool of Maccus,\" on Tweed.\n\n[Illustration: 0093]\n\nMaccus was a descendant of the primeval Maccus, who, before the Norman\nConquest, signed himself, or was described, as Maccus Archipirata, \"the\nleading pirate.\" To a later Maccus David I gave the salmon fishing at\nKelso; the pool, called \"Maccus whele\" became Maxwell, and the lairds\n\"de Maxwell.\" The Maxwells moved to the western Border to Caerlaverock\nand into Galloway; and of all {074}this history only the name, \"Max\nwheel,\" of a salmon cast below the pretty bridge of Kelso, is left.\n\nThe name Kelso is of Cymric origin: _calch myadd._ \"Chalk hill.\" To be\nsure, as the man said of the derivation of _jour_ from _dies_, the name\nis _diablement change en route_. The ruins of Kelso Abbey are the chief\nlocal remains of the Ages of faith. When David I, not yet king, brought\nFrench B\u00e9n\u00e9dictines to Scotland, he settled them in Ettrick Forest. Here\nthey raised the schele chirche--the Monastery, on a steep hill above\nEttrick (now Selkirk), and here they \"felt the breeze down Ettrick\nbreak\" with its chill showers, and wept as they remembered pleasant\nPicardy; the climate of Selkirk being peculiarly bitter. David, when\nking, moved his Benedictines to the far more comfortable region of\nKelso, or \"Calkow,\" where they began to build in 1128. The style of\ntheir church is late Norman, and the tower was used in war as a keep in\nthe fierce wars of Henry VIII. The place was gutted and the town\nburned by Dacre, in 1523; and suffered again from Norfolk, in 1542, and\nHertford in 1545. Henry VIII chivalrously destroyed this part of the\nborder from the cottage to the castles of the Kers and the pleasant\nholy places of the Church, during the childhood of his kinswoman, Mary\nStuart, Queen of Scots. His aim was always to annex Scotland; and, of\ncourse, to introduce the Gospel. In 1545, after overcoming the garrison\nof the church tower, Hertford's men wrecked the whole place, leaving\nlittle more than we see to day; though that little is much compared with\nwhat the Reformers have left of St. Andrews and Lindores.\n\nKelso saw more than enough of very ugly fighting in those days; not\neven her monks stood aloof when blows fell fast and their cloisters were\nthreatened. In 1545, twelve monks and ninety laymen gallantly held the\nAbbey against the English, and when at length Hertford's guns created\na practicable breach, they retreated to the church tower. Hill Burton\nsays, in his History of Scotland, that then \"the assault was given to\nthe Spaniards, but, when they rushed in, they found the place Kelso\nAbbey. {075}cleared.\n\n[Illustration: 0095]\n\nThe nimble garrison had run to the strong square tower of the church,\nand there again they held out. Night came before they could be dislodged\nfrom this their last citadel, {076}so the besiegers had to leave the\nassault till the morning, setting a good watch all night about the\nhouse, which was not so well kept but that a dozen of the Scots in the\ndarkness of the night escaped by ropes out at back windows and corners,\nwith no little danger of their lives.\n\n[Illustration: 0096]\n\nWhen the day came, and the steeple eftsoons assaulted, it was\nimmediately won, and as many Scots slain as were within.\" So may Kelso\nAbbey be said to have been finally wrecked; though, fifteen years later,\nthe Reformers did their own little bit of work in the same line.\n\nThe Abbey buildings, however, or part of them, continued to be used long\nafter this date; from 1649 to 1771 the transept, roughly ceiled over,\nserved as the parish church, but it was given up in the year last\nmentioned owing to a portion of the roof falling in whilst service was\nbeing held. The kirk \"skailed\" that day in something under record\ntime; Thomas the Rhymer's prediction that \"the kirk should fall at the\nfullest\" was in the people's mind, and they stood not much upon the\norder of their going.\n\nKelso was the most southern point reached by Montrose in {077}his\nefforts to join hands w ith Charles the First after his year of\nvictories. The Border chiefs who had promised aid all deserted him; the\nGordons and Colkitto had left him, and he marched north to the junction\nof Ettrick and Tweed and the fatal day of Philiphaugh.\n\n[Illustration: 0097]\n\nIn 1745, Kelso for two days saw Prince Charlie, in his feint against\nGeneral Wade; from Kelso he turned to Carlisle, his actual, and by no\nfault of his, hopeless line of invasion of England. The Prince's own\nstrategy, as he wrote to his father, was \"to have a stroke for't,\" as\nnear the Border and as promptly as possible He therefore wished to cross\nthe Tweed near Kelso, and beat up the quarters of the senile Marshal\nWade at Newcastle. If he discussed Wade to the same tune as he had\nsettled Cope, English Jacobites might join him. Holding Newcastle, he\ncould thereby admit French reinforcements, while, if defeated, he was\nnear the sea, and had a better route of retreat than if he were defeated\ngoing by Carlisle and the western route, in the heart of England. His\ncouncil of chiefs, unhappily, forced him to take the western route.\nHalting at Kelso, he sent the best of the Border {078}cavaliers, Henry\nKer of Graden, to make a feint on Wade; he rode as far as Wooler, near\nFlodden. Next day the Prince marched up Teviot, and up Jed, to Jedburgh,\nwith the flower of the fighting clans; then up Rule water, another of\nthe tributaries of Tweed, to Haggiehaugh on the Liddell, and so into\nEngland near Carlisle. Of old he would have picked up the Kers, Elliots,\nand Scotts; Haggiehaugh, where he slept, is Larriston, the home of the\nElliot chief, \"the Lion of Liddes-dale.\" But the tartans waved and the\nbagpipes shrilled in vain, and the Blue Bonnets did not go over the\nBorder. One of the writers of this book possesses the armchair in which\nthe Prince rested at Haggiehaugh.\n\nIt was at Kelso, one remembers, that Sir Walter Scott first met James\nBallantyne, with whose fortunes his own were afterwards to become so\ninextricably blended. Scott was then but a growing boy f his health\nhad been giving trouble, and he was sent by his father to stay for\nsix months with an aunt \"who resided in a small house, situated very\npleasantly in a large garden to the eastward of the churchyard of Kelso,\nwhich extended down to the Tweed.\" During the time of Scott's stay,\nBallantyne and he were class-mates under Mr. Lancelot Whale, master of\nthe Kelso Grammar School. The acquaint ance then formed was never quite\nbroken off, and all the world knows the story of its outcome.\n\nWe now follow Prince Charles into\n\n               \"Pleasant Teviotdale, a land\n\n                   Made blithe with plough and harrow,\"\n\na rich, well-wooded grassy land, cultivated of old under the\nBenedictines of Kelso.\n\nLittle more than a mile from that town, by the road leading to St.\nBoswells up Tweed's southern bank, on a wooded ridge overhanging Teviot\nand separated from Tweed by but a narrow flat haugh, stands all that\nis left of Roxburgh Castle,--a few isolated portions of massive wall\ndefended on the north and, {079}east sides by a ditch.\n\n[Illustration: 0099]\n\nAt the west end a very deep cutting divides this ridge from the high\nground farther to the west.\n\nDitch and cutting apparently were in former times flooded with water run\nin from Teviot, for even as late as the end of the eighteenth century\nremains of a weir or dam could still be {080}seen stretching across the\nriver. No trace of it now remains. Those who razed the castle took care\nthat the dam should be broken beyond repair, and countless winter floods\nhave long since swept away the little that may have been left. Close to\nthe castle probably stood the once important town of Roxburgh, with its\nstreets and churches, its convent and schools, and its Mint, where many\nof our Scottish coins were struck. Where are those streets and churches\nnow? Not a trace of them is to be found. The houses were of wood, no\ndoubt, and easily demolished, but the churches, the convent, and the\nMint, one would expect to have been of build substantial enough to leave\nsome indication of where they had stood. Roxburgh, more than any other\nBorder town, experienced the horrors of war. Her castle was one of four\ngreat Scottish strongholds--Edinburgh, Stirling, Berwick, Roxburgh--and\nit mattered little whether it were temporarily held by England or\nby Scotland, on the inhabit ants of the town fell the brunt of those\nhorrors. Castle and town were continually being besieged, continually\nchanging hands, sometimes by stratagem--as when on Shrove Tuesday, 1314,\nthe Good Sir James Douglas, with sixty men, surprised the garrison and\ntook the castle from the English;--sometimes by siege and assault, as\nwhen James II was killed by the bursting of \"the Lion,\" one of\nhis own clumsy pieces of ordnance, a gun similar to that ancient weapon,\n\"Mons Meg,\" which is still to be seen in Edinburgh Castle. To the\nQueen of James II was due the complete destruction of Roxburgh as a\nstronghold. The castle had been for something like a hundred years\ncontinuously in England's hands,--a rankling sore in Scotland's body.\nThe knife must be used unflinchingly. Under her orders, therefore, when\nthe castle was captured after James's death, the place was thrown down\nand made entirely untenable; and probably at this time also the dam\nacross Teviot was cut, thus permanently emptying fosse and ditch.\nRoxburgh ceased then almost entirely to be a place of {081}strength,\nand time and decay have wiped her out; no man may-say where stood any\nportion of a town which, in point of population, was once the fourth\nmost important burgh in Scotland. Of the last siege, and the death\nof James, the historian Pitscottie writes: \"The King commanded the\nsouldeouris and men of weir to assault the castell, but the Inglischemen\nd\u00e9fendit so walieiantlie within, the seige appeirlt so to indure langer\nnor was beleiffit, quhairthrow the King d\u00e9termin\u00e2t to compell them\nthat was within the house be lang tairrie to rander and gif it ower.\"\nReinforcements at this time arrived, \"which maid the King so blyth\nthat he commanded to chairge all the gunnis to gif the castell ane\nnew wollie. But quhill this prince, mair curieous nor becam him or the\nmajestie of ane King, did stand neir hand by the gunneris quhan the\nartaillyerie was dischargeand, his thie bane was doung in twa with ane\npiece of ane misframit gun that brak in the schutting, be the quhilk he\nwas strickin to the grund and dieit haistilie thereof, quhilk grettumlie\ndiscuragit all his nobill gentlemen and freindis that war stand aboot\nhim.\" Near at hand on the farther bank of Tweed stands, or until lately\nstood, an old thorn tree which is said to mark the spot where the King\nfell.\n\nThe ancient Roxburgh has utterly disappeared;\n\n               \"Fallen are thy lowers, and where the palace stood\n\n               In gloomy grandeur waves yon hanging wood;\n\n               Crushed are thy halls, save where the peasant sees\n\n               One moss-clad ruin rise between the trees.\"\n\nBut there lingers yet one relic of the days when her Markets and Trysts\nwere famed throughout the country. St. James's Fair, which w-as held\nat Roxburgh as long ago as the days of King David I, is still kept each\nAugust in the pleasant haugh by the ruins of the castle, between Teviot\nand Tweed. There, on a little eminence, the Town Clerk of Jedburgh each\nyear reads this Proclamation: \"OYEZ, OYEZ, OYEZ.\" {082}Whereas the Fair\nof St. James is to be held this ----th day of August 19----, and is to\ncontinue for the space of eight days from and after this proclamation.\nTherefore, in name and authority of Our Sovereign King George V, by the\nGrace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, King,\nDefender of the Faith, and in name and authority of the Honourable the\nProvost and Bailies of the Royal Borough of Jedburgh, and in name and\nauthority of a High and Potent Prince the Duke of Roxburgh, and his\nBailie of Kelso, I make due and lawful proclamation that no person or\npersons shall presume to trouble or molest the present Fair, or offer\nany injury one to another, or break the King's peace,--Prohibiting all\nold Feuds and new Feuds, or the doing of anything to disquiet the said\nFair, under the highest pains of law. As also--that no person or persons\nmake any private bargains prejudicial to the customs and Proprietors\nof said Fair,--Certifying those who contravene any part of said customs\nthat they will be prosecuted and fined according to law. \"GOD SAVE THE\nKING.\"\n\nIn these degenerate days, the Fair lasts but one day in place of eight,\nand Feuds, new or old, are unknown. But not so very long ago the rivalry\nat this Fair of the neighbouring towns of Kelso and Jedburgh was very\nbitter. Roxburgh had ceased to be, indeed, but the Fair survived, and it\nchanced that the Provost and Bailies of Jedburgh--like Roxburgh, a Royal\nburgh,--having under some old charter acquired a right to \"proclaim\"\nthe Fair and collect the market dues, duly came in state each August in\norder to exercise this privilege at the ancient stance. Now, Kelso\nin the course of time became a larger and more important town than\nJedburgh; it is, moreover, in close proximity to the ground on which the\nFair is held, whereas Jedburgh was no better than a foreign land, miles\nremoved--ten, at least,--from Roxburgh. Hence Kelso resented what it\nconsidered to be an outrage on the part of her officious neighbour. What\nwas Jedburgh that she should oust them from those market tolls and dues!\nA beggarly interloper, no less! The outcome of such a frame of mind was\ngenerally what might be expected amongst men whose forebears for many\n{083}hundreds of years had been fierce fighters. As the procession of\nJedburgh magistrates, all in their robes and escorted by a compact\nbody of townsmen, advanced towards the place of proclamation, taunts of\n\"Pride and Poverty!\"--\"Pride and Poverty!\" were hurled at their ears\nby the irritated men of Kelso. \"Doo Tairts an' Herrin' Pies!\" fiercely\nretorted Jedburgh's inhabitants. It is difficult now-a-days to see where\ncame in the sting of the original taunt, or the appositeness of the\n\"Countercheck Quarrelsome.\" But in those old days they were amply\nsufficient. Some man, more hasty, or less sober, than his neighbour\nwould follow up the taunt by a push or a blow, and St. James's Fair\nwas speedily as lively a spot as now could be any Fair even in Ireland.\nKelso and Jedburgh were \"busy at each other\"; and sometimes one\nprevailed, sometimes the other. An attempt that Kelso once made to hold\nthe Fair on its own side of the river was utterly defeated; Jedburgh\nmarched across the bridge and made things so warm that the experiment of\nshifting the venue of St. James's Fair has never been repeated.\n\nNo doubt, when Roxburgh ceased to be a Royal Burgh, its rights naturally\ndevolved on Jedburgh, the only other Royal Burgh in the country. But\nJedburgh tradition tells of a time when the English, taking advantage of\nheavy floods which prevented Kelso men from crossing the river, raided\nthe Fair and carried off rich plunder. Then Jedburgh, coming to the\nrescue, smote the English and recaptured the booty, and for their\ngallant conduct were awarded those privileges which they still exercise.\n\nThe Kelso taunt of \"Pride and Poverty\" may possibly have originated from\na custom to which the economical burgesses of Jedburgh seem to have been\naddicted. In a letter written in 1790, Sir Walter Scott mentions that\nwhen he himself visited the Fair in that year, he found that, there\nnot being in possession of the men of Jedburgh enough riding boots to\naccommodate all the riders in the procession, the magistrates had ruled\nthat only the outside men of each rank should wear boots, or, rather\n{084}each a boot on his _outer_ leg. Thus, as the men rode in threes,\none pair of boots would be sufficient to maintain the dignity of each\nrank,--a device worthy of Caleb Balderstone himself. It is easy enough\nto assign an origin to \"Pride and Poverty,\" but the local custom which\ngave occasion for the bitter taunt of \"Doo tairts and Herrin' Pies\" is\nbaffling. There are many such taunts in the Border, hurled by town at\nrival town. \"Selkirk craws,\" is the reproach flung at that burgh by its\nneighbour, Galashiels; and\n\n               \"Galashiels Herons, lockit in a box,\n\n               Daurna show their faces, for Selkirk gamecocks,\"\n\nis, or was, the jibe that stung Gala lads to fury.\n\nBefore quitting the subject of Roxburgh, it may be of interest to\nmention that in the churchyard of the present village of that name there\nis a gravestone to the memory of the original of Edie Ochiltree, the\nbluegown of Sir Walter's _Antiquary_. Andrew Gemmels was his name. He\ndied in 1793 at Roxburgh Newtown, a farm on the banks of Tweed a few mi\nes from Roxburgh, at the great age of one hundred and six.\n\nThe first tributary received by Teviot on the right bank is the Kale\nWater, running through the parish of Linton, which was in King David's\ntime an appanage of Kelso Abbey. The church has been restored, but the\nwalls are, like those of Kelso, Norman work, and in the porch is an\nenigmatic piece of sculptors' work; apparently somebody is fighting a\ndragon--Sir Herbert Maxwell suggests St. George, but St. Michael was\nthe more orthodox dragon slayer. About the object grew an aetiological\nmyth; a Somerville of old times\n\n                   \"Slew the Worm of Worrnes glen\n\n                   And wan all Lintoun parochine.\"\n\nThe dragon-slaying story is found in most parts of the world, from Troy\nto Dairy in the Glenkens. Here the Worm twisted himself round the Mote,\nor tumulus (apparently the basis of an old fort), and was killed by the\nlocal blacksmith. {085}In 1522-1533, Linton tower was among the scores\nof such Border Keeps which the English destroyed. They could hold\ntheir own against a Border raid; not in face of a regular English army.\nRoxburghshire was not so deeply tainted by Covenanting principles as\nGalloway, Lanarkshire, and the south-west, Ayrshire and Renfrewshire.\nCovenanters needed wild hills and wild wastes. They are said to have\nheld coil venticles in a deep glen of Kale; but, as a rule, they knew\nenough to preach in places of wide outlook, where they could detect the\napproach of parties of dragoons. In the bed of a burn they would be at\ngreat disadvantage.\n\nA tower more interesting than that of Linton, namely Ormistoun, fell\nwhen Linton fell; but it must have been rebuilt, for here, in Mary\nStuart's day, dwelt the Black Laird of Ormistoun, James, with Hob, his\nbrother, two of Bothwell's most cruel and desperate \"Lambs.\" The Black\nLaird was with Bothwell, Hay of Talla (on upper Tweed), and one of\nBothwell's own clan, Hepburn of Bowton, when they placed the powder\nunder Darnley's chamber in Kirk o'-Field (February 9-10, 1567), and so,\nin the feeling words of Bothwell, \"sent him fleeing through the air.\"\nAfter doing another deed as treacherous as this murder, the Black Laird\nwas taken, tried, and hanged in 1573. Bothwell was Warden of the Border,\nwhich he ruled from Hermitage Castle on the Liddel water, and all these\nloose Border lairds rode and slew at his bidding. They had probably, in\nthat twilight of faith, no religion in particular; Catholicism lingered\nin the shape of oaths, Calvinism was not yet well settled in these\nregions. But, probably in prison, the Black Laird \"got religion.\" He\nprofessed to be of the Elect, and confident of his salvation, while he\ndrew a dark enough picture of life among lairds of his quality. On the\nday of his hanging he said, \"With God I hope this night to sup....\nOf all men on the earth I have been one of the proudest and most\nhigh-minded, and most filthy of my body. But specially, I have shed\ninnocent blood {086}of one Michael Hunter with my own hands. Alas,\ntherefore, because the said Michael, having me lying on my back, having\na pitchfork in his hand, might have slain me if he pleased, but did it\nnot, which of all things grieves me most in conscience. Within these\nseven years I never saw two good men, nor one good deed, but all kinds\nof wickedness.\"\n\nThis wretch, once on his feet, must have butchered some poor hind\nwho had spared him. In reading Pitcairn's _Criminal Trials_, and the\nRegister of Privy Council for the period of the Reformation, we find\nprivate war, murder, and rapine to have been almost weekly occurrences,\nfrom the Upper Tweed to the Esk. The new Gospel Light made the darkness\nvisible, and we see robberies and vendettas among the dwellers in the\npeel towers, of which the empty shells stand beside every burn in the\npleasant lands then clouded with smoke from blazing barn and tower and\ncottage. The later Ormistouns had \"particularly deadly feud\" with the\nKers of Cessford; the Kers annexed their lands, and the last Ormistoun\nwas a public hangman; the ancestral Orm was a flourishing and pious\ngentleman of the twelfth century, a benefactor of the early monks of\nMelrose. Meanwhile, the castle of Cessford, the ancestral hold of that\nline, is not far from a place called Morbattle in the Black Laird's day,\nand now, more pleasantly, Morebattle. The name has no connection either\nwith festivity or feud, and \"More\" is not the Celtic _mor_, \"great.\"\n\"More\" is \"mere,\" a lake, and \"botl\" is Anglo-Saxon, \"a dwelling.\"\nCessford Castle had the name to be only second to Bothwell's castle of\nDunbar, and Logan of Restalrig's eyrie on a jutting rock above the sea,\nFastcastle. In the great English raid of 1523, \"Dand Ker,\" Sir Andrew,\nthe head of the clan, rather feebly surrendered the place, which was\nsecure in walls fourteen feet thick.\n\nAn interesting find was made at Cessford in 1858. Whilst excavating, a\nfew yards from the north wall of the castle, a workman unearthed a very\nfine old sword, and a dagger, both in fair preservation. The dagger\nmeasured about twenty-six inches, and bore on its blade the Scottish\nThistle, surmounted by a crown. The sword was basket hilted, richly\ncarved and embossed in silver. It measured forty inches in length; on\none side of the blade was the Scottish Crown; on the other, the date\n1511.\n\nIt was a Ker of Cessford, tradition tells, who in 1622 tried to carry\noff the goods and gear of Hobbie Hall of Haughhead, father of the famous\nCovenanter, Henry Hall. Hobbie, apparently, was quite able to take care\nof himself, as is testified by a large stone which stands on a knoll\namid trees, near Kale water, on which is carved:\n\n               Here Hoby Hall boldly maintained his right\n\n               'Gainst reef plain force armed w. lawless might\n\n               For twenty pleughs harnessed in all their gear\n\n               Could not this valiant noble heart make fear\n\n               But w. his sword he cut the formost soam\n\n               In two: hence drove both pleughs and pleughmen home.\"\n\n                        1622.\n\nThe stone was repaired and restored in 1854 by Lady John Scott.\n\nHigher up than Kale comes Oxnam (locally, Ousenam) Water, which joins\nTeviot hard by Crailing. Once a nice trout stream, there is not left at\nthis day much to tempt the angler whose dreams are of giant fish, though\ndoubtless many a \"basket\" can be caught of fingerlings. In none of the\nBorder streams, unhappily, is any restriction made as regards the size\nof the fish that may be taken. Everything goes into the creel of the\nfisher with worm in \"drummly\" waters, and of the holiday sportsman;\nmoved by no compunctions, trammelled by no absurd qualms,--to them a\nfish is a fish; and as the latter, at least, probably never even sees\na big trout, he attaches vast importance to the capture of a \"Triton of\nthe minnows.\" The writer, who had one day fished a Border river with all\nthe little skill at his command, and had succeeded neither with dry fly\nnor with wet in capturing anything worthy to be kept, once came upon\na sportsman of this holiday breed, rigged out with all the latest\nappliances which should inevitably lure the wiliest of trout from\nhis native element. He \"had had a splendid day,\" he said, in reply to\nenquiries. \"What had he got them with? Oh-h, Fly.\" but what fly, he\nwould not say. It was just \"fly.\"\n\n\"Might he see the basket?\" the baffled enquirer asked Proudly the lid\nwas thrown back, and the contents displayed--a basket half filled with\nparr, and with trout, not one of which could have been six inches in\nlength. Thus are the streams depleted.\n\nIt is a pleasant valley, that of the Oxnam. Across it runs the old\nRoman Road,--in days not very remote a favourite camping place of\ngipsies,--and up the valley to the south lies that noble sweep of blue\nhills, the Cheviots, smiling and friendly enough in summer, but dour and\nforbidding when the north east blast of winter strikes their blurred and\ngloomy faces.\n\nDid those \"muggers\" and \"tinklers,\" who of old frequented the Roman\nRoad that runs south over Teviot and Jed and Oxnam, and away over the\nCheviots down into Rede valley past Bremenium (High Rochester), did they\never come upon buried treasure or hoarded coins, one wonders. It is not\nmany years since a well-known Professor, as he sat resting one day by\nthe side of the old Road a little farther south than Oxnam valley,\nidly pushed his walking stick into a rabbit hole close to where he was\nseated. A few scrapes with the point of the stick, and something chinked\nand fell; then another, and another. But this buried treasure consisted\nonly of copper coins, a vast number, none very rare; and no farther\nsearch revealed anything of value. Yet there must be plenty along\nthat route, if one could but chance upon the proper spots. And surely,\nwherever there befell one of those countless fights or skirmishes that\nwere for ever taking place in these Border hills, both in the days of\nthe Romans and since, there must lie buried weapons. At Bloodylaws,\nup Oxnam, for instance. The {89}name is suggestive; but what occurred\nthere, one cannot say--though there is the vague tradition of a mighty\nbattle that left Oxnam for three days running red with blood. The\ncountry people, if you enquire from them the name of that hill,\npronounce it with bated breath;--\"Bluidylaws,\" they say in lowered\nvoice. But I doubt that their tone is less the effect of old unhappy\ntradition telling how some great slaughter took place here, than the\nfact that \"bluidy\" is a word banned by the polite. This \"three days red\nwith blood,\" too, is an expression curiously common in the account given\nby country folk of any battle of which they may have local tradition.\nYou will rind it used in connection with at least half a dozen other\nplaces in the Border-land besides Bloodylaws; and in the ballad of \"The\nLads of Wamphray\" there occurs the line: \"When the Biddes-burn ran three\ndays blood.\" Wamphray is in Annandale, and the fight alluded to was\nbetween the Johnstons and the Crichtons in 1593. But the affair was a\nmere skirmish; \"three days blood\" is but a figure of speech in this and\nprobably in most other instances. Still, on a spur of Bloodylaws there\nexists a well-defined circular camp, and there may be foundation for the\nlocal tradition of some grim slaughter.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV JEDBURGH, AND THE JED\n\n|Two{090} or three miles up Teviot from the junction of Oxnam Water,\nwe come to Jed, a beautiful stream, on whose banks dreams the pleasant\ncounty town where, close on ninety years ago, they cried that cry of\nwhich they do not now like to think--\"Burke Sir Walter!\"\n\nIn all the Border there stands no place more picturesquely situated than\nJedburgh, nor in historical interest can any surpass it. And though its\nancient castle, and the six strong towers that once defended the town,\nhave long since vanished, there remain still the noble ruins of its\nmagnificent abbey, and other relics of the past, less noticeable but\nhardly less interesting; whilst the surrounding countryside brims over\nwith the beauty of river, wood, and hill.\n\nHistory gives no very definite information as to the date at which first\ntook place the building of a castle at Jedburgh, but it appears certain\nthat as early as the year 950 a.d. there existed in these parts some\ngreat stronghold, if, at least, \"Judan-byrig\"--where, when he had\nsuppressed an insurrection in Northumbria, King Edred of England\nconfined the rebel Archbishop of York--may be identified with\n\"Jedburgh.\" Probably, however, there was in this neighbourhood a castle\nof sorts long prior to the date above mentioned, for both \"Gedde-wrdes,\"\nor \"Jedworths,\" the old and the new, were known {091}settlements before\nthe expiry of the earlier half of the ninth century, and in those\nturbulent days no community was rash enough to plant itself in hamlet\nor town except under the protecting shield of castle or strong place of\narms.\n\n[Illustration: 0111]\n\nIn any case, before the end of the eleventh century, there certainly\nexisted at Jedburgh a castle of formidable strength, which at frequent\nintervals continued to be used by the Scottish kings as a royal\nresidence. Here, in 1165, died Malcolm the Maiden. From Jedvvorth was\nissued many a Charter by Malcolm's predecessor, David I, by William the\nLion, by Alexander II. Here, too, the queen of Alexander III bore him\na son in the year 1264; and here at a masque held after Alexander's\nsecond marriage in 1285, appeared and vanished the grizzly skeleton that\ndanced a moment before the king, threading its ghastly way through the\nranks of dismayed guests; frightened women shrank screaming from its\npath, men brave to face known dangers yet fell back from this horror,\nhurriedly crossing themselves. An evil omen, they said, a presage\nof misfortune or of death to the highest in the land. And surely the\nportent was borne out, for less than six months saw Scotland mourning\nthe violent death of her King.\n\nLike its not distant neighbour, the more famed castle of Roxburgh,\nJedburgh castle as time went on became a stronghold continually changing\nhands; to-day garrisoned by Scots, to-morrow held by English, taken and\nretaken again and again, too strong and of importance too great to be\nanything but a continuous bone of contention between the two nations,\nyet more often, and for longer periods, in English than in Scottish\nkeeping. When in the summer of the year 1316, King Robert the Bruce\nwent to Ireland, Sir James Douglas was one of the wardens left by him\nin charge of the Scottish Kingdom. Jedburgh Castle, probably with\na garrison far from strong, was then in English keeping. Douglas\nestablished himself at Lintalee, little more than a mile up the river\nfrom Jedburgh, where, by throwing across the neck of a promontory\nbetween the river and a precipitous glen, fortifications which even now\nare not quite destroyed, he converted a post of great natural strength\ninto a position almost unassailable. Here, or in the immediate\nneighbourhood, in 1317 he inflicted two severe defeats on separate\nbodies of English troops, detachments from a larger army under the\nEarl of Arundel. As the outcome of these victories, Jedburgh Castle was\nprobably regained by the Scots, for the English monks in Jedburgh Abbey\nwere expelled by their Scottish brethren in February, 1318, a step they\nwould scarcely have dared to attempt had an English garrison still been\nin the castle. In 1320 town and castle were bestowed by the Bruce on\nSir James Douglas, and five years later the grant was confirmed, with\nfurther additions of land. But in 1334 Edward Baliol, who two years\nearlier had assumed the Crown of Scotland, handed over to King Edward\nIII, to remain for ever in the possession of England, amongst other\nplaces, the town, castle, and forest of Jedworth. These Edward now\nbestowed on Henry Percy, thus providing ground for a very pretty quarrel\nbetween the Douglases and {093}Percies. From now onward, practically for\nseventy-five years, Jedburgh Castle remained in English hands.\n\nUltimately, its fate was as that of a land wilfully devastated by its\nown people to hamper the march of an invading army. If the Scots could\nnot permanently hold it, neither, they resolved, should it any more\nharbour those vermin of England. Accordingly, when in 1409 the men of\nTeviotdale, fierce progenitors of the more modern reiving Border Elliots\nand Scotts, wiping out the English garrison, retook the castle, they at\nonce set about its final destruction. Burnt, so far as it would burn,\ncast down bit by bit to its very foundations, with strenuous toil riven\nasunder stone from stone, ere their work was ended little part of its\nmassive walls remained to speak of former glories. Walter Bower, Abbot\nof Inchcolm, who was a young man at the time of its destruction writes\nin the \"Scotichronicon\" that: \"Because the masonry was exceedingly\nholding and solid, not without great toil was it broken down and\ndemolished.\"\n\nPerched above the town on a commanding eminence that on one side\nsloped steeply to the river, and on the other to a deep glen or ravine,\ndefended also, doubtless, on the side farthest from the burgh by a deep\nfosse, the castle must once have been of great strength--how strong as\nregards position may best be judged from the bird's-eye view of it to\nbe gained if one climbs at the back of Jedburgh the exceedingly steep\ndirect road that runs to Lariton village. From this point, too, one sees\nto advantage the venerable Abbey nestling among the surrounding houses,\nand can best appreciate the wisdom of the old monks, who chose for their\nabode a site so pleasant. A valley smiling in the mellow sunshine; a\nplace to which one may drop down from the heights above where bellows\nand raves a north westerly gale, to find peace and quiet, undisturbed\nby any blustering wind; a valley rich in the fruits of the earth, and\nwandering through it a trout stream more beautiful than almost any of\nthe many beautiful Border \"Waters,\" a stream {094}that once was, and now\nshould be, full of lusty yellow trout rising under the leafy elms in the\nlong, warm, summer evenings. An ideal water for trout in Jed, and many\na pretty dish must those old monks have taken from it, by fair means or\nfoul; pity that woollen-mills below, and netting, and the indiscriminate\nslaughter of fingerlings, above the town, should have so greatly damaged\nit as a sporting stream.\n\nPossibly upper Jed is not now quite so bad as it was a few years ago,\nbut what of the lower part of that beautiful river? The same may be said\nof it that may be said of Teviot immediately below Hawick, or of Gala,\nand, alas! of Tweed, below Galashiels. The waters are poisoned by dyes\nand by sewage, rendered foul by sewage fungus, reeking with all manner\nof uncleanness, an offence to nostril and to eye. Five and thirty years\nago Ruskin wrote: \"After seeing the stream of the Teviot as black as\nink, a putrid carcase of a sheep lying in the dry channel of the Jed,\nunder Jedburgh Abbey, the entire strength of the summer stream being\ntaken away to supply a single mill, I know finally what value the\nBritish mind sets on the beauties of nature.\" What, indeed, are the\n'beauties of nature' that they should interfere with the glories of\ncommerce! Truly we are a Commercial Nation. Here is the condition of\nthings that Ruskin found in the Borderland in the mid-seventies of last\ncentury, as described by him in a lecture delivered at Oxford in 1877.\n\n\"Two years ago,\" he said, \"I went, for the first time since early\nyouth to see Scott's country by the shores of Yarrow, Teviot, and Gala\nWaters.\" Then to his hearers he read aloud from \"Marmion\" that picture\nof the Border country which is familiar to everyone:\n\n                   \" Oft in my mind surh thoughts awake,\n\n                   By lone St. Mary's silent lake;\n\n                   Thou know'st it well,--nor fen, nor sedge,\n\n                   Pollute the clear lake's crystal edge;\n\n                   Abrupt and sheer, the mountains sink\n\n                   At once upon the level brink; {095}\n\n                   And just a trace of silver sand\n\n                   Marks where the water meets the land.\n\n                   Far in the mirror, bright and blue,\n\n                   Each hill's huge outline you may view;\n\n                   Shaggy with heath, but lonely bare,\n\n                   Nor tree, nor bush, nor brake is there,\n\n                   Save where, of land, yon slender line\n\n                   Bears thwart the lake the scatter'd pine.\n\n                   Yet even this nakedness has power,\n\n                   And aids the feeling of the hour:\n\n                   Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy,\n\n                   Where living thing conceal'd might lie;\n\n                   Nor point, retiring, hides a dell,\n\n                   Where swain, or woodman lone, might dwell;\n\n                   There's nothing left to fancy's guess,\n\n                   You see that all is loneliness:\n\n                   And silence aids--though the steep hills\n\n                   Send to the lake a thousand rills;\n\n                   In summer tide, so soft they weep,\n\n                   The sound but lulls the ear asleep;\n\n                   Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too rude,\n\n                   So stilly is the solitude.\n\n                   Nought living meets the eye or ear,\n\n                   But well I ween the dead are near;\n\n                   For though, in feudal strife, a foe\n\n                   Hath laid Our Lady's chapel low,\n\n                   Yet still, beneath the hallow'd soil,\n\n                   The peasant rests him from his toil,\n\n                   And, dying, bids his bones be laid,\n\n                   Where erst his simple fathers pray'd.\"\n\n\"What I saw myself, in that fair country,\" continued Ruskin, \"of which\nthe sight remains with me, I will next tell you. I saw the Teviot\noozing, not flowing, between its wooded banks, a mere sluggish\ninjection, among the poisonous pools of scum-covered ink. And in front\nof Jedburgh Abbey, where the foaming river used to dash round the sweet\nruins as if the rod of Moses had freshly cleft the rock for it, bare\nand foul nakedness of its bed, the whole stream carried to work in\nthe mills, the dry stones and crags of it festering unseemly in the\n{096}evening sun, and the carcase of a sheep, brought down in the last\nflood, lying there in the midst of the children at their play, literal\nand ghastly symbol, in the sweetest pastoral country in the world, of\nthe lost sheep of the house of Israel.\"\n\nThat is how these once fair scenes struck the outraged eye of one who\nwas a sincere lover of our beautiful Border land. What might he say of\nthese rivers now that five and thirty years have passed? Compared to\nTeviot, ink is a fluid that may claim to be _splendidior vitro_, and Jed\nbelow the town is in little better case.\n\nHowever, to return to Jedburgh. Of the old castle no trace now remains;\nbut early in the nineteenth century a small portion of one wall yet\nstood, some outline of foundations yet met the eye. Probably the fosse\nwas filled up when the buildings were razed--it was a convenient place\nto shoot rubbish; indeed, when about 1820 the site was being cut down\npreparatory to the erection of a new \"castle\" (until recent years used\nas a County Prison), charred oaken beams and blackened stones were\nunearthed, relics certainly of the ancient building. A few coins have\nalso been found, and at various dates an iron lock, a key of curious\ndesign, a rusty dagger, arrowheads, and portions of a gold chain.\n\nJedburgh, deprived of her castle, was yet a strong place; but if her\ntownsmen and the fierce men of Teviotdale imagined that by harrying and\ndestroying the nest that so long had sheltered them, the English birds\nof prey would be permanently-scattered down the wind, they made a vast\nmistake. No more than a year had passed ere the English returned under\nSir Robert Umphraville and burned the town about their ears; and in 1416\nthe same commander repeated the performance of six years earlier.\nAgain and again as the years rolled on were fire and sword the fate\nof Jedworth. The town, with its flanking towers, was strong, strong in\nnatural position, and, owing to the manner of building of its houses,\ndifficult of access except by one or other of its four ports; but it\nhad no walls or {097}defending fosse, and however brave its men, however\nskilled in the use of arms, their numbers were generally too meagre to\ncope with the formidable bands the English could bring against\nthem. Time and again the place was sacked, and on each occasion her\nmagnificent Abbey suffered grievously at the hands of the stormers.\n\nFounded about the year 1118, the ancient Abbey occupies the site of a\nbuilding more ancient still by probably two or three hundred years, a\nchurch built in the ninth century by Ecgred, Bishop of Lindisfarne,\nwho died A.D. 845. Osbert was the first Abbot of Jedburgh (1152-1174);\nprevious to his day the establishment ranked merely as a Priory. In the\ntroublous times between 1297 and 1300, the Abbey suffered much. Sacked\nand partially destroyed, the lead stripped from its roof, the conventual\nbuildings to such an extent gutted that the brethren, fleeing, were\nforced to seek refuge for a time in Abbeys and Monasteries south of\nthe Border, it can have been but the massiveness of its walls that then\npreserved it from total destruction.\n\nBut compared to the treatment later meted out to Abbey and town by the\nEarl of Surrey, all former chastenings were as a comparatively mild\nscourging with whips; Surrey chastised with scorpions. In this matter,\nhis little finger was thicker than the loins of those who had preceded\nhim. In 1523, an English force--compared to the meagre number of\ndefenders, a vast army--marched on the town. All that human power\ncould do in defence of hearth and home was done that day by the men of\nJedworth. When, since history began, has it ever been recorded of them\nthat they shrank from battle?\n\n                   \"And how can man die better\n\n                   Than facing fearful odds,\"\n\nsummed up their creed, then and ever. There were of them, now, but two\nthousand at the most, opposed to an army many times their number one man\nas against four, or perhaps even {095}as one to five. Yet so stubborn\nwas their resistance, so fiercely they fought, that at the last it was\nonly by the aid of fire that this wasps' nest was laid waste. Driven\nback at length by superior numbers, forced to retire to the towers and\nto the Abbey, the attack could be pushed home no farther till Surrey\ngave orders to set fire to the town. Even then, Jedworth held out\ntill far in the night, when the entire place was little more than a\nsmouldering heap of embers. \"I assure your Grace,\" wrote the Earl to his\nKing, \"I fownd the Scottis at this tyme the boldest men and the hottest\nthat ever I sawe any nation, and all the journey upon all parts of\nthe armye kepte us with soo contynual skyrmish that I never sawe the\nlike.\"... \"Could 40,000 such men be assembled,\" he says in the same\nletter, \"it would bee a dreadful enterprise to withstand them.\" If\nvalour alone could have won the day, to the men of Jedburgh had now been\nthe victory. They fought like fiends incarnate. The Devil himself, in\ntruth, must have been amongst them, for, says Surrey farther: \"I dare\nnot write the wonders that my Lord Dacre and all hys company doo\nsaye they sawe that nyght six tyms of sperits and fereful syghts. And\nuniversally all their company saye playnly the devyl was that nyght\namong theym six tyms.\"\n\nThus was Jedburgh wiped out, \"soo surely brent that no garnysons nor\nnone others shal bee lodged there unto the tyme it bee newe buylded.\"\nAnd to rebuild equal to what it had been, would surely be no light\nundertaking, for, says Surrey, \"the towne was much better than I went\n(weened) it had been, for there was twoo tymys moo houses therein than\nin Berwicke, and well buylded, with many honest and faire houses therein\nsufficiente to have lodged a thousand horsemen in garnyson, and six good\ntowres therein, which towne and towres be clenely destroyed, brent, and\nthrowen downe.\" The slaughter of Jedworth's defenders no doubt must also\nhave been great. But that the inhabitants were not indiscriminately put\nto the sword is evidenced by the fact that some time during {099}the\nnight, wlien Lord Dacre's picketed horses--terrified no doubt by the\nsame Scottish devil that had troubled the hearts of the storniers in the\ntown--suddenly stampeding, galloped wildly through Surrey's camp, over\ntwo hundred of them, bursting in amongst the still burning houses, were\ncaught and carried off by the Scottish women who still clung to the\nplace--\"keening,\" probably, over their devastated hearths. In all,\nbefore this stampede ended, Surrey lost upwards of eight hundred horses;\nfor when the maddened beasts came thundering through his camp, the\nEnglish soldiers, imagining that they were being attacked by a fresh\narmy of Scots, loosed off into the mob flights of arrows, and fired\ninto the terrified animals with musketry. It is scarcely the method\nbest suited to calm a maddened mob of horses; little wonder that many in\ntheir helpless terror plunged over the great \"scaurs,\" or cliffs, that\nnear the town overhang Jedwater, and were dashed to pieces.\n\nIn his letter of 27th September, to Henry VIII, Surrey thus describes\nthe incident: \"And he [Lord Dacre] being with me at souper, about viij\na clok, the horses of his company brak lowse, and sodenly ran out of his\nfeld, in such nombre, that it caused a marvellous alarome in our field;\nand our standing watche being set, the horses cam ronnyng along the\ncampe, at whome were shot above one hundred shief of arrowes, and dyvers\ngonnys, thinking they had been Scotes that wold have saulted the camp;\nfynally, the horses w'ere so madde that they ran like wilde dere into\nthe feld, above xv c at the leest, in dyvers companys; and in one place\nabove felle downe a gret rok, and slew theymself, and above it ran\ninto the towne being on fire, and by the women taken, and carried awaye\nright evill brent, and many were taken agayne. But, fynally, by that\nI can esteme by the nombre of theym that I sawe goe on foote the next\ndaye, I think there is lost above viij c horses, and all with foly\nfor lak of not lying within the campe.\" {100}So, for a time, Jedburgh\nperished. But the recuperative power of settlements in those days was\ngreat--like the eels, they were used to the process of skinning--and\nin no long time a rejuvenated township sprang from the ashes of the\nold burgh. When Surrey gave orders that the towers should be \"throwen\ndowne,\" possibly his commands were not obeyed to the letter. In a\ndistrict where a plentiful supply of stone is not lack ing, doubtless\nthese defending towers would be massive buildings constructed of\nthat material, run together--as was the custom in those days--with a\nsemi-liquid mortar, or kind of cement, which, when it hardened, bound\nthe entire mass into a solid block that clung stone to stone with\nextraordinary tenacity. Probably the towers may not have been so\n\"clenely destroyed\" as he supposed them to be. In any case, in twenty\nyears' time the place was again formidable, its men as prone as had been\ntheir fathers to shout the old battle-cry of \"Jethart's here,\" and fly\nat the throat of their hereditary foe.\n\nNor was the hereditary foe in any way reluctant to afford them\nopportunity. In 1544 Lord Evers stormed and captured the town; and again\nthe roar and crackle of flaming houses smote on the ears of Jedburgh's\nwomen. According to an Englishman's account of \"The late Expedition\nin Scotland made by the King's Highness' Army under the Conduct of the\nRight Honourable the Earl of Hertford, the year of owr Lord God 1544,\"\nan account \"Sent to the Right Honourable Lord Russell, Lord Privy Seal;\nfrom the King's Army there, by a Friend of his,\" the men of Jedburgh\non this occasion did not behave with their wonted valour. But if this\nwriter is to be trusted, nowhere during Hertford's entire campaign of\n1544 did the Scots make a stand. It was a sort of triumphal English\nprogress; everywhere the Scots fled almost without striking a blow,\neverywhere they were cut down. Only occasionally, and almost as it were\nby accident, was an Englishman hurt, whilst the slaughter among the\nScots was prodigious. They \"used for their defence their light feet,\nand fled in so much haste that divers {101}English horses were tired in\ntheir pursuit: but overtaken there was a great number, whereof many were\nslain, partly by the fierceness of the Englishmen, partly by the guilty\ncowardice of the Scots.... And yet in this skirmish, not one Englishman\ntaken, neither slain: thanks be to God.\" Everywhere it is the\nsame story--a pleasant picnic for Hertford and his men; death and\ndestruction, and panic flight for the Scots. Men, women, and children,\nit was all the same apparently in that campaign, if one may judge by\nincidents such as this at Dunbar: \"And by reason that we took them\nin the mornynge, who, having wautched all nyghte for our comynge and\nperceyvynge our Army to dislodge and depart, thoughte themselves safe of\nus, were newly gone to their beds; and in theyr fyrste slepes closed\nin with fyre, men, women, and children were suffocated and burnt.... In\nthese victories,\" comments this pious and humane scribe, \"who is to\nbee moste highest lauded but God?\" But war is a rough game, and such\nhappenings were the natural outcome at that time of Henry's orders anent\nthe giving of quarter, and to the \"putting man, woman and child to fire\nand sword, without exception, when any resistance shall be made against\nyou.\"\n\nHere, at Jedburgh, \"upon the approachment of the men to their entries,\nthe Scots fled from their ordnance, leaving them unshot, into the woods\nthereabout, with all other people in the same town.\" Thereafter, having\ncaught and slain something over one hundred and sixty Scots, with \"the\nloss of six English men only,\" Abbey, and Grey Friars, the town, and\n\"divers hostel and fortified houses\" were sacked and given to the\nflames, \"the goods of the same toune being first spoyled, which laded,\nat their departing, five hundred horses.\" Again, in his notice of the\ncapture of Skraysburgh, \"the greatest towne in all Teviotdale,\" we are\ntold that \"it is a marvellous truth.... not one Englishman was either\nhurt or wounded.\" A craven band, those Scots, it would appear, fallen\nstrangely from the level at which Surrey had found them so few years\nbefore--{102} \"the boldest men and the hottest that ever I sawe\nany nation\"; far sunk, too, beneath the level of their immediate\ndescendants, the men who turned the day in the fight of the Redeswire in\n1575. And yet one remembers to have heard of a certain fight about this\nperiod, in the near neighbourhood of Jedburgh, at a place called\nAncrum Moor, when Angus, Arran, and Scott of Buccleuch, with a force\nnumerically very inferior, turned the tables on the \"auld enemy\" to a\nlusty tune. It may all be quite accurate, of course, this story told to\nLord Russell, but it smacks somewhat of a tale told by one who himself\nwas not a very bold fighting man. The warrior whose place is ever the\nforefront of the battle is not the man who belittles his enemies, nor is\nhe usually one who regards with complacency the sufferings of helpless\nwomen and children. Accurate, or not, however, Hertford seems to have\nhad a partiality for harrying this district and slaying its hapless\npeople, for he returned the following year with a larger following--a\nmongrel gang, in which Turks and Russians were almost the only European\nnations unrepresented--and completed his work of destruction so far as\nit lay in his power. He could not utterly destroy the glorious Abbey,\nbut the Brethren were scattered, never to return, and so far as it could\nbe done, the building that for four hundred years had sheltered them was\nwrecked. Mute now the solemn chants that had been wont to echo through\nits dim lit aisles, gone for ever the day of matins and vespers; in\nJedburgh the sway of the Church was over. Black with the smoke of\nsacrilegious fires, stained by the flames that had licked its desecrated\nwalls, still a rudely fitted fragment of the great Abbey for a little\ntime continued to be used by worshippers; for the rest, the building\nwould appear to have been regarded chiefly as an excellent and useful\noutlook or watch tower.\n\nIt was the followers of the Reformed Faith that next held public worship\nthere. Did no one of the old-time Abbots who lie asleep within its\nancient walls turn in his grave, one wonders, {103}when in 1793 the\nsouth aisle was pulled down, and \"a wall built between the pillars to\nmake the church more comfort able\"?\n\n[Illustration: 0123]\n\nThey had no room in their compositions for any sentiment of reverence,\nlittle use for such a thing as respect for historical buildings, those\neighteenth century Scottish ancestors of ours. Our old foes of England\nat least had the excuse that what they did was done in the heat\nof conflict; it was left to our own people in cold blood to lay\nsacrilegious hands on a glorious relic of the past; like monkeys to\ndeface and tear to pieces something the beauty and value of which they\nhad not wit to recognise. All that could be done, however, to atone\nfor past misdeeds was done in 1875 by the Marquess of Lothian. The\n\"comfortable church\" of 1793 has {104}been removed, and what remains of\nthe Abbey is reverently cared for. Safe now from further desecration,\n\n                   \"The shadows of the convent towers\n\n                   Slant down the snowy sward;\"\n\nand in the peace of long-drawn summer twilights only the distant cries\nof children, the scream of swift or song of thrush, may now set the\nechoes flying through those ruined aisles. The Presbyterian Manse that\nonce stood in the Abbey grounds--itself no doubt, like other houses\nin the town, built wholly or in part of stone quarried from the Abbey\nruins--has long since been removed, and little now remains which\nmay break the tranquil sadness that broods over these relics of past\ngrandeur.\n\nA few hundred yards from the Abbey, down a back street, there stands a\npicturesque old house, robbed now of some of its picturesqueness by the\nsubstitution of tiles for the old thatched roof that once was there. It\nis the house where, in a room in the second story whose window overlooks\na pleasant garden and the once crystal Jed, Mary, Queen of Scots lay\nmany days, sick unto death,--a house surely that should now be owned and\ncared for by the Burgh. Local tradition (for what it may be worth) has\nit that the Queen lodged first in the house which is now the Spread\nEagle Hotel, but that a fire breaking out there, she was hastily removed\nto that which now goes by the name of \"Queen Mary's House.\" It stands in\nwhat must in her day have been a beautiful garden, sloping to the river.\nHoary, moss-grown apple trees still blossom there and bear fruit. \"With\nits screen of dull trees in front,\" says Dr. Robert Chambers, \"the house\nhas a somewhat lugubrious appearance, as if conscious of connection with\nthe most melancholy tale that ever occupied the page of history.\" In\nthose long past days, however, its appearance must have been far from\nlugubrious; and indeed even now, on a pleasant sunny evening of late\nspring when thick-clustered {105}apple and pear blossom drape the\nboughs, and thrushes sing, and Jed ripples musically beneath the worn\narches of that fine\n\n[Illustration: 0125]\n\n{106}old bridge near at hand, (across which they say that the stones for\nbuilding the Abbey were brought these many centuries agone), it is more\nof peace than of melancholy that the place speaks.\n\nYet there is sadness too, when one thinks of the--at least on _this_\noccasion--sorely maligned woman who lay there in grievous suffering in\nthe darkening days of that October of 1566. \"Would that I had died at\nJedworth,\" she sighed in later years. She had been spared much, the\nFates had been less unkind, if death had then been her part. And\nnot least, she might have been spared the malignant slanders of the\nhistorian Buchanan, who, at any rate in this matter, showed himself a\nmaster of the art of suppressing the true and suggesting the false.\n\nWhen, according to Buchanan, news was brought to Mary at Borthwick\nCastle of the wounding of Bothwell by \"a poor thief, that was himself\nready to die,\"--how, one wonders, would the famous \"Little Jock Elliot\"\nhave relished that description of himself?--\"she flingeth away in\nhaste like a mad woman, by great journeys in post, in the sharp time of\nwinter.\" As a matter of fact, when the news of Bothwell's mishap reached\nthe Queen, she was already on her way to Jedburgh, to hold there a\nCircuit Court; and the time, of course, was not winter, but early\nOctober, not unusually one of the pleasantest times of the whole year in\nthe south of Scotland.\n\nArrived at Jedburgh, says Buchanan, \"though she heard sure news of his\nlife, yet her affection, impatient of delay, could not temper herself,\nbut needs she must bewray her outrageous lust, and in an inconvenient\ntime of the year, despising all discommodities of the way and weather,\nand all danger of thieves, she betook herself headlong to her journey,\nwith such a company as no man of any honest degree would have adventured\nhis life and his goods among them.\" Buchanan's estimate of the Queen's\nescort on this occasion is not flattering to the Earl of Moray, (the\n\"Good Regent,\" Mary's half-brother,) the Earl ol Huntly, (Bothwell's\nbrother-in-law,) {107}and Mr. Secretary Lethington, who formed part of\nthat escort. These, one would suppose, were scarcely the men most likely\nto have been selected to accompany her had it been \"outrageous lust\"\nthat prompted her journey. And as to this \"headlong\" dash to the side of\nthe wounded Bothwell, of which Buchanan makes so much, they would call\nnow by an ugly name such statements as his if they chanced to be made\non oath. Buchanan must have known very well that the Queen transacted\nbusiness for a week in Jedburgh before she set out to visit her wounded\nWarden of the Marches,--a visit which, after all, was official, and\nwhich under any circumstances it had been ungracious in her to refrain\nfrom making. There was no justification for speaking of her visit as\n\"headlong,\" there is no warrant for such words as \"hot haste,\" and \"rode\nmadly,\" which have been employed by other writers in speaking of her\njourney. If she made \"hot haste\" there, (at the end of a week devoted to\nbusiness,) she made equally hot haste back again that same day. When one\nhas to ride fifty or sixty miles across trackless hills and boggy moors\nin the course of a day in mid-October, when the sun is above the horizon\nlittle more than ten hours, there is not much time for loitering by the\nway; the minutes are brief in which one may pause to admire the view.\n\nSuppose that she left Jedburgh soon after sunrise, (that is to say, at\nthat time of year in Scotland, a few minutes before 7 o'clock) going,\nas she certainly must have done, across Swinnie Moor into Rule Water,\nthence across Earlside Moor and over the Slitrig some miles above\nHawick, then up and between the hills whose broad backs divide Slitrig\nfrom Allan Water, up by the Priesthaugh Burn and over the summit between\nCauldcleuch Head and Greatmoor Hill, thence by the Braidlee Burn into\nHermitage Water, and so, skirting the Deer Park, on to the Castle,--she\nwould do well, in those days when draining of swamp lands was a thing\nunknown, and the way, therefore, not easy to pick, if she did the\noutward journey in{108} anything under five hours. Hawick local\ntradition claims that the Queen on her way to Hermitage visited that\ntown, and rested for a time in what is now known as the Tower Hotel;\nand, as corroborative evidence, a room in that inn is said to be known\nas \"Queen Mary's Room.\" It may be that she did pay a flying visit to\nHawick, but the chances are against her having made such a detour. It\nwould have considerably added to the length of her journey, and there\ncan have been small time to spare for resting.\n\nIn mid-October the sun sets a few minutes after 5 o'clock. Therefore,\nin returning, the Queen and her escort must have made a reasonably early\nstart; for to find oneself, either on horseback or afoot, among peat\nbogs and broken, swampy ground after dark is a thing not to be courted.\nAs it was, Mary and her horse were bogged in what has ever since been\ncalled the Queen's Mire, where years ago was found a lady's spur of\nancient design--perhaps hers. The day had turned out wet and windy,--it\nis a way that October days have, after fine weather with a touch\nof frost,--and the Queen and her escort were soaked to the skin,\nbedraggled, and splashed to the eyes with black peaty mud from the\nsquelching ground through which their horses had been floundering.\n\nEven in these days, when the Border hills are thoroughly drained,\nyou cannot ride everywhere across them in \"hot haste\" without having\nfrequently to draw rein. What must they have been like in the sixteenth\ncentury, when, in addition to the rough, broken surface, and the steep\nbraes, every hillock was a soaking mossy sponge, every hollow a possibly\ntreacherous bog, when spots such as the \"Queen's Mire\" were on every\nhand, and every burn brimmed over with the clear brown water that the\nheart of the ardent trout fisher now vainly pants after? Going\nand coming, between Jedburgh and Hermitage, a party in Mary's day,\ntravelling as she travelled, could not well have done the journey\nin less that nine hours. Truly it does not leave much time for the\ndalliance suggested by Buchanan,--{109}more especially as the Privy\nSeal Register of that date testifies that the Queen transacted a not\ninconsiderable amount of public business whilst at the castle. But, poor\nlady, she could do no right in the eyes of certain of her subjects.\nShe was a Catholic; and that was sufficient; even her very tolerance of\nother people's religion was an offence, a trap set for the unwary. Every\nsuggestion of evil with regard to her conduct was eagerly seized on and\ngreedily swallowed by her enemies and ill-wishers. It is so fatally easy\nto take away character. Especially, for some reason, in the case of\none high in rank are certain people prone to believe evil, strangely\ngratified if they may be the first to unfold to a neighbour some new\nscandal against their betters. Away to the winds with Christian charity!\nAll is fish that comes to _their_ net; to them every scandalous tale\nis true, and needs no enquiry, provided only it be told against one of\nexalted station.\n\nQueen Mary rode that day in the wind and the wet a matter of fifty or\nsixty miles. She was used to long rides, no doubt,--there was indeed no\nother means for her to get about the country,--and she was never one who\nshrank from rough weather. But wet clothes, if worn for too long a time,\nhave a way of finding out any weak spot there may chance to be in one's\nframe, and the exposure and the wetting dealt hardly this time with the\nQueen. She was never physically strong, and of late a world of anxiety,\nworry, and sorrow, caused by the conduct of her husband, had drained\nthe strength she possessed. Moreover, ever since her confinement three\nmonths earlier, she had been subject to more or less severe attacks of\nillness, accompanied by much pain. In her normal condition, probably the\nfatigue and exposure might have affected her not at all; now, it brought\non a serious malady. By the morning of the 17th--the day following her\nlong ride--she was in a high fever, and in great pain. As the disease\nprogressed, she was seized with violent paroxysms, vomiting blood; and\nday by day her condition gave rise to ever more grave fear. She herself,\nbelieving that {110}her end was at hand, took leave of the Earl of\nMoray and of other noblemen, expressing at the same time great anxiety\nregarding the affairs of the kingdom and the guardianship of her infant\nson after her death. But never throughout the illness did her courage\nfalter. Lack of courage, at least, is a thing of which not even her\nbitterest enemies can accuse Mary Stuart.\n\nOn the evening of the ninth day of this severe illness, after a\nparticularly acute attack of convulsions, the Queen sank, and her whole\nbody became cold and rigid. \"Every one present, especially her domestic\nservants, thought that she was dead, and they opened the windows. The\nEarl of Moray began to lay hands on the most precious articles, such\nas her silver plate and jewels. The mourning dresses were ordered, and\narrangements were made for the funeral.\" * John Leslie, Bishop of Ross,\nwriting from Jedburgh at the time, says that on the Friday \"her Majesty\nbecame deid and all her memberis cauld, her Eene closit, Mouth fast, and\nFeit and Armis stiff and cauld.\"\n\n     * MS. in British Museum, by Claude Nau, Secretary to Queen\n     Mary, 1575-1587.\n\nBuchanan's account is that, after leaving Hermitage, \"she returneth\nagain to Jedworth, and with most earnest care and diligence provideth\nand prepareth all things to remove Bothwel thither. When he was once\nbrought thither, their company and familiar haunt together was such as\nwas smally agreeing with both their honours. There, whether it were\nby their nightly and daily travels, dishonourable to themselves and\ninfamous among the people, or by some secret providence of God, the\nQueen fell into such a sore and dangerous sickness that scarcely there\nremained any hope of her life.\" It would be hard to conceive anything\nmore poisonous than this, or anything less in accord with the facts.\nBuchanan's zeal outran his love of the truth; with both hands he flung\nmud at the Queen. In his eyes, any story against her was worthy of\ncredence--or at least he wished it to appear so. As a matter of\n{111}fact, before Bothwell reached Jedburgh the Queen had been\ndangerously ill, and incapable of making any preparation to receive him\nhad she wished to do so, for close on ten days, and the day after his\ncoming she lay for several hours unconscious, and as one dead. Writing\non 24th October to the Archbishop of Glasgow, M. Le Groc, the French\nAmbassador, can only say that he hopes \"in five or six days the Queen\nwill be able to sign\" a dispatch; but on the following day her illness\nagain took an unfavourable turn.\n\nShe left Jedburgh within fifteen days of the date of M. Le Croc's\nletter, not an excessive time in which to recover from an illness which\nadmittedly had brought her to the point of death, and which must have\nleft her in a condition of extreme weakness. Yet, according to Buchanan,\nthis time of convalescence was devoted to \"their old pastime again,\nand that so openly, as they seemed to fear nothing more than lest their\nwickedness should be unknown.\" His conscience must have been of an\nelastic nature, if, having any knowledge of the facts, he could so\nwrite; and if he had no knowledge of the farts, one wonders how it is\npossible that a man of his position and ability should commit himself to\nstatements so foul and uncharitable.\n\nBut at any cost, and by any means, he wanted to make out his case; and\nhe knew his audience.\n\nBuchanan's bias against the unfortunate Queen was very great. It even\ncaused him to lend himself here to the task of bolstering up the case of\nthat petulant, contemptible creature, Darnley. In view of the latter's\nknown degrading habits and evil practices, as well as of his general\nconduct towards the Queen, the following sentence from the historian's\nwaitings is almost grotesque: \"When the King heard thereof,\" [Mary's\nillness] \"he hasted in post to Jedburgh to visit the Queen, to comfort\nher in her weakness by all the gentle services that he could, to declare\nhis affection and hearty desire to do her pleasure.\" Of course Darnley\ndid nothing of the sort. When he did come, (twelve days after her\nillness began,) he came {112}most reluctantly and tardily from his\n\"halkand and huntand\" in the west country. He \"has had time enough if\nhe had been willing; this is a fault which I cannot excuse,\" wrote M. Le\nCroc on the 24th October.\n\nAccording to Buchanan, Darnley, when he did reach Jedburgh, found no one\nready to receive him, or \"to do him any reverence at all\"; the Queen, he\nsays, had \"practised with\" the Countess of Moray to feign sickness and\nkeep her bed, as an excuse for not receiving him. \"Being thus denied\nall duties of civil kindness, the next day with great grief of heart\nhe returned to his old solitary corner.\" A pathetic story, if it were\nwholly true; a heart-stirring picture, that of the \"solitary corner.\"\nBut all the King's horses and all the King's men could not have set\nDarnley back again in the place he had forfeited in the esteem of the\nNobles, and in the esteem of the country at large. If the nobles were\nnot pleased to welcome him, if he was forsaken of all friends, whose\nfault was that but Darnley's? \"The haughty spirit of Darnley, nursed up\nin flattery, and accustomed to command, could not bear the contempt into\nwhich he had now fallen, and the state of insignificance to which he saw\nhimself reduced.\" * Darnley was an undisciplined cub. It was the sulky\npetulance of a spoilt child, that delayed his visit to Jedburgh; it was\nthe offended dignity of an unlicked schoolboy that took him out of it\nagain so hurriedly. The Queen's sufferings were as nought, weighed in\nthe scale against a petty dignity offended by the lack of \"reverence\"\nwith which he was received in Jedburgh. Truly, Queen Mary at her\nmarriage had \"placed her love on a very unworthy object, who requited it\nwith ingratitude and treated her with neglect, with violence, and with\nbrutality.\" **\n\n     * Robertson's History of Scotland.\n\n     ** Robertson.\n\nBuchanan, the historian, Queen Mary's traducer, died in September, 1582.\nHis contemporary, Sir James Melville of Halhill, in writing of him says\nhe was \"a man of notable endowments for his learning and knowledge in\nLatin poesy, {113}much honoured in other countries, pleasant in\nconversation, rehearsing at all occasions moralities short and\ninstructive, whereof he had abundance, inventing where he wanted. He was\nalso religious, but was easily abused, and so facile that he was led by\nevery company that he haunted, which made him factious in his old days,\nfor he spoke and wrote as those who were about him informed him; for he\nwas become careless, following in many things the vulgar opinion; for he\nwas naturally popular, and extremely revengeful against any man who had\noffended him, which was his greatest fault.\" Truly these phrases: \"he\nspoke and wrote as those who were about him informed him\"; \"inventing\nwhere he wanted\"; \"easily abused, and so facile that he was led by every\ncompany that he haunted\"; \"extremely revengeful against any who had\noffended him,\" seem to be not without application to much of what he\nwrote regarding Mary Stuart.\n\nOn 9th November Jedburgh saw its last of this most unfortunate among\nwomen. On that day the Queen and her Court set out for Craigmillar,\ntravelling on horseback by way of Kelso, Home Castle, Berwick, and\nDunbar. But the effects of that grievous sickness at Jedburgh long\nremained with her.\n\nMany, in the days that are long dead, were the Burgh's royal visitors;\nbut no figure more romantic in history has ever trod its streets\nthan his who in 1745 passed one night there on his disastrous march\nsouthward. At no great distance from the house where Mary lay ill,\nstands a fine old building, occupied once by a being no less ill-fated\nthan was the unfortunate Queen of Scots. In a \"close\" leading from the\nCastle gate you find the door of this house--on its weather-beaten\nstone lintel the date 1687. The sorely worn stone steps of a winding old\nstaircase lead to rooms above, all panelled in oak. But as in the case\nof the \"comfortable church\" that once took away from the beauty and\ndignity of the grand old Abbey, so here the ruthless hand of modern\n\"improvement\" has been at work. The tenants of the building--there are\nseveral--pre{114}sumably finding the sombre oak all too gloomy to meet\ntheir view of what is fitting in mural decoration, have remedied this\ndefect by papering the panels, and in some instances by giving them what\nis call \"a lick of paint.\" Sadly altered, therefore, is the interior of\nthe building from what it was that night in November, 1745, when Bonnie\nPrince Charlie slept within its massive walls. But the outside, with\nits quaint double sun-dial set in the wall facing the Castle-gate, is no\ndoubt now as it was then.\n\nOf this visit, local tradition has not much to tell. There is the story\nthat the advance guard of that section of the Prince's army which he\nhimself led, marching from Kelso, reached Jedburgh on the Sunday when\nthe entire community was at church, and it is said that a message was\nsent to the minister of the Abbey church requiring him to close the\nservice and send his congregation home to prepare rations for the main\nbody of the army. The order, if it were really given, was apparently not\nresented, for when the Prince himself marched in, the women of Jedburgh,\nat least, flocked into the street to kiss his hand. The regard and\nhomage of the women he got here, as elsewhere, but of that of which he\nstood most in need, the swords of the men, he got none. As at Kelso, not\na single recruit followed him. One, indeed, a neighbouring farmer, did\nride in to join the Royal standard, but he was a day after the fair;\nthe army had already marched. Did the sound that tradition says Jedburgh\nheard long ere the Prince's arrival, the sound as of an army on the\nmarch, the distant rumble of moving artillery, the tramp of innumerable\nfeet, and the dull throb of drums pulsing on the still night air, scare\nBorderers away from his enterprise? Was it superstition, or was it a\nreal lack of interest, or was it merely \"canniness,\" that so effectually\ndamped the ardour of recruits both at Kelso and at Jedburgh? Whatever\nthe cause, no man followed him; only the blessings and good wishes of\nthe women were his wherever he went.\n\nAfter leaving Jedburgh, the Prince's army made over the {115}hills in\ntwo divisions, one following the old Whele-Causeway (over which the main\nScottish army marched on Carlisle in 1388, what time Douglas's flying\ncolumn made a dash into England down the Rede valley from Froissart's\n\"Zedon\"); the other marching by Note o' the Gate, the neighbouring pass\nthat runs between Dog Knowe and Rushy Rig. These were then the only\ntwo practicable ways over the hills into Upper Liddesdale. \"Note o' the\nGate\" is a puzzle. What does the name mean? \"Note\" may be merely the\nCumberland \"Knot\" or \"Knote,\" a knob or projection on a hillside. I\nunderstand the term is common enough in that part of the country, as in\nHelmside Knot, Hard Knot, etc. But even if this word, though differently\nspelled, does bear the same meaning both in Cumberland and in\nLiddesdale, I do not know that it gets us any nearer the \"Gate.\" There\nis no rugged pass here, no Gate between precipitous mountains. One\nexplanation--for what it may be worth--comes from a tradition that the\nname was given by Prince Charlie himself, through his misunderstanding\na remark made by one of his officers. As they tramped over the moorland\npass, the Prince overheard this officer say to another: \"Take note of\nthe gait,\" _i.e._, \"Take note of the way.\" That night, when they were\nat Larriston, the Prince puzzled everyone by referring to something that\nhad taken place back at \"Note of the Gate.\" The story seems far fetched.\n\nMany a tale survives of the doings and iniquities of the Prince's\nwild Highlanders as they straggled over these lonely Border moors.\n\"Straggled,\" seems to be a more appropriate term than \"marched,\" for,\naccording to the testimony of eyewitnesses, the men appear to have kept\nno sort of military formation. Or at least what formation they did\nkeep was of the loosest, and no check on plundering. It is a lonely\ncountryside at best; human habitations were few and widely separated,\nbut from the infrequent cottages, property of an easily portable nature\ntook to itself wings as the army passed, {116}and sheep grazing on the\nhills melted from sight like snow before the softening breath of spring.\nOnce they caught and killed some sheep in a \"stell,\" and they cooked one\nof them in an iron pot that lay in the stell, Unfortunately, they did\nnot take the precaution to cleanse the pot, and the resulting brew\ndisagreed so sorely with one of the thieves that the spot is called the\nHielandman's Grave to this day. Some others, that evening when they were\nencamped, forced a man to kill and cut up sheep for them, and for this\nwork he was given a guinea. The pay did not benefit him much; for a part\nof Highlanders, as the man went towards home, put a pistol to his head\nand made him refund. They tried the same game on a man named Armstrong,\ndown on the Liddel at Whit-haugh Mill. But Armstrong was too much for\nthem; one who shared the old reiver blood was not to be intimidated,\nand he knocked the pistol out of the hand of the threatening Highlander,\nsecured it himself, and turned the tables most unpleasantly.\n\nOne unlooked-for result of the Prince's march through those desolate\nregions, was a very great increase in the number of illicit stills, and\nin the consumption of whisky that had paid no revenue to King George.\nSo impressed were the Highlanders with the wild solitude of the glens on\nall sides of their line of march, and with the facilities presented by\nthe amber-clear burns that tinkle through every cleuch, that when the\nrebels were returning from Derby, numbers of the men got no farther\nnorth than the hills of Liddesdale and the Border, but entered there on\nthe congenial pastime of whisky-making.\n\nThough the proportion of Borderers who followed Prince Charlie down into\nEngland, or throughout his campaign, was so very meagre, yet there lived\namong those solemn Border hills many faithful hearts, whose King he was\nto the end.\n\n          \"Follow thee! Follow thee! Wha wadna follow thee?\n\n               King o' our Highland hearts,\n\n                   Bonnie Prince Charlie,\"\n\n{117}They were not only Highland hearts that were true to him. In her\n_Border Sketches_, Mrs. Oliver mentions a Hawick man, named Millar, who\naccompanied his master, Scott of Gorrenberry, all through the campaign\nof 1745-46, and who to the end of his days had an undying devotion to\nhis Prince, and till the day of the latter's death, an imperishable\nfaith that he would come to his own again. Long after the '45, Miller\nbecame \"minister's man\" in one of the Hawick churches, and his grief,\none Sunday morning in 1788, was overwhelming when the news was told to\nhim that the Prince was dead. \"E-eh! Doctor,\" he cried brokenly to his\n* reverend informant, \"if I'll get nae good o' your sermon the day; I\nwish ye hadna telled me till this afternoon. If it had been the German\nLairdie, now, there wad hae been little mane made for _him_ But there'll\nbe mony a wae heart forby mine this day.\" Indeed, who even now can read\nof Bonnie Prince Charlie's end, and _not_ have \"a wae heart\"?\n\nFew of the Scottish Border towns in 1745 showed open hostility, or\nindeed anything but a luke-warm friendship, for the gallant young\nPretender. Dumfries, however, was an exception. The inhabitants of that\ntown, with men from Galloway, Nithsdale, and Annandale, full of zeal\nfor King George and secure in the belief that the fighting men of the\nPrince's army were all safely over the March into England, hurried\nto intercept the rebel baggage train as it passed near Lockerbie, and\ncarried off thirty-two carts to Dumfries. The Highlanders, however,\ngetting word of this affair before the army marched from Carlisle,\ndetached a party to Dumfries to demand the return of the waggons or\nthe payment of an indemnity, \"the notice of which has put Dumfries in\ngreater fear and confusion than they have since the rebellion broke out,\nand expect no mercy.\" But the Prinnce's party was recalled before it\nhad reclaimed the lost baggage-carts or exacted this alternative sum\nof \u00a32,000, and Dumfries imagined that now all was weil. They had the\nwaggons; and for a little {118}time they triumphed. So triumphant,\nindeed, were they, and so filled with confidence in their own warlike\npowers, that when false rumours reached them that the Highlanders had\nbeen utterly routed and cut to pieces at Lancaster, not only were there\n\"great rejoicings in Dumfries by ringing of bells and illuminating their\nwindows,\" but \"a considerable party of our light horse were sent off\nimmediately, after the Chevalier,\" and \"about three hundred militia,\ncomposed of townspeople and the adjacent paroches... are to go to the\nwater of Esk to stop their passing and to apprehend any small parcels of\nthem flying.\" Dumfries was not so warlike a couple of weeks or so later,\nwhen Lord Elcho at the head of five hundred men of the Prince's advance\nguard marched in and demanded the immediate payment of \u00a32,000 in money\nand the delivery of a thousand pairs of shoes, two hundred horses, and\na hundred carts. Not all that the Prince demanded was paid before the\nnorthward march was resumed, but his visit cost the town something like\n\u00a34,000--irrespective of what the Highlanders took. Whilst he remained\nin Dumfries, the Prince lodged in the Market Place, in a private house\nwhich is now the Commercial Inn. It is said that when his army marched\nup Nithsdale, halting for the night at the Duke of Queensberry's\nproperty, Drumlanrig, the Highlanders in the morning, to show their\nloyalty to King James, slashed with their swords portraits of King\nWilliam and Queen Mary which had been presented to the Duke by Queen\nAnne,--an inconvenient method of declaring allegiance.\n\nThough of minor interest, there are other houses in Jedburgh besides\nQueen Mary's and that in which Prince Charlie lodged, in which the\ntownsfolk take some pride. There is the building in which Sir David\nBrewster was born in 1781; that where Burns lodged when he visited\nJedburgh in 1787; that in Abbey Close in which Wordsworth and his sister\nhad lodgings in 1803, when Sir (then Mr.) Walter Scott visited them\nand read to them part of the then unpublished \"Lay of the Last\n{119}Minstrel\"; there is the old Black Bull Inn,--no lunger an inn,--and\ninteresting only as the place where in 1726 Sir Gilbert Eliott of Stobs\nstabbed Colonel Stewart of Stewartfield with his sword one evening as\nthey sat at supper. Claret was plentiful and good in. Scotland in those\ndays, and Colonel Stewart had not given his vote to Sir Gilbert, who\nwas candidate for the county. Swords flew out on slender excuse in the\neighteenth century. This particular sword was long kept in the family\nof Sir Gilbert Elliot's butler, and after passing through the hands of a\nresident in the village of Denholm, became the property of Mr. Forrest,\nthe well-known gun-maker of Jedburgh, by whom it was finally deposited\nin the Marquess of Lothian's museum at Monteviot.\n\nJedburgh, of course, amongst other claims to distinction was famed for\nits witches--as what place was not, indeed, in times when harmless\nold women were adjudged innocent or guilty of the charge of witchcraft\naccording as they sank or floated when thrown into deep water. If they\nsank--well and good, that meant that they were innocent, and they went\nto Heaven, having at any rate the satisfaction of knowing beforehand\nthat, in such case, at least their memory would be cleared of the\nsuspicion under which they had lain; if they floated--again well and\ngood; that proved conclusively that the charge against them was a true\none, and they were rescued from the water only to be burned alive. \"Thou\nshalt not suffer a witch to live,\" was the text which our ancestors\nregarded as the Eleventh Commandment. We were not a whit better even at\nas late a date as the seventeenth century, than are those West African\ntribes of the present day whose medicine-men still \"smell out\" witches.\nOnly, the West Africans practise the art now more or less in secret, and\nthey are more humane in the death they inflict than were our ancestors;\nthey do not burn.\n\nJedburgh's testing place for witches was a pool below the spot where\nnow the Townfoot Bridge crosses the river. There is a story told of\na notorious witch who was ducked here along with {120}a batch of her\nsinful associates. No doubt _they_ all floated right enough; their\nreputation as witches of the most mischievous description had long been\nalmost too well established to need such a test as that of the river.\nBut this is what led to their final overthrow. The chief witch of this\n\"covine\" had a husband, the village pedagogue, a man of repute for piety\nand for the rigour of his Sabbath keeping, and it was notorious that\nin season and out of season this good man would remonstrate with his\nwife--without doubt, people said, endeavouring to wean the woman from\nher sinful habits.\n\nNow, one must of course admit that such continued efforts to save could\nnot fail to be excessively irksome to any witch, and must goad not only\nher, but also her accomplices, as well as her Master, the Devil, to\nrevenge. Hence, when the schoolmaster's dead body was found one fine\nmorning floating in the river, the majority of the drowned man's\nneighbours had no hesitation in believing that his wife and her partners\nin iniquity had dragged him in the night from his hard-earned rest,\nand had thrown him into the deepest pool in Jed. And this was the more\ncertain, because the deceased man had several times confided to friends\na pitiful tale of how he stood in terror of his life, and how his wife\nand her \"covine,\" had already more than once hauled him through the\nroughest streams of Jed. Sundry pious elders, moreover, affirmed\nthat they had attended with him a sederunt of their church rulers the\nprevious evening--when, perhaps, a trifle of something may have been\ntaken in a quiet way to keep out the cold--and that at a late hour\nafterwards they accompanied him to his own door, whence, they admitted,\nthey had come away in a hurry because of the wrathful and threatening\ntones in which they heard this witch addressing her husband. And this\nevidence was to some extent corroborated by the neighbours, who told how\nthey had been awakened from sound sleep that night by the noise made\nby the poor victim loudly singing the twenty-third Psalm as the horrid\ntroupe hurried him down the street towards the river--a rope {121}about\nhis neck, said some. Moreover, it was told, on evidence which people saw\nno reason to doubt, that at the time this poor man was being hurried to\nhis death, a company of fairies was seen dancing on the top of the\ntower of Jedburgh Abbey, where after the drowning of the unfortunate\nschoolmaster by the witches, the whole company regaled themselves\nliberally with wine and ale. Certainly, both wine and ale _were_ found\nto be missing from a neighbouring cellar the following day; and as the\ndoor of the cellar had been locked, obviously the loss could only be\nattributed to the schemes of fairies or witches. The one tale lent\nan air of truth to the others; therefore people were not backward in\ncrediting both. He who accepted the story of the dancing fairies could\nhave little difficulty in giving credence to that of the witches'\n\"covine\" dragging their unresisting prey through the streets. And so\nanother wretched victim or two went to her long home by a fiery death.\nThe schoolmaster was probably insane on some points, and trumped up the\nstory of the witches having repeatedly ducked him. Our ancestors could\nswallow anything in the way of marvel. This story of the Jedburgh\nschoolmaster is told in \"Historical Notices of the Superstitions of\nTeviotdale\"; and it is added therein that popular tradition says that \"a\nson of Lord Torpichen, who had been taught the art of witchcraft by his\nnurse,\" was of the party of witches, and that it was he who first gave\ninformation regarding the murderers.\n\nThe Ettrick Shepherd must have known this story well. Perhaps it\nsuggested some of the verses in \"The Witch of Fife,\" in \"The Queen's\nWake.\"\n\n               \"Where have ye been, ye ill woman,\n\n                   These three lang nichts frae hame?\n\n               What gars the sweit drap frae yer brow, '\n\n                   Like clots o' the saut sea faem?\n\n               \"It fears me muckle ye have seen\n\n                   What guid man never knew;\n\n               It fears me muckle ye have been\n\n                   Where the grey cock never crew.\"  {122}\n\n               \"Sit down, sit down, my leal auld man,\n\n                   Sit down and listen to me;\n\n               I'll gar the hair stand on yer crown\n\n                   And the cauld sweit blind yer e'e.\n\n               \"The first leet nicht, when the new moon set,\n\n                   When all was douf and mirk,\n\n               We saddled our naigs wi* the moon fern leaf,\n\n                   And rode frae Kilmorran Kirk.\n\n               \"Some horses were of \"the broom-cow framed,\n\n                   And some of the green bay tree:\n\n               But mine was made of a hemlock-shaw,\n\n                   And a stout stallion was he.\n\n               \"We rode the tod doon on the hill,\n\n                   The martin on the law;\n\n               And we hunted the hoolit out o' breath,\n\n                   And forcit him doon to fa'.\"\n\n               \"What guid was that, ye ill woman?\n\n                   What guid was that to thee?\n\n               Ye wad better have been in yer bed at hame\n\n                   Wi' yer dear little bairns and me.\"\n\n               \"And aye we rade and sae merrylie we rade,\n\n                   Through the merkist gloffs o' the night;\n\n               And we swam the flood, and we darnit the wood,\n\n                   Till we cam to the Lommond height.\n\n               \"And when we cam to the Lommond height,\n\n                   Sae blythlie we lighted down;\n\n               And we drank frae the horns that never grew\n\n                   The beer that was never brewin.\n\n               \"And aye we danced on the green Lommond\n\n                   Till the dawn on the ocean grew,\n\n               Nae wonder I was a weary wicht\n\n                   When I cam hame to you.\n\n                And we flew ow'r hill, and we flew ow'r dale,\n\n                   And we flew ow'r firth and sea,\n\n               Until we cam to merry Carlisle,\n\n                   Where we lightit on the lea.  {123}\n\n               \"We gaed to the vault beyond the tow'r\n\n                   Where we entered free as air,\n\n               And we drank, and we drank of the Bishop's wine,\n\n                   Until we could drink nae mair.\"\n\nIf, however, our forbears were drastic in their manner of dealing with\nwitches and warlocks, and rigid in the infliction of capital punishment\non criminals guilty of very minor offences, they were extraordinarily\nlax as regards the condition in which they kept their prisons. It is\ntold that, sometime during the eighteenth century, the chief magistrate\nof Jedburgh was waited on by the burgh gaoler, who complained that the\nmain door of the gaol had parted company with its hinges--which, in\nfact, had long been eaten through with rust. He had no means of securing\nhis prisoners. What was he to do? It was a question calculated to puzzle\nany ordinary person. But the magistrate was a man of resource. \"Get\na harrow,\" said he. \"And set it on end in the doorway, wi' its teeth\nturned inwards. If that winna keep them in,--'deed then they're no\nworth the keepin'.\" To as late a date as 1833, Selkirk also was not\nmuch better off than this, as regards its prison. The writer of the\nStatistical Account of the Parish at that date complains that prisoners\n\"_have been frequently in the practice of coming out in the evening, and\nreturning again before the jailor's visit in the morning._\"\n\nIf by chance there was ever a period of his life when the Poet Burns\nwas _not_ susceptible, it certainly was not at the time when he visited\nJedburgh in 1787. Regarding that visit he has left in his diary some\nvery characteristic notes. He was \"waited on by the magistrates and\npresented with the freedom of the burgh,\" he records; he meets and dines\nwith \"a polite soldier-like gentleman, a Captain Rutherfurd, who had\nbeen many years in the wilds of America, a prisoner among the Indians,\"\nand who apparently rather bored the poet. Captain Rutherfurd's\nadventures were assuredly such as could not fail to be well worth\nlistening to, but what between Burns' respectful {124}admiration of an\narmchair that the old soldier possessed, which had been the property of\nJames Thomson, author of \"The Seasons,\" and his latest attack of love's\nsickness, host and guest do not seem to have been quite in accord.\nPerhaps the old soldier prosed, and told his battles o'er again to too\ngreat an extent--it is a failing not unknown in old gentlemen; perhaps\nthe poet wanted to compose a sonnet to his new mistress's eyebrows.--or\nwhatever may have been Burns' equivalent. (He had just met by the\n\"sylvan banks\" of Jed a young lady possessed of charms that ravished\nhis too tender heart). Anyhow, he left the district in a very despondent\nframe of mind, relieved only by such consolation as might be gleaned\nfrom presenting the lady with a copy of his latest portrait. In his\ndiary is the following entry: \"Took farewell of Jedburgh with some\nmelancholy, disagreeable sensations. Jed, pure be thy crystal streams\nand hallowed thy sylvan banks! Sweet Isabella Lindsay, may peace dwell\nin thy bosom uninterrupted, except by the tumult throbbings of rapturous\nlove! That love enkindling eye must beam on another, not on me; that\ngraceful form must bless another's arms, not mine.\" Burns' loves were\nalmost as many in number as the birds of the air, and scarcely less\ntrammelled.\n\nAs one proceeds up Jed from the ancient royal burgh, probably the first\nthing that forces itself on the mind is that the old coach road was not\nconstructed for present-day traffic. In less than a couple of miles the\nriver is crossed no fewer than four times by bridges which are curiously\nold fashioned, turning blindly across the stream in some instances\nalmost at right angles to the road, and in the steepness of their ascent\nand descent conveying to the occupant of a motor car a sensation similar\nto that given to a bad sailor by a vessel at sea when she is surmounting\n\"the league-long rollers.\" Nor are some of the gradients on the road a\nfew miles farther out such as entirely commend themselves to motorists,\ntwo or three of them being as abrupt as one in twelve, and one in\nthirteen. {125}Nevertheless the beauties of road and country are great,\nespecially if it should chance that a visit is paid to the district when\nthe tender flush of early Spring lies sweet on Jed's thick-wooded banks,\nand the trout have begun to think at last of rising again freely to\nthe natural fly. Or better still, perhaps, when the green and gold, the\nrusset and yellow, the crimson of Autumn combine with and melt into the\ncrumbling red cliffs,--surely more generous tinted than ever were cliffs\nbefore. Above, a sky of tenderest blue, an air windless yet brisk, and\njust a leaf here and there fluttering leisurely into the amber clear\nwater that goes wandering by; and from the hushes the sweet thin pipe\nof a robin, or the crow of pheasant from some copse. That is the Indian\nSummer of Scotland, her pleasantest time of year,--if it were not for\nthe shortening days, and the recollection that trout fishing is dead\ntill another season.\n\nIt was a heavily wooded district this in former days, and one or two of\nthe giants of old still survive,--the widespreading \"Capon tree,\"\nfor instance, that you pass on the road a mile from Jedburgh (but why\n\"Capon\" it passes the knowledge of man to decide); and the \"King of\nthe Woods,\" near Fernihirst, a beautiful and still vigorous oak, with a\ngirth of 17 feet, four feet from the ground.\n\nOn the right, across the river, as you begin to quit the precincts of\nthe town, there hangs the precipitous red \"scaur\" over which, that\ngrim night in 1523, Surrey's horses came streaming, an equine cascade.\nFarther on, a mile or so, there perches Douglas's camp at Lintalee. But\nhis \"fair manor\" is gone, and that great cave in the face of the cliff\nwhere he kept stock of provisions \"till mak gud cher till hys men\"; a\nfall of rock swept away that, or most part of it, in 1866. It was to\nthis cave, within Douglas's camp, that in 1317 a priest named Ellis\nbrought a body of three hundred English soldiers, whilst Douglas was\nelsewhere, dealing with Sir Thomas Richmond and his men. But, (as the\nsong says), Father Ellis \"had better have left that beggar alone.\"\nDouglas returned {126}while yet the holy man and his unruly flock were\nfeasting in the cave. And \"then\"--it is needless to say,--\"there began\na slaughter grim and great,\" and whatever else Father Ellis and his men\nhad feasted on, at least they got now a bellyful of fighting. It was the\nlast meal of which the most part of those Englishmen partook. The\ncave is gone, but there still remain, guarding the neck of the\npromontory--ruined indeed, and partially filled up, but still prominent\nto the eye--the double wall and fosse that Douglas threw across it six\nhundred years ago.\n\nOf caves, such as this Douglas cave at Lintalee, there is a vast number\nscattered along the cliffy banks of Jed and Teviot, and by some of their\ntributary waters or burns. At Mossburn-foot, on Jed, there is a cave,\nothers are at Hundalee, and elsewhere. Near Cessford Castle, on a small\naffluent of the Kale there is one, Habbie Ker's Cave, the same wicked\nHabbie--\"a bloodie man in his youth\"--whose ghost to this day walks by\nthe old draw-well at the ruined castle of Holydene; on Kale itself there\nare several of considerable size; in the cliff overhanging Oxnam, near\nCrailing, are others, and at Ancrum, on the Ale; whilst at Sunlaws,\nnear Roxburgh, in the red sandstone cliffs of Teviot, is a group of\nfive caves, arranged in two tiers, some of them of fair dimensions, the\nlargest about twenty six feet long, with a height of eight feet and a\nwidth of eight and a half feet. Another in the upper tier has a length\nof twenty three feet, but at the mouth is no more than three feet\nin height. In the lower tier, in one of the caves it is said in the\nStatistical Account that horses were hid in 1745, to save them from\nbeing taken for the use of the rebel army, when the detachment under\nPrince Charlie's own command marched from Kelso to Jedburgh. Many of\nthe caves in different parts of the country are so well concealed that\na stranger might pass very near to the mouth without suspecting their\nexistence; some, on the other hand, force themselves on the eye. But\nprobably in olden times thick undergrowth shut them from view. There\n{127}is no doubt that most of them at various times have been used as\nplaces of concealment; probably during the cruel old English wars they\nwere much resorted to; certainly some of them were places of refuge in\nCovenanting times. Very efficient places of refuge no doubt they were,\nso long as the entrance was not discovered, but many of them would\nprobably be easy enough to smoke out. It is mentioned in Patten's\n\"Account of Somerset's Expedition into Scotland,\" how \"a gentleman of\nmy Lord Protector's... happened upon a cave in the grounde, the mouth\nwhereof was so worne with fresh printe of steps, that he seemed to be\ncertayne thear wear some folke within; and gone doune to trie, he was\nredily receyved with a hakebut or two. He left them not yet, till he had\nknown wheyther thei wold be content to yield and come out, which they\nfondly refusing, he went to my Lord's grace, and upon utterance of the\ntbynge, gat licence to deale with them as he coulde; and so returned to\nthem with a skore or two of pioners. Three ventes had that cave, that we\nwear ware of, whereof he first stopt up one; another he fill'd full of\nstrawe, and set it a fyer, whereat they within cast water apace; but it\nwas so wel maynteyned without, that the fyer prevayled, and thei within\nfayn to get them belyke into anoothur parler. Then devysed we (for\nI hapt to be with him) to stop the same up, whereby we should eyther\nsmoother them, or fynd out their ventes, if thei hadde any mor: as this\nwas done at another issue, about XII score of, we moughte see the fume\nof their smoke to come out: the which continued with so great a force,\nand so long a while, that we coulde not but thinke they must needs get\nthem out, or smoother within: and forasmuch as we found not that they\ndid the tone, we though it for certain thei wear sure of the toother.\"\n\nWho first made and used those caves, one wonders. The stone is soft, and\neasy to work, and I do not think it was beyond the skill and the tools\nof our very remote forbears to have patiently hollow'ed them out, in\nsuitable places, from the {128}solid face of the cliff. Tool marks may\nyet be plainly seen in some of them, marks not such as would be made by\nanything in the nature of a chisel, but such as are more suggestive of\na pick, of sorts, an implement--single pointed--not unknown to even very\nprimitive races.\n\nScattered all over the Jedburgh district are many ancient camps--hoary\neven in the day when Douglas fortified Lintalee; many old castles and\npeel-towers, all, or nearly all, now in ruins, some indeed with very\nlittle left save tradition to indicate where once they stood; and here\nand there are found vestiges of chapels or shrines, of which possibly\nthere may remain hardly more in some instances than the green mounds\nwhich cover their fallen walls. The monks wandered far up this pleasant\nvale of Jed, carrying the Gospel of Peace through a land that knew of\nlittle save war, but the history of their resting places is even more\nvague than is now the outline of their chapel walls. At Old Jed ward,\nhowever, five miles up stream from Jedburgh, you may still in some\nmeasure trace the line of foundations of that venerable little building\nwhich is said to have been built here away back in the ninth century. Of\ncamps, the number is legion. That near Monklaw, the writer has not seen,\nbut it is said to be Roman, and its measurements are something like one\nhundred and sixty yards each way. At Scraesburgh there is a circular\ncamp, with a diameter of about one hundred and eighty feet, and with\nramparts still nearly twenty feet in height,--surely that \"Skraysburgh,\nthe greatest towne in all Teviotdale,\" which, according to the English\nversion, seems in 1544 to have fallen almost as fell Jericho of old,\nwhen the enemy shouted and blew their trumpets.\n\nOf castles and peel-towers the most are utterly ruined, but Fernihirst\n(to which we come presently), still stands, and, over the hill towards\nTeviot, Lanton Tower, the latter now incorporated with a comfortable\nmodern dwelling. Lanton in the twelfth century was the property of\nRichard Inglis, who also owned the adjacent tower of Hunthill. Both\nthese towers {129}were sacked and burned in 1513, after Flodden, by an\nEnglish flying column under Sir Roger Fenwicke, and its existence at the\npresent day Lanton Tower may owe to the fact that when Evers swept\nthe country side in 1544, and Hertford brought fire and sword in the\nfollowing year, it had possibly neither been repaired nor was inhabited.\nIt was over near Jedburgh, too, to have escaped the notice of Surrey\nin 1523. Hunthill was burned again in 1549, and had Lanton then been\nanything but dismantled, it could scarcely have escaped the attentions\nof the party sent from Jedburgh by the Earl of Rutland to attack\nd'Ess\u00e9's rear-guard at Ancrum ford. A force coming over the hill from\nJedburgh and making for Ancrum would necessarily pass within easy hail\nof Lanton. In any case, however, there it stands, its solid walls of\na tenacity not shared by buildings put together with modern mortar.\nStrange are the vicissitudes of places and of people. Over this Forest\nof Jedworth, and here at Lanton, where of old too often were heard the\nblast of trumpet, shouts and oaths of fiercely striving men, the roar\nand crackle of burning houses, you will hear now no sound more startling\nthan the \"toot-toot\" of the Master's horn and the babble of fox hounds;\nfor at Lanton Tower are the kennels of the Jedforest Hunt, and many\na glorious run is had with this pack, sometimes in enclosed country,\nsometimes among the great round backed Border hills towards Carterfell,\nover country that will tail off all but the best of men and horses.\n\n{130}\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V JED (continued), FERNIHIRST, RAID OK THE REDESWIRE, OTTERBURNE\n\n|Across Jed, on a high and leafy bank nearly opposite to Lintalee,\nstands the picturesque old stronghold of Fernihirst. The original castle\nwas erected by Sir Thomas Ker probably about the year 1476, and the\npresent building dates only from 1598. Its predecessor \"stode marvelous\nstrongly within a grete woode,\" as Daere and Surrey found to their\ncost in 1523; yet they took it, after \"long skirmyshing and moche\ndifficultie,\" as Surrey reported. Brief and stormy was the existence of\nthis original Fernihirst, stirring, and in some instances horrible, the\ndeeds done within and around its walls. In 1548 the English held it,\nShrewsbury, when he returned to the south in that year, having left\nthere a garrison of something like eighty or ninety men. At this period\nScotland, still dazed and stricken under the stunning blow of Pinkie in\n1547, was in a deplorable, and apparently a very helpless, condition.\nMost of her strongholds were in English hands; her chief men for the\ngreater part had come in and made submission to Somerset; the poorer\nsort in most parts of the Border were at the mercy of the hated invader.\nHere, at Fernihirst, the English garrison was under the command of one\nwhose oppression and cruel lust were devilish, and whose treatment\nof unprotected country-folk was such as would justify almost any\nconceivable form of revenge {131}on the part of the men of Jedforest.\nM. de Beaugu\u00e9, a French officer who was then in Scotland, and who in\nhis \"_Histoire de la Guerre d'Ecosse_\" chronicles the campaigns of\n1548, 1549, says that during all the time this savage licentious\ndevil remained near Jedburgh \"he never came across a young girl but\nhe outraged her, never an old woman but he put her to death with cruel\ntorture.\"\n\n[Illustration: 0151]\n\nAnd, as the proverb has it: \"Like master, like man\"; where their captain\nforgot his manhood, and disgraced the name of Englishman, how were the\nmen under his command likely to conduct themselves? The people of the\nForest of Jedworth thus had ghastly wrongs to wipe out; and when their\nchance came, they seized on it with avidity.\n\nThe cruelties inflicted on each other by both nations at this period\nwere detestable and revolting. \"Put men, women, and children to fire and\nsword without exception, when any {132}resistance shall be made against\nyou,\" wrote Henry VIII. to Lord Hertford in 1544, instructions which\nwere most faithfully carried out. Here at Femihirst our countrymen went,\nif possible, \"one better,\" and their treatment of prisoners was of the\nmost inhuman and savage nature. Yet if their wrongs were such as are\ndepicted by de Beaugu\u00e9, can one wonder that, like wild beasts, they tore\nand mangled?\n\nEarly in 1549 there came to Jedburgh a large body of French troops under\nthe Sieur d'Ess\u00e9, sent to recapture that town, which at the moment was\nheld for the English by a force chiefly composed of Spanish mercenaries.\nThe Spaniards made no great stand, and for the moment the Sieur and his\nlittle army were left with time on their hands. To the Sieur went Sir\nJohn Ker, then laird of Fernihirst, suggesting that the French general\nshould aid him in recapturing the castle. French and Scots--a small body\nof the latter, the personal following of Sir John Ker--accordingly\nmade a combined attack and quickly carried the outwork, the garrison\nretreating to the keep. Here, whilst a party laboured hard to effect a\nbreach in the wall, French arquebusiers were so planted that no man of\nthe garrison could show his face with impunity, or dared to attempt to\ninterfere with the working party, who already in little over one hour\nhad made a practicable breach, large enough at least to admit a man's\nbody. About this time the main French force had come up, and the English\ngarrison could not but see that their position was now desperate.\nAccordingly they showed a flag of truce, and the English commander, on\nreceiving assurance that he would be allowed to return, came out through\nthe hole in the wall and offered to give up the castle, provided that\nthe lives of the garrison were spared. The Sieur d'Ess\u00e9, however, would\nlisten to no conditions; the surrender, he said, must be unconditional,\nand the Englishman therefore returned to his men.\n\nMeantime, news of the attack on Fernihirst had flown abroad over the\ncountryside, and men of Jedforest came {133}hurrying to the scene,\nbreathless with the lust of slaughter, panting with unquenchable thirst\nfor a bloody vengeance. Letting their horses go, and, regardless of\neverything, rushing in, they burst open and swarmed through the doors of\nthe lower court. And now the bowels of the English leader turned indeed\nto water, for well he knew what fate would be his were he once to fall\ninto the hands of those frenzied men. Therefore once more hurriedly\npressing through the breach, he surrendered himself to two French\nofficers, MM. Dussac and de la Mothe-Rouge. Scarcely, however, had he\ndone so, and even as they led him away, a prisoner, there rushed up a\nScot, a dweller in the neighbouring forest of Jed, one who had only too\nterrible a reason to remember the face of this fiend who had outraged\nhis wife and his young daughter. He said no word, but with a roar as of\na wounded beast that charges, he smote with all his strength. And the\nhead of a man went trundling and bumping loosely over the trampled\ngrass, as the knees doubled under a headless trunk that sank almost\nleisurely to the ground. Then those Scots who most had foul reason to\nexecrate the memory of this treacherous brute, joyfully plunged their\nhands into his blood as it gushed, and with shouts of exultation seizing\nhis head, they placed it on a long pole and stuck it up by a stone cross\nthat stood by the parting of three ways, that all might see and rejoice\nover their vengeance.\n\nThat was but the beginning of a scene long drawn and terrible in its\nferocity. Prisoners were ruthlessly butchered, and when the Scots had\nmurdered all whom they themselves had taken, their lust for blood was so\nfar from slaked that they brought others from the Frenchmen--bartering\neven some of their arms in exchange--and slew these also with extreme\nbarbarity. \"I myself,\" writes M. de Beaugu\u00e9, \"sold them a prisoner for a\nsmall horse. They tied his hands and feet and head together, and placed\nhim thus trussed in the middle of an open space, and ran upon him with\ntheir lances, armed as they were and on horseback.... until he was dead\nand his {134}body hacked in a thousand pieces, which they divided among\nthem and carried away on the iron points of their spears.\"\n\n\"I cannot,\" naively adds the chronicler, \"greatly praise the Scots for\nthis practice, but the truth is the English tyrannised over the Borders\nin a most barbarous manner, and I think it was but fair to repay them,\nas the saying goes, in their own coin.\"\n\nSo Sir John Ker got back his strong castle. But it did not long remain\nundisturbed in the family possession. In 1570 there came into Scotland\nthat English expedition under the Earl of Sussex and Lord Hunsdon which\nplayed such havoc in the Border, and once more the Merse and Teviotdale\nwere burned and laid waste. \"Apon Monday last,\" writes Lord Hunsdon from\nBerwick to Sir W. Cecil, under date 23rd April, 1570, \"beyng the 17th of\nthys ynstant, we went owt of thys towne by 6 a cloke at nyght and rode\nto Warke, where we remayned tyll three or four yn the mornyng; and\nthen sett forward the hole army that was with us att that present,\nynto Tyvydale bernyng on bothe hands at the lest two myle; levyng\nneythercastell, towne, nortowerunburnt tyllwecametojedworth. Many of the\ntownes beyng Bukklews, and a proper tower of hys, called the Mose Howse,\nwythe three or four caves, wheryn the cuntrey folk had put such stufe as\nthey had: and was very valyantly kept by serten of the cuntrey for two\nor three owars, but at last taken.... The next day we marchyd to Hawyke;\nwher by the way we began with Farnhurst and Hunthylle, whose howsys we\nburnt, and all the howsys about them. We could nott blow up Farnhurst,\nbut have so torne ytt with laborars, as ytt wer as goode ley flatt.\"\nThe building must have been of remark able solidity, for in spite of its\nbeing burnt, and left roofless and dismantled, \"torne with laborars,\" in\n1570, there can belittle doubt that in less than two years it was again\nat least tenable, for in 1572 Lord Ruthven, after dispersing at Hawick\nthe forces of Buccleuch and Fernihirst, (who supported the cause of the\nabdicated Queen,) on his return march to Jedburgh \"tuik the {135}housses\nof Pherniherst, and put men in them,\" and the place was held for some\ntime after this by the King's troops. Possibly it was more thoroughly\nknocked about in 1593 than it had been at any other period of its\nexistence. Sir Andrew Ker, then head of the house, when summoned to\nappear before James and his Privy Council at Jedburgh to answer for his\npart in aiding the schemes of the Earl of Both well, and for other acts,\nhad failed to put in an appearance, and had consequently been outlawed\nand declared a rebel. It was also proposed to render him homeless, for\non 16th October of that year Carey reports to Burghley that \"the King\nhas proclaimed to remain at Jedworth fifteen days, and summoned the\nbarons, gentlemen and freeholders to attend him, minding this day or\ntomorrow to pull down the lairds of Fernhirst and Hunthill's houses,\nand all others who have succoured Bothwell.\" Probably the threat was\ncarried into execution, to a greater or less extent. In any case, 1598\nsaw a renovated Fernihirst, much as it stands at the present day, when,\naccording to \"Castellated and Domestic Architecture of Scotland,\" it\npresents \"a charming example of a Scottish mansion of the period.\" Built\ninto the wall above the main doorway of the mansion, (as may be seen in\nMr. Hugh Thomson's sketch,) are two panels, that to the left showing the\narmorial bearings of the Kers, and above, on a scroll, the words:\n\nS. SOLIDEO\n\n\"forward in y\" name of god\"; at the foot, a.k. 1.5.9.8 On the panel to\nthe right is the word \"forward\"; in the centre of the panel the arms of\nSir Andrew's wife, Dame Ann\n\nD. SOLIDEO\n\nStewart, and beneath, a.s. 1.5.9.8.\n\nAs late as 1767 the house seems to have been occasionally used by\nthe Lord Lothian of that day, but it was even then showing signs of\ndilapidation. It was, however, occupied by farming tenants down to a\nrecent date, as late, I believe, as 1889. About that year extensive\nrepairs were carried out; {136}the ivy which--however picturesque it may\nhave been--was slowly throttling the old walls, was removed, the panels\nwere refaced, the roof made wind and weather proof, and the interior to\na great extent restored.\n\nAt Smailcleuchfoot, a little higher up the river, and nearly opposite to\nFernilhirst Mill, almost, as one might say, within a stone's cast of the\ncastle, stood once the house of a man greatly famed in Jedforest,--Auld\nRingan Oliver. No vestige of the house now remains, but the memory of\nRingan and the story of the siege he stood within his cottage here still\nlive in Border lore, and were sung of in James Telfer's \"Border Ballads\"\nclose on a century ago.\n\n               \"The crystal Jed by Smailcleuchfoot\n\n                   Flows on with murmuring din;\n\n               It seems to sing a dowie dirge\n\n                   For him that dwelt therein.\"\n\nRingan's forebears, men of mark all of them in their day, dwelt here at\nSmailcleuchfoot for many a generation. They were there, no doubt, when\nthe Sieur d'Ess\u00e9 recaptured Ferni-hirst for Sir John Ker; there when\nDacre stormed it in 1523; there perhaps, helping Douglas, when Father\nEllis and his Englishmen were caught feasting on the good fare at\nLintalee in 1317. With ancestors such as these, whose whole lives were\npassed in the midst of endless strife, men ever ready, and glorying in\ntheir readiness, to turn out against invading Southern bands, or to\nslip over Carterfell into Redesdale to plunder those same Southrons, how\ncould Ringan fail to be, what he was, a born fighter! With his enormous\nframe, immense personal strength, and dauntless courage, there was none\nin the Border so famed as he. Endless were the tales told of him,--how\nhe could take \"a ten half-fou boll of barley in the wield of his arm and\nfling it across a horse's back with the utmost ease\"; how in his youth\nhe raided Newcastle Jail, and rescued two of his friends, who had been,\nas he thought, unjustly imprisoned therein. The stories of him are\nendless. {137}Ringan lived in the stirring times of the Covenant, and\nwith a disposition such as his, dourly religious, it is almost needless\nto say that he was prominent among the more militant section of the\nCovenanters of the seventeenth century. He was probably present at\nDrumclog, and he was certainly present at Both well Brig, in 1679,\nfighting as few fought that bloody day. His home was in caves and among\nrocks, beneath dripping peat-hags, and in holes in the ground, for many\na day after this, but in 1680 he joined the outlawed Hall of Haughhead,\nand was in the tussle when that Champion of the Covenant was taken\nat Queensferry what time \"those two bloody hounds the Curates of\nBorrowstonness and Carriden smelled out Mr. Cargill and his companion.\"\nHall was killed, or at least died of his wounds before he could be\nbrought to Edinburgh; but Ringan Oliver and \"worthy Mr. Cargill\"\nescaped the net of the fowler. Then, in 1689, he was with Mackay\nat Killicrankie; and the following day though exhausted with the\nprecipitate flight from the battlefield, he fought at Dunkeld his famous\nduel with the Highland champion, Rory Dhu Mhor, whom he slew after a\nmost desperate and bloody fight. Bleeding from half a score of wounds,\nRingan had been beaten to his knees, and the affair seemed a certain\nvictory for the Highlander. But the latter was over-confident; he\nthought he had a beaten man at his mercy, and one instant's carelessness\ngave Ringan his chance. Before his adversary could recover, the point\nof the Borderer's sword was out between the Highlander's shoulders, and\nwith a roar of astonishment and wrath he fell dead.\n\nBut perhaps it was for the siege he stood at Smailcleuchfoot when he was\nnow an old man, that Ringan is best remembered. After a stormy youth and\nmiddle age, he had at length settled down in his ancestral home, where\nhe was leading the quiet life of a farmer. As the story is told, it\nseems that Ringan's strict integrity and high sense of honour had\ngained for him the respect and friendship of his powerful neighbour\nat Fernibirst--probably either the first or the second Marquess of\n{138}Lothian. Perhaps, too, there may have been something in the mutual\nbelief and manner of thought of the two men that drew them together.\n(There was a Ker of about that date, or a little earlier, who was a\nzealous Covenanter.) In any case, the friendship was of such a nature\nthat when Lord Lothian found himself, towards the close of his life,\ncompelled to undertake what was then the long and trying journey to\nLondon, he left Ringan in charge of his private papers, and entrusted\nhim with the key of a locked room in which valuable documents were\nkept, and into which he desired that no one should be permitted to enter\nwhilst he himself was absent in the south. As it chanced, after Lord\nLothian had started on his journey, his heir, considering, as a matter\nof course perhaps, that the old lord's prohibition did not apply to him,\nsent to Ringan demanding the key of the room, into which he had, or\nsaid he had, occasion to go. Ringan naturally, but perhaps not very\ndeferentially or even politely, refused to give it up. Thereupon arose\nhot words, and bitter enmity on the part at least of the younger man,\nwho, with that rather irrational form of vanity not uncommon in youth,\nimagined himself to be slighted.\n\nAnd hence came serious consequences to the old Covenanter. For the\nMarquess died, and the man whom Ringan had offended succeeded to the\ntitle and estates. He had always--so the story goes--nursed his wrath to\nkeep it warm, and he might be depended on to pay off, with interest, all\nold scores against him whom he talked of as that \"dour old Cameronian\ndevil.\" So it happened one day, towards the time of harvest, when corn\nlay waiting for the sickle in the smiling haughs of Jed, the young lord\nand his friends, attended by servants in charge of several dogs, came\non horseback across the river and began to ride up and down through\nRingan's crop, ostensibly looking for hares. The old man remonstrated in\nvain; no heed was paid to him, and at length, goaded to fury as he saw\nthe havoc being played among his good oates and bere, he snatched up\nan old musket (that perhaps had seen service at Bothwell Brig) {139}and\nshot one of the dogs dead. That was enough; the old man had put himself\nnow in the wrong. For the Marquess could plead that, after all, he had\nonly been riding on his own land; and he and his friends could assert\nthat the harm they had done, if any, had been infinitesimal. So the\nyoung lord rode off to Jedburgh, and had a summons issued by the Sheriff\nagainst Ringan.\n\nIt was one thing, however, to issue the summons, quite another to serve\nit, or afterwards to get Ringan to obey the call. If he persisted in\nignoring the summons, there were not many to be found bold enough to go\nto Smailcleuehfoot for the purpose of haling him before the Court; old\nas he now was, Ringan's reputation for strength and courage, and for\nreckless daring, was still great enough to keep the wolves of the law\nat bay. \"But,\" said the Sheriff, \"the law cannot thus be flouted; if\nhe does not come willingly, then he must be _made_ to come.\" Which of\ncourse was quite the right thing to say, especially if he had at hand\nthe force necessary to carry out his threat. But that was where the\ndifficulty came in. Finally, the Sheriff had to go himself to arrest old\nRingan, impressing on his way everybody whom he could find capable of\nhelping, including the Marquess himself.\n\nRingan was warned of their coming, and advised to fly. \"No!\" said the\nold man. \"I've dune no wrong. Let them touch me wha daur!\" But he set\nabout barricading his house, and when the Sheriff and his parry came on\nthe scene they found a building with doors fast and windows shuttered,\nand no one visible. At their knock, Ringan appeared at a small upper\nwindow, but entirely declined to be taken, or to open the door.\nThen commenced a vigorous assault by the Sheriff and his party. They\nattempted to break in the door and to rush the building. Ringan opened\nfire on them with his old musket, and drove them back.\n\nAnd then for a time there occurred nothing more than a fruitless\nexchange of shots, as one or other of the Sheriff's {140}men left cover\nor Ringan showed himself at one of the windows. It appears, however,\nthat there was in the house with the old man a young girl, either his\nadopted daughter or a domestic who looked after household affairs. This\ngirl had been told to keep out of harm's way, to shelter in a \"press\"\nor cupboard well out of any possible range of bullet; but in the heat of\nbattle the old man did not notice that curiosity had drawn her from the\nsafety of this hiding place, and had brought her right behind him at the\nmoment that he fired a shot through the window. It was a good shot,\nfor it clipped away a curl from the Sheriff's wig, and perhaps in his\nsatisfaction at going so near to his mark the old man may have showed\nhimself a little too openly. Anyhow, at that moment two or three muskets\nreplied, the heavy bullets coming with sullen \"phut\" into the woodwork\nof the little window-frame. But one flew straighter than the others;\nRingan heard behind him a sound, half gasp, half sob, and turned just in\ntime to see the lass sink on the floor, blood pouring from her throat.\nThe old man tried to stanch the wound, but it needed hardly more than a\nglance to tell that it was far beyond his simple skill, and that she was\npast hope.\n\nThen the lust of battle seized him, blind fury filled his breast, and\nhe thought only of revenge. He forgot his age, forgot that his fighting\ndays should have been long over, forgot everything but the mad desire\nto clutch the throats of his foes and to choke the life out of them. So,\ntearing down the barricades of his door, he rushed out on his enemies\nlike a wild bull charging. But alas for Ringan! part of the discarded\nbarricade caught his foot as he burst over the threshold, and down he\ncame with a crash. Before he could struggle even to his knees, the enemy\nwas on him, and he was down again on his face, half a dozen men swarming\nover him. Even yet, however, old and hopelessly outnumbered as he was,\nthe fight for a time was not so very unequal, and he might in the end\nhave cast off the crowd that strove to hold and bind him. {141}An\nill day it would have been for some of them had he succeeded. But\na treacherous pedlar, who had joined the fray for the sake of hire,\nwatching his chance, came behind, and with a blow from a hammer smashed\nRingan's jaw and brought him to the ground, stunned. The old man was\ntaken then, bound hand and foot, and carted off to Edinburgh. There,\nin the foul air of the Tolbooth he lay for eight weary years, suffering\ntortures great part of the time, not only from the broken jaw, but from\nold wounds which had broken out afresh, and which from the insanitary\ncondition of the prison now refused to heal. It was a broken, frail old\nman who came out from that long imprisonment. And he never got back to\nhis beloved Jed. Ringan Oliver died in Edinburgh in 1736; his huge frame\nsleeps in Greyfriars Churchyard.\n\nAs one travels up Jed by the old coach road--whose windings do not\ninvariably desert even the abruptest elbow of the stream--road and river\nfinally part company at the bridge below Camptown. Here the latter's\ncourse swings gradually to the right, through leafy banks and under\nspreading trees, whilst the former, following a straighter route, enters\non a long, steady bit of collar-work up the side of a pine-clad brae\nwhere, on one hand, lies the old camp from which the adjacent little\nsettlement derives its name, and, on the other, Edgerston, sleeping in\nits woods. Here once stood Edgerston Castle, which Hertford's men took\n\"by pollicie\" in 1544;--someone sold the Rutherfurd of that day. Castle\nand lands then belonged to the Rutherfurds, one of the most ancient\nfamilies in Scotland, and still the lands are theirs.\n\nA little way past Edgerston the road begins its long two mile climb to\nan elevation of close on 1500 feet near the summit of Catcleuch Shin.\nThere, immediately after passing the Carter Bar, it crosses the Border\nline, and drops steadily down into Redesdale, past the new Catcleuch\nReservoir that supplies Newcastle with water, a work which has wiped\nout of existence one of the pleasantest bits of fishing in the kingdom,\nwhere trout were many and game, and of enviable size. Perhaps the trout\nare there still--for those who may take them--but the capture of a dozen\nfish in still water cannot match the joy experienced in fighting one\ngood Rede trout in the strong rushing stream where he has passed all his\ndays.\n\n[Illustration: 0162]\n\nBeyond the Catcleuch Reservoir, a road of easy gradients sweeps down the\ndelightful Rede valley, past innumerable old camps, British and Roman;\npast Rowchester, into whose little school house, that stands solitary in\nthe angle of two ways, are built numerous stones (carved and otherwise)\nhandily quarried from the adjacent old Roman station of Bremenium; and\nhigh up, on the roof of the building, from the same source are various\nlarge round stone balls that may have formed part of the ammunition for\na Roman ballista. It was this route that the Roman legions followed\nover the Cheviots in their northward march from the mighty wall they\nhad stretched across England from sea to sea. A few miles east from\nCatcleuch Shin, their military road bursts suddenly into view of that\nglorious sweep of country where the triple-peaked Eildons dominate the\nscene, a landmark that no doubt led them first to the site of their\nfamous Newstead camp. {143}In early nineteenth century days, when His\nMajesty's mail coaches between Newcastle and Edinburgh came jangling\nover the crest of this bleak, unprotected bit of road at Catcleueh\nShin, taking at a gallant trot the long, stiff gradient that faced them\nwhether they were heading to the south or to the north, the trials of\noutside passengers in winter time must not seldom have been of a nature\ntruly unenviable. Bitter sleet, driving before a westerly gale, lashed\ntheir faces and stole chill wet fingers inside their wraps and upturned\ncollars; drifting, blinding snow, swirling on the wings of a wild\nnorth-easter, blurred the guiding line of snow-posts, and even at times\nhid his leaders from the coachman's sight, so that his first warning\nof being off the road and on the moor, was a heavy lurch as the coach\nburied its side in some blind hollow; frost, and a thermometer in the\nneighbourhood of zero, nipped from ears and nose and toes every vestige\nof feeling, and chilled to the very bone those whom duty or business\nforced to travel. It was truly a large assortment of evils that our\nancestors had to choose from, in the winter, on that road over into\nEngland by the Carter Bar.\n\nBut if winter was bad, surely in the better time of year there were\npleasures that atoned for all they had suffered. In the long twilight of\na summer's evening, when moorland scents fill all the air and the crow\nof grouse echoes from the heathery knolls, what pleasure more satisfying\ncould there be in life than to sit behind a free-going team of bays,\nlistening lazily to the rhythm of the chiming hoofs, to the ring of\nsteel bitts and the merry jingle of the splinter-bars? And as the coach\nbreasted the summit, and began to make up time on the down gradient,\nthe glorious view that broke on the eye of the north bound passenger of\nitself would make amends for halt the ills of life. Away to the west,\nstretched ever more dim in the fading sunset glow, the long-flung line\nof Cheviots--Carterfell, the Carlin's Tooth (where springs the infant\nJed), Peel Fell, Hartshorn Pyke, all blending, far down, into the round\ngreen {144}hills of Liddesdale; then, more to the north-westward, set in\nthe wide expanse, the Windburgh Hill and Cauldcleuch Head; farther off,\naway over the high land of upper Teviotdale,\n\n                   \"The far grey riot of the Ettrick hills,\"\n\nand the dim shapes of the mighty \"Laws\" of Peeblesshire--Broad Law,\nDollar Law, Black Law. Then far below this vantage point on Catcleuch\nShin, in middle foreground Edgerston's darkening woods; beyond,\nRuberslaw, Minto Crags,--\"where falcons hang their giddy nest,\"--and the\nDunion; then, to the right, Eildon's cloven peak, and, near-by, the Blac\nk Hill at Earlston, with the Lammermuirs in dimmest background; to the\nright again, Smailholme Tower, erect and watchful; east of that, the\ngreen Merse, wide-spread like a map, stretched almost to the sea, and on\nthe extreme right, far off, Cheviot himself, blocking the view. What a\ntruly magnificent sweep of country it is! A sense of space, and room to\nbreathe, such as one finds seldom in this country.\n\nThree hundred and thirty-eight years ago, however, there were Scots and\nEnglish assembled on that Catcleuch ridge one summer's day, who had no\neyes for the view;\n\n               \"The seventh of July, the suith to say,\n\n                   At the Reidswire the tryst was set;\n\n               Our Wardens they affixed the day,\n\n                   And, as they promised, so they met.\n\n               Alas! that day I'll ne'er forget!\"\n\nAs was customary, the English and Scottish Wardens of the Marches had\nmet for the discussion and settlement of Border claims and disputes, and\nfor the redressing of wrongs. Sir John Carmichael in this instance acted\nfor Scotland, Sir John Forster for England. The former was accompanied\nby the young Scott of Buccleuch,--according to Sir Walter the same who,\ntwenty-one years later, was famous for the rescue of Kinmont Willie\nfrom Carlisle Castle,--by sundry Armstrongs, {145}Elliots, Douglases,\nTurnbulls of Rule Water, and other wild Borderers.\n\n               \"Of other clans I cannot tell\n\n               Because our warning was not wide.\"\n\nBut it was a turbulent band, one would think, and not easy of control.\nForster had at his back Fenwicks--\"five hundred Fenwicks in a flock,\"\nsays the ballad,--Shaftoes, Collingwoods, and other of the great English\nBorder families, the men from Hexham and thereabout, and many of the\nfiercest fighters of Redesdale and Tynedale, the two latter said to\nbe then the most lawless people of the North of England. Indeed, their\nreputation was so evil that the merchants of Newcastle passed a by-law\nin the year 1564 that no apprentices should be taken \"proceeding from\nsuch leude and wicked progenitors.\"; Thus it may be seen that both\nnations were strongly represented, and that on both sides there was\nsuperabundance of most inflammable material waiting but for a spark\nto set it ablaze. In most promising and peaceful fashion, however, the\nproceedings opened:\n\n               \"Yett was our meeting meek eneugh;\n\n                   Begun wi' merriment and mowes.\n\n                   Some gaed to drink, and some stude still,\n\n               And some to cards and dice them sped.\"\n\nAnd all went smoothly and well, till the case of one Robson, a notorious\nRedesdale horse and cattle-thief, came up for discussion. The Scottish\nwarden, following the usual Border custom in such cases, demanded that\nthe culprit, having been guilty of theft on the northern side of\nthe March, should be given into Scottish custody till such time as\nreparation be made to the parties robbed by the Redesdale man. Sir John\nForster demurred, giving as his reason for evading the usual practice\nin such cases, that Robson had fled and could not be captured. \"Oh!\nPlay fair!\" cried Carmichael contemptuously. Whereupon Forster not\nunnaturally lost his temper, and made a fierce and insulting reply. Hot\nwords leapt from angry lips, and {146}swords, which in those days were\nnever long idle, began to flash in the warm sunshine as they left the\nscabbards. And then the Tynedale men--\"Fy, Tyndale, to it!\"--eager to\ntake time by the forelock, and determined not to stand out of what fray\nmight be going, loosed off a flight of arrows among the Scots. And all\nthe fat was in the fire. Like fiercest wolves, the two sides flew at\neach other's throats, trampling over the heathery ground, cursing,\nslashing, stabbing.\n\nThe Scots at first were getting rather the worst of the affray;\nCarmichael was down, and a prisoner; others were disabled. The English\nhad the slope of the hill slightly in their favour and made the most of\ntheir advantage, gradually forcing their foes to fall back in tardy\nand sullen retreat. Then came to the hot headed Tynedale men the\nirresistible temptation to plunder. It was customary at those Wardens'\nMeetings for pedlars or small tradesmen to erect on the ground selected\nfor the meeting, tents, or, as we say in Scotland, \"crames,\" sort\nof temporary shop-counters sheltered by canvas, in or on which they\ndisplayed the wares they had for sale. So it had been at this Reidswire\nMeeting. And as the Scots were forced back past those \"crames,\" the\ndesire for loot proved too strong for some of the English combatants. By\nones and twos, as opportunity offered, they edged away from the fight,\nand, like marauding wasps to crop of ripe plums, made for this booty\nthat might be had for the taking. Fighting and plunder were equally\ncongenial to the men of Tynedale.\n\nAt that very moment, however, in which a large number had so withdrawn\nthemselves, unfortunately for them reinforcements arrived for the Scots.\n\"Jethart's here!\" rang out over the roar and stress of the fight, and\ninto the \"tulzie\" plunged the men of Jedburgh, hot off their ten mile\nmarch.\n\n               \"Bauld Rutherfurd, he was fou stout,\n\n               Wi' a' his nine sons him about;\n\n               He led the toun o' Jedburgh out,\n\n                   All bravely fought that day.\"\n\n{147}The tables were badly turned on the English; now they in turn began\nto give way, and to be forced back up the hill down which till now they\nhad been successfully pressing the Scots. Too late the Tynedale men\ntried to retrieve their error; the Scots got them on the run and gave\nno breathing space; speedily the run became a rout. Over the crest into\nRedesdale fled the discomfited English, dropping here a man, there a\nman, as they fled. \"Sir George Hearoune of Schipsydehouse,\" (Sir George\nHeron Miles of Chipchase Castle,) fell early in the fight, and four\nand twenty dead bowmen kept him company. The wounded on both sides\nwere many; and among the prisoners taken by the Scots were the English\nWarden, Sir James Ogle, Sir Cuthbert Collingwood, Sir Francis Russell\n(son of the Earl of Bedford), several Fenwicks, and other leading men\nfrom the English side of the Border. Carmichael took his prisoners to\nEdinburgh--not greatly to the comfort of the Scottish Regent, the Earl\nof Morton; for England and Scotland were then, for once in a way, at\npeace, and such an incident as this Raid of the Reidswire was but too\nlikely to result in further war between the nations. Therefore, after\na day or two's detention, or rather, perhaps, after a day or two's\nentertainment, Morton, with every expression of regret and of regard,\nsent all the prisoners back to England, apparently not ill pleased with\ntheir treatment. No international complications followed the affair.\nCarmichael was sent to York to explain matters, and he seems to have\nbeen able to show satisfactorily that the Scots were within their rights\nthroughout; that, in fact, as the ballad says:\n\n               \" . . . . pride, and breaking out of feuid\n\n               Garr'd Tindaill lads begin the quarrel.\"\n\nSome years ago, a very handsome silver mounted sword, and a fine\nspecimen of a dagger, were unearthed by a man employed in cutting drains\non the hillside where the battle was fought that July day of 1575.\nThe sword was a beautiful {148}weapon, of fine temper, and it probably\nbelonged to one of the English leaders. Unfortunately it has been lost.\nBoth it and the dagger have, as I understand, mysteriously disappeared\nfrom the house in which they were kept. Somebody too greatly admired\nthem, one may suppose, and followed the example set by the men of\nTynedale in the heat of battle that day.\n\n[Illustration: 0168]\n\nThe scene of the fight is that fairly level bit of moorland to the left\nof the road just after you quit the Carter Bar, going south.\n\nHarking back now for a moment to Jed,--five or six miles above the\nbridge at Camptown where we quitted the line of river to follow the old\ncoach road over Carter Fell, we come to Southdean. Here are the ruins of\nan ancient church, (the foundations, at least, and part of the walls and\ntower,) which have lately been dug out from the great green mound with\nits big ash trees atop, which lay these two hundred years and more\nbetween hillside and river, down by the little grey {149}bridge. This is\nthe \"churche in a fayre launde called Zedon,\" wherein, says Froissart,\nDouglas and the other Scottish leaders met on the eve of that expedition\ninto England which ended with the glorious fight of Otterbourne. \"I\nnever heard the old song of Percy and Douglas,\" wrote Sir Philip Sidney,\n\"that I found not my heart more moved than with a trumpet;\" and who\nis there to-day, in spite of lapse of centuries, whose blood does not\nquicken at the very sound of the word \"Otterbourne.\"\n\nIt used to be said that the \"Zedon\" of Froissart was more applicable to\nYetholm than to Southdean. Some, indeed, still maintain that, as far\nat least as _sound_ is concerned, \"Zedon\" (the \"Z\", as was formerly not\nuncommon, being treated as a \"Y\") bears a much greater resemblance\nto \"Yethoim\" than to \"Southdean.\" One may readily admit that as it is\nspelled, \"South-dean\" is not in the least like \"Zedon.\" But it is\nan entirely different affair when we come to a matter of local\npronunciation. In this case the pronunciation is, as near as may be,\n\"Seuden.\" If we very slightly soften the sound of the letter \"Z,\" and\nallow for the fact that the \"e\" of Zedon would naturally be used by\nFroissart with the same value that it bears in his own language, we\narrive absolutely at the local pronunciation of the name--\"Seuden.\"\n\nIn any case, it seems most unlikely that the point of assembly could\nhave been Yetholm, if only for the reason that when marching from there\ninto England,--presumably by way of the Bowmont valley, and so past\nWooler and through Northumberland,--Douglas would have exposed himself\nto be struck in rear and on his left flank from the adjacent vantage\npoints of Roxburgh and Wark, both of which formidable strongholds were\nthen in English hands, and, (seeing that the intention of the Scots to\nmake an invasion had long been known in Northumberland,) probably held\nin force. And certainly, if the column came by way of Ottercops and\nRothely Crags, as it is said to have done, its starting point was not\n{150}Yetholm. Obviously, too, a Scottish army concentrated at Southdean\nwas in a much better strategical position than any that it could have\noccupied in the neighbourhood of Yetholm. From Southdean it could strike\neither way at will, either over the easy, and necessarily well known,\npass by Catcleuch Shin, or across the hills by the old Roman way, the\nWhele Causeway, into Liddesdale, and thence on to Carlisle.\n\nThis Scottish plan, to assemble an army here at Southdean, was the\noutcome of a meeting held some time previously at Aberdeen, a city \"on\nthe fronter of the Wylde Scottes,\" and, so far as was possible, the\nbusiness had been kept secret; even to the King himself no hint was\ngiven of what the Nobles designed, \"for,\" said they among themselves,\n\"the King is no manne of warre.\" But \"the Scottes coude nat do their\nmaters so secretly, but the lords of Englande knewe howe men rose in\nScotland, and how they shulde mete agayne at Gedeours.\" Spies brought\nword to Northumberland of what was afoot, and the English took all\nnecessary steps to upset the Scottish plan of campaign. If the Scots\ndecided to come by way of Carlisle, then the English resolved that\nthey, on their part, would burst into Scotland by way of Berwick, or by\nDunbar. Thus, said they, \"we shall do them more dommage than they can\ndo us, for their countrey is all open; we maye go where we lyst, and our\ncountre is strong, and the townes and castelles well closed.\"\n\nNow the Scots had gathered at Southdean this August of 1388 so vast an\narmy that \"in threscore yere before there was nat assembled toguyder in\nScotlande suche a nombre of good men; there were xii hundred speares\nand xl thousande men besvde with their archers; but in tyme of nede\nthe Scottes can lytell skyll with their bowes; they rather beare axes,\nwherwith they gyve great strokes.\" And this army, \"whan they were thus\nmette togyder in the marchesse of Gedours.... were mery, and sayd, they\nwolde never entre againe into their owne houses tyll they had ben in\nEnglande, and done suche dedes there that it shulde be spoken of xx yere\nafter.\" {151}To this gathering at Southdean came an English spy, one who\n\"knewe right well the marchesse of Scotlande, and specially the forest\nof Gedeours.\" Without arousing suspicion, this man made his way into the\nchurch, and overheard the Scottish leaders discuss their plans. And when\nhe had picked up information enough for his purpose, he withdrew quietly\nfrom the building and went to get his horse, which he had left in a\nconvenient spot, tied to a tree. But never a trace of horse nor of harness\nwas there now, \"for a Scotte, who be great theves, had stollen hym\nawaye.\" It was a very tight corner for the spy. He durst make no great\noutcry, lest he betray himself; so, in default, he started \"forthe\nafote, boted and spurred,\" thinking maybe to slip out of the camp\nunobserved and make over the Cheviots into Rede valley. In any other\nplace but the Border, perhaps he might have got clear away. But the\nBorderers have ever been horse lovers, and now the unwonted sight of a\nman, booted and spurred, footing it, at once drew eyes to him that might\nhave taken little heed had he been mounted. \"A filthie thing,\" says\nBishop Leslie, writing of the Borderers in the sixteenth century, \"a\nfilthie thing thay estcime it, and a verie abjecte man thay halde him\nthat gangis upon his fete, ony voyage. Quhairthrough cumis that al are\nhorsmen.\" So the spy had not gone many furlongs ere he was stopped by\ntwo mounted men.\n\n\"Felowe,\" said one of the two to the other, \"I have sene a marveyle;\nbeholde yonder a man goeth alone, and as I thynke, he hath lost his\nhorse, for he came by and spake no worde; I wene he be none of\nour company; lette us ryde after him to prove my saying.\" So, says\nFroissart, they went after him. And \"whane he sawe them commynge, he\nwolde gladly have ben thens.\" The spy's answers to questions not being\nsatisfactory, \"they brought hym againe to the church of Zedon and\npresented him to the Erle Duglas and to other lordes.\" And there \"they\nhandled hym in suche wise that he was fayne to shewe all the mater.\"\nTheir methods were not gentle in {152}those days; one wonders what they\ndid. Anyhow, \"they knew by hym that the lordes of Northumberland had\nsent hym thyder, to know the estate of their enterprise, and whiche waye\nthey wolde drawe. Hereof the Scottes were right joyous, and wolde nat\nfor a great good but that they had spoken with this squyer.\"\n\nScottish arguments proved too strong for the unhappy Englishman: \"Sirs,\"\nsaid he at last, \"sithe it behoveth me to saye the truthe, I shall.\"\nSo he gave information of the whereabouts of the English army, and\ndisclosed the whole of the English plans, telling how, the force at the\ndisposal of the Northumbrian lords not being strong enough to stand up\nagainst the Scottish host, the intention of the English leaders was that\nif the Scots should \"take the waye into Gales [Cumberland] they wyll\ngo by Berwike, and so to Dunbare, to Edinborowe, or els to Alquest\n[Dalkeith]; and if ye take nat that waye, then they wyll go by Carlyle,\nand into the mountayns of the countrey. Whan the lordes herde that, eche\nof them regarded other.\" As indeed they had excellent cause, for this\ninformation put into their hands a card that could most effectually\ntrump their adversary's strongest suit. They were \"ryght joyfull,\" says\nFroissart, and \"demannded counsayle what way was best for them to take.\"\n\nAccordingly, the main army was despatched over the hills, probably, and\nmost naturally, up Jed and the Raven Burn, and across into Liddesdale\nby the old Roman road that leaves Carlin Tooth and Wheelrig Head on its\nleft, and follows down Peel Burn to Liddel Water; thence down the Liddel\nValley the marching would be easy to Longtown and on to Carlisle; whilst\nDouglas, with a flying column consisting of \"thre hundred speares of\nchosen men, and of two thousande other men and archers,\" went up the\nCarter Burn and over the easy pass at Catcleuch Shin into Redesdale,\nwith intent to \"drawe towardes Newcastell upon Tyne, and passe the\nryver and entre into the bysshoprike of Durham, and burne and exyle the\ncountry.\" {153}\"Thus these two hoostes departed eche from other, echo\nof them prayenge other, that if the Englysshmen folowed any of their\narmyes, nat to fyght with them tyll bothe their armyes were joyned\ntoguyder. Thus in a mornyng they departed fro Gedeours, and toke the\nfeldes.\"\n\nDown the Rede valley--all fairly easy going in the dry August weather,\neven at that day, one may suppose; Froissart says the weather was\n\"fayre and temperate,\"--and across Tyne, Douglas pushed rapidly, pausing\nneither to burn nor to slay, until he came into Durham, \"where they\nfounde a good countrey. Than they beganne to make warre, to slee people,\nand to brinne vyllages, and to do many sore displeasures.\" Everyone\nknows what happened after this; how at length, having skirmished right\nup to the walls of Durham, and beyond, Douglas and his men turned again\nnorthward and halted two days before Newcastle, where lay Percy, and\nEnglish knights so many that \"they wyst not where to lodge\"; how, wjilst\nthe Scots remained here, Douglas and Percy fought, and Douglas overthrew\nPercy and took from him a trophy which the latter swore to redeem before\nit could be carried from Northumberland; and how Percy, coming up with\nthe Scots at Otterburne, strove to regain that which he had lost at\nNewcastle, and was defeated and made prisoner; how the fight raged\nthroughout the moon lit night far into the morning, and the trampled\nheath lay red with more than the bloom of heather; and how Earl Douglas\nwas slain. It is all told in the ballad, and how valiantly each fought\nwhere cowards had no place.\n\n               It fell about the Lammas tide,\n\n                   When the muir-men win their hay,\n\n               The doughty Douglas bound him to ride\n\n                   Into England to drive a prey.\n\n               He chose the Gordons and the Graemes,\n\n                   With them the Lindsays, licht and gay,\n\n               But the Jardines wald not with him ride,\n\n                   And they rue it to this day.  {154}\n\n               And he has harried the dales o' Tyne\n\n                   And half o' Bambroughshire;\n\n               And three good towers on Reidswire fells,\n\n                   He left them a' on fire.\n\n               And he march'd up to New Castel,\n\n                   And rade it round about:\n\n               \"O, wha is the lord o' this castel,\n\n               Or wha is the ladie o't?\"\n\n               But up spak proud Lord Percy then,\n\n                   And O but he spak hie!\n\n               \"It's I am the lord o' this castel,\n\n                   My wife's the ladie gay.\"\n\n               \"If thou art the lord o' this castel,\n\n                   Sae weel it pleases me!\n\n               For ere I cross the Border fells,\n\n                   The ane o' us shall dee.\"\n\n               He took a lang spear in his hand,\n\n                   Shod with the metal free;\n\n               And forth to meet the Douglas there,\n\n                   He rade right furiouslie.\n\n               But O, how pale his ladie look'd\n\n                   Frae aff the castel wall,\n\n               When down before the Scottish spear\n\n                   She saw proud Percy fa'!\n\n               \"Had we twa been upon the green,\n\n                   And never an eye to see,\n\n               I wad hae had you, flesh and fell,\n\n                   But your sword shall gae wi' me.\"\n\n               \"But gae ye up tae Otterbourne,\n\n                   And bide there dayis three;\n\n                   And gin I come not ere they end,\n\n               A fause knight ca' ye me.\"\n\n                   \"The Otterboume's a bonny burn,\n\n               'Tis pleasant there to be;\n\n                   But there is nought at Otterbourne\n\n               To feed my men and me.  {155}\n\n               \"The deer rins wild on hill and dale,\n\n                   The birds fly wild frae tree to tree;\n\n               But there is neither bread nor kail\n\n                   To fend my men and me.\n\n               \"Yet I will stay at Otterbourne,\n\n                   Where you shall welcome be;\n\n               And, if you come not at three dayis end,\n\n                   A fause knight I'll ca' thee.\"\n\n               \"Thither will I come,\" proud Percy said,\n\n                   \"By the micht of Our Ladye!\"\n\n               \"There will I bide thee,\" said the Douglas,\n\n                   \"My troth I plight to thee.\"\n\n               They lichted high on Otterbourne,\n\n                   Upon the brent sae brown;\n\n               They lichted high on Otterbourne,\n\n                   And threw their pallions down.\n\n               And he that had a bonnie boy,\n\n                   Sent out his horse to grass;\n\n               And he that had not a bonnie boy,\n\n                   His ain servant he was.\n\n               Then up and spak a little page,\n\n                   Before the peep of dawn:\n\n               \"O waken ye, waken ye, my good lord,\n\n                   For Percy's hard at hand.\"\n\n               \"Ye lie, ye lie, ye liar loud!\n\n                   Sae loud I hear ye lie;\n\n               For Percy had not men yestreen\n\n                   To fight my men and me.\n\n               \"But I hae dreamed a dreary dream,\n\n                   Beyond the Isle of Skye:\n\n               I saw a dead man win a fight,\n\n                   And I think that man was I.\"\n\n               He belted on his gude braid sword,\n\n                   And to the field he ran;\n\n               But he forgot the helmet good\n\n                   That shou'd have kept his brain.  {156}\n\n               When Percy with the Douglas met,\n\n                   I wat he was fu' fain!\n\n               They swakkit swords till sair they swat,\n\n               And the blood ran down like rain.\n\n               But Percy, wi' his good braid sword,\n\n                   That could sae sharply wound,\n\n               Has wounded Douglas on the brow,\n\n                   Till he fell till the ground.\n\n               Then he call'd on his little foot-page,\n\n                   And said--\"Run speedilie,\n\n               And fetch my ain dear sister's son,\n\n                   Sir Hugh Montgomerie.\"\n\n               \"My nephew good,\" the Douglas said.\n\n                   \"What recks the death o' ane!\n\n                   Last nicht I dream'd a dreary dream,\n\n                   And I ken the day's thy ain.\n\n               \"My wound is deep; I fain would sleep;\n\n                   Take thou the vanguard of the three,\n\n               And hide me by the bracken bush\n\n                   That grows on yonder lily lee.\n\n               \"O, bury me by the bracken bush,\n\n                   Beneath the blooming brier;\n\n               Let never living mortal ken\n\n                   That a kindly Scot lies here.\"\n\n               He lifted up that noble lord,\n\n                   With the saut tear in his ee;\n\n               He hid him in the bracken bush,\n\n                   That his merrie men might not see.\n\n               The moon was clear, the day drew near,\n\n                   The spears in flinders flew\n\n               But mony a gallant Englishman\n\n                   Ere day the Scotsmen slew.\n\n               The Gordon's gude, in English bluid\n\n                   They steep'd their hose and shoon;\n\n               The Lindsays flew like fire about,\n\n                   Till a' the fray was dune.  {157}\n\n               The Percy and Montgomerie met,\n\n                   That either of other was fain;\n\n               They swakkit swords, and they twa swat,\n\n                   And aye the bluid ran down between.\n\n               \"Now yield thee, yield thee, Percy,\" he said,\n\n                   \"Or else I vow I'll lay thee low!\"\n\n               \"To whom must I yield,\" quoth Earl Percy,\n\n                   \"Sin' I see that it maun be so?\"\n\n               \"Thou shall not yield to lord or loun,\n\n                   Nor yet shalt thou yield to me;\n\n               But yield ye to the brarken bush\n\n                   That grows upon yon lilye lee!\"\n\n               \"I will not yield to a bracken bush,\n\n                   Nor yet will I yield to a brier;\n\n               But I would yield to Earl Douglas,\n\n               Or Sir Hugh Montgomerie if he were here.\"\n\n               As soon as he knew it was Montgomerie,\n\n                   He stuck his sword's point in the gronde;\n\n               Montgomerie was a courteous knight,\n\n               And quickly took him by the hond.\n\n               This deed was done at Otterbourne,\n\n                   About the breaking o' the day;\n\n               Earl Douglas was buried by the bracken bush,\n\n               And the Percy led captive away.      Froissart says he was told by\ntwo English squires who took part in the fight, \"how this batayle was\nas sore a batayle fought as lyghtly hath been harde of before of such\na nombre, and I believe it well. For Englysshmen on the one partye and\nScottes on the other party are good men of warre: for whan they mete\nthere is a hard fight without sparvnge; there is no hoo bytwene them as\nlong as speares, swordes, axes, or dagers wyll endure, but lay on eche\nupon other, and whan they be well beaten, and that the one parte hath\noptaygned the victory, they than glorifye so in their dedes of armes\nand are so joyfull, that suche as be taken they shall be raunsomed\nor {158}they go out of the felde, so that shortly eche of them is so\ncontente with other that at their departynge curtoysly they wyll saye,\nGod thanke you. But in fyghtynge one with another there is no playe\nnor sparynge; and this is trewe, and that shall well apere by this sayd\nrencounter, for it was as valyauntly foughten as coulde be devysed.\"\n\nWith hand to hand fighting so close and so fierce as here befell at\nOtterburne, the slaughter could not fail to be very great. According to\nGodscroft, the English alone lost one thousand eight hundred and forty\nkilled, and over a thousand wounded. The total Scottish loss in killed,\nwounded and missing appears to have been less than half that of the\nenemy in killed alone. The English lost also over a thousand men who\nwere captured by the Scots; indeed, the latter had so many prisoners\nthat they were greatly put to it to know what to do with them at the\nmoment when the Bishop of Durham with his ten thousand fresh troops\ncame on the scene and seemed likely to renew the battle. Many of the\nprisoners were men of distinction. Percy himself was taken by the\nEarl of Montgomery; his brother, Ralph Percy, by Sir John Maxwell; Sir\nMatthew Reedman, governor of Berwick, by Sir James Lindsay. And many\nanother Scottish knight or squire held his brother of England to ransom.\n\nFroissart describes more than one picturesque incident of the fight, and\nnone, surely, is more vivid and alive than that in which he tells how\nSir Matthew Reedman, Governor of Berwick, fled From the field, pursued\nby Sir James Lindsay. When all was done that man could do, and all was\ndone in vain, Sit Matthew turned to save himself. Lindsay chanced to\nbe near at hand, and saw him gallop out from the stress of battle. \"And\nthis Sir James to wyn honour, followed in chase.... and came so nere hym\nthat he myght have stryken him with his speare if he had lyst. Than he\nsaid, 'Ah, sir knyght, tourne, it is a shame thus to flye: I am James of\nLindsay: if ye wyll nat tourne I shall stryke you on the backe {159}with\nmy speare.' Sir Matthew spake no worde, but strake his horse with the\nspurrs sorer than he dyde before. In this manner he chased hym more than\nthre myles, and at lasts sir Mathue Reedman's horse foundred and fell\nunder hym. Than he stept forth on the erthe, and drewe oute hys swerde,\nand toke corage to defende hymselfe; and the Scotte thought to have\nstryken hym on the brest, but sir Mathewe Reedman swerved fro the\nstroke, and the speare poynt entered into the erthe: than sir Mathue\nstrake asonder the speare with his swerde. And whan sir James Lynsay\nsawe howe he had loste his speare, he caste awaye the trounchon and\nlyghted afote, and toke a lytell batayle axe that he caryed at his\nbacke, and handeled it with his one hande, quiekely and delyverly,\nin the whiche feate Scottes be well experte. And than he sette at sir\nMathue, and he defended hymselfe properly. Thus they tourneyed toguyder,\none with an axe, and the other with a swerde, a longe season, and no man\nto lette them. Fynally, sir James Lynsay gave the knyght suche strokes,\nand helde hym so shorte, that he was putte out of brethe, in such wyse\nthat he yelded hymselfe, and sayde: 'Sir James Lynsay, I yelde me to\nyou.' 'Well,' quod he, 'and I receyve you, rescue or no rescue.' 'I am\ncontent,' quod Reedman, 'so ye deale with me lyke a good campanyon.'\n'I shall not fayle that,' quod Lynsay, and so put up his swerde. 'Well,\nsir,' quod Reedman, 'what wyll you nowe that I shall do? I am your\nprisoner, ye have conquered me; I wolde gladly go agayn to Newcastell,\nand within fyftene dayes I shall come to you into Scotlande, where as\nye shall assigne me.' 'I am content,' quod Lynsay: 'ye shall promyse by\nyour faythe to present yourselfe within this iii wekes at Edenborowe,\nand wheresoever ye go, to repute yourself my prisoner.' All this sir\nMathue sware and promysed to fulfyll. Than eche of them toke their\nhorses and toke leave eche of other.\"\n\nThey were to meet again, however, in less than the stipulated time. Sir\nJames turned his horse towards Otterburne, {160}intent on rejoining\nhis friends. But a mist came down over the hills and blotted out the\nmoorland; he could only feel his way in the direction he desired to go.\nAnd when at length through the haar and thickness there came to his ears\nthe muffled sound of voices, the ring of bridles and snort of horses, in\nfull assurance that the sounds came from a body of his own men returning\nfrom pursuit of the broken English, he rode confidently forward, it was\nto find himself face to face with five hundred horse under the Bishop\nof Durham. And said the Bishop to Lindsay: \"'Ye shall go with me to\nNewcastell.' 'I may nat chose,' quod Lynsay, 'sithe ye wyll have it so;\nI have taken, and I am taken, suche is the adventures of armes.'\n\n\"'Whom have ye taken': quod the bysshop. 'Sir,' quod he, 'I toke in the\nchase sir Malhue Redman.' 'And where is he?' quod the bysshop. 'By my\nfaythe, sir, he is returned to Newcastell; he desyred me to trust hym\non his faythe for thre wekes, and so have I done.' 'Well,' quod the\nbysshop, 'lette us go to New castell, and there ye shall speke wyth\nhym.' Thus they rode to Newcastell toguyder, and sir James Lynsay was\nprisoner to the Bysshop of Durham.\" So the twain met again, and \"'By my\nfaythe, sir Mathewe,' said Lindsay, 'I beleve ye shall nat nede to come\nto Edenborowe to me to make your fynaunce: I thynke rather we shall\nmake an exchaunge one for another, if the bysshoppe be so contente.'\"\nWhereupon, Reedman---as has ever been the wont of Englishmen--proposed\nthat they should mark the occasion by a dinner; and, says Froissart,\n\"thus these two knyghts dyned toguyder in Newcastell.\"\n\nHe was not a valiant person, apparently, this Bishop of Durham. Had he\nbeen a very militant Prince of the Church, it had surely gone hard now\nwith the Scots, for, outnumbered as they had been throughout the fight,\nthey were sore spent ere ever the Bishop hove in sight with his ten\nthousand fresh troops, and it could scarcely have taken very much to\ndrive them from the field in headlong rout. But the English leader was\nnot a very intrepid man; and when he found the Scots {161}drawn together\nin a position so defended by swamp and morass that entry could be forced\nonly by the one way, the Bishop hesitated. Then the Scottish leaders\nordered their \"mynstrels to blowe up all at ones, and make the greatest\nrevell of the worlde\"; for, as Froissart says, \"whan they blowe all at\nones, they make suche a noyse that it may be herde nighe iiii myles of;\nthus they do to abasshe their enemyes, and to rejoyse themselfes.\"\n\nThe instruments used were horns, we are told. Had they been bagpipes,\none might perhaps have understood the consternation of the English. Says\nFroissart: \"Whan the bysshoppe of Durham, with his baner, and XM men\nwith hym, were aproched within a leage, than the Scottes blew their\nhomes in suche wise that it seemed that all the devyls in hell had been\namonge them, so that such as herde them, and knewe nat of their usage,\nwere sore abasshed.\" Nevertheless, the Bishop, with his host in order\nof battle, advanced to within about two bow-shot of the Scots, and\nthere came to a halt in order to reconnoitre their position. The more\nhe looked at it, the less he liked it; losses were certain to be heavy,\nvictory by no means assured. So the English drew off; and the Scots, we\nare told, \"wente to their lodgynges and made mery.\"\n\nThen, the next day, having burned their camp, they marched unmolested\nback up the Rede valley into Scotland; and with them they bore the\nhonoured bodies of Douglas and of others who had fallen in the fight.\nPercy went with them, a captive, and many another distinguished\nEnglishman against his will sadly followed the victors. But those\nprisoners who were too badly hurt to endure the march into Scotland were\nsent under parole back to Newcastle, among them Sir Ralph Percy, who was\nreturned in a horse litter. Huge sums are mentioned as having been\npaid in ransom by the English prisoners, the estimate of some writers\nreaching the extravagant figure of \u00a3600,000, a sum that in those days\nwould have enriched the entire Scottish nation beyond the dreams of\navarice. Even that number of pounds {162}Scots (equal to \u00a350,000) seems\nbeyond reason. Froissart's 200,000 francs (\u00a38,000 in our money) is\nprobably about what was paid--in that day a most handsome sum.\n\n[Illustration: 0182]\n\nA cheerful little village is the Otterburne of the present day,--even\nthough there are not wanting evidences that some part of it, down by the\ninn, for example,-has planted itself in too close proximity to a river\nand a burn which still, as in those early eighteenth century days of\n\"Mad\" Jack Hall, are capable of sudden and vindictive flood. As\nregards the battlefield, however, there is not a great deal to see. The\nso-called Percy's Cross, which stands in a thin clump of trees to the\neast of the road three-quarters of a mile on the Scottish side of\nthe village, is a comparatively modern erection. The true site ot the\noriginal \"Battle Stone,\" according to maps of date 1769, was about a\ncouple of hundred yards more to the east, and there it stood, or\nrather, lay, till 1777, when the then proprietor of the land, a {163}Mr.\nEllison, put up the cross now standing, within view of the new turnpike\nroad which was then being made up the valley of the Rede. Mr. Ellison\nused the ancient socket of the original cross, but the rough pedestal on\nwhich the socket stands has nothing to do with the old memorial.\n\n[Illustration: 0183]\n\nNor has the present shaft, which, says Mr. Robert White in his \"History\nof the Battle of Otterburne\" (1857), was nothing but \"an old\narchitrave which had been removed from the kitchen fireplace at\nOtterburne Hall. This stone, the cross-section of which is fifteen and\na half by eight inches, still shows a bevelled corner throughout its\nlength; besides, two small pieces of iron project from one of its sides,\nwhich, in its former period of usefulness, were probably connected with\nsome culinary apparatus. On its top is another stone, tapering to a\npoint, which completes the erection. The entire length of the\nshaft above the base is nine and a half feet. The socket is a worn,\nweather-beaten {164}sandstone, about two feet square, without any\ntool-marks upon it, and appears to have been in use much longer than any\nof the stones connected with it.\"\n\nA still more modern memorial of the battle is a large semicircular\nseat cut in freestone, bearing on darker coloured panels various\ninscriptions, which stands by the road-side a little farther to the\nnorth. This was erected in 1888 by Mr. W. H. James, then M.P. for\nGateshead. It may be noted that one of the panels gives the date of the\nbattle as _tenth_ August, 1388, which is almost certainly a mistake.\n\nDouglas, of course, had satisfactory reasons for camping that night\nwhere he did,--reasons not unconnected probably with the question of\nshelter from English arrows. A wood protected him, it is said. Had he\ngone four or five miles farther on up the valley, he might have occupied\nthe old Roman camp of Bremenium, a strong position, not sheltered from\narrow-flight by trees, it is true, but protected on two sides by what\nin old days must have been swamps, and surrounded by a heavy wall\nwhich, even in its present condition, would be, to a defending force,\na considerable protection in hand to hand fighting. Five hundred years\nago, before the day of agricultural improvement and the custom of using\nancient monuments as a quarry, such a defence must have made the camp\na place of very considerable strength. Portions only now remain of the\nformidable wall which originally protected Bremenium, but enough stands\nto show what its strength must have been in the days when the Roman\nLegions manned it. The face is composed of great blocks of hewn\nfreestone, accurately fitted; in height it must have been about fourteen\nfeet, in thickness something like seventeen,--the inner portion, of\ncourse, being rubble work; outside there were two or more fosses. One of\nthe gateways is still intact to a very considerable height, but the camp\nas a whole has to a most pitiable extent been used as a quarry, perhaps\nfor hundreds of years. Even yet, one doubts if it is held quite\nsacred from vandal raids. As late as 1881, when {165}members of the\nBerwickshire Naturalists' Club visited the camp they found masons\ndeliberately quarrying stones from one corner of the wall, in order to\nbuild a hideous modern cottage, and I daresay some of the houses in the\nimmediate neighbourhood may be composed entirely of stones taken from\nthe old walls. The writer has not seen the Roman tombs which exist about\nhalf a mile to the east of the camp. The largest of these is said to\nhave still two courses of stones standing, besides the flat stones of\nthe foundation. This tomb has in front a small carving, regarding which\nDr. Collingwood Bruce, in \"The Roman Wall,\" suggests that it may have\nbeen intended to represent \"the head of a boar--the emblem of the\ntwentieth legion.\" The writer is given to understand that the carving\nbears no resemblance whatever to the head of a boar. A coin of the\nEmperor Alexander Severus was found in this tomb, together with a jar\ncontaining calcined bones, and a coin of the Emperor Trajan was found in\nthe camp.\n\nHow many of Douglas's wounded, one wonders, were carried from the field\nof battle over to Southdean, and, succumbing there to their wounds, were\nburied at the church? Two or three years ago, when the ash-trees were\ncut down and the grassy mound carted away that had so long concealed the\nruins of the old building, quantities of human bones were dug up within\nand about the walls, some of the skulls showing unmistakably that\nthe owners had died no peaceful death. No doubt the main body of the\nScottish army would follow the dead Douglas to his tomb in Melrose\nAbbey, and would therefore never come so far west as Southdean, but the\nseverely wounded would naturally be left wherever they could be attended\nto. It is certain that the Southdean district was in old days much less\nsparsely populated than is now the case; two important yearly fairs, for\ninstance, used formerly to be held at Lethem, (three miles nearer the\nBorder than Southdean,)--where also, on a knoll still called the Chapel\nKnowe, was a chapel, subsidiary to the church of Southdean. These fairs\nwere for the sale of {166}\"horse, nolt, sheep, fish, flesh, malt, meal,\"\nand all sorts of merchandise, and in the permit to hold the Fairs\nLethem is described as being \"by reason of its situation, lying near the\nBorder, a very convenient and fit place for traffic and trade.\"\n\n[Illustration: 0186]\n\nThe church of Southdean, therefore, as its ruins indicate, was probably\nof considerable importance, surrounded by a settlement of some size,\nwhere wounded men might well be left to take their chance of recovery.\nWhether the Scots returned from Otterburne up Rede valley and over the\npass by way of Catcleuch Shin, or (as is more probable) followed the\nRoman Road which passes Bremeirum Camp and runs over the Cheviots some\nmiles to the east of Carter-fell, and thence crossing Kale, Oxnam,\nJed, and Teviot, goes in more or less direct line towards Newstead and\nMelrose, it would be easy and natural for them to detach a party with\nthe wounded, and perhaps with the bodies of some of the more notable\ndead, to {167}Southdean. And those of them who died there would of\ncourse be buried in or close to the church.\n\nDuring the excavations, it is of interest to note that numbers of skulls\nwere found all together at one spot, pointing to the probability of many\nbodies having been, from some common cause, buried in a common grave.\nThe inference seems not illegitimate that this cause was the fight at\nOtterburne. The English appear to have carried away from the field many\nof their dead, as well as their wounded:\n\n               \"Then on the morne they mayde them beerys\n\n                   Of birch and haysell graye;\n\n               Many a wydowe, with wepynge teyrs\n\n                   Ther makes they fette awaye.\"\n\nIt is not unlikely that the Scots also brought away some, at least, of\ntheir dead, and, as Southdean was the nearest spot in their own country\nwhere they could find consecrated ground, the probability is that these\nbodies, as well as those of the wounded who died later, would find rest\nthere.\n\nIn his \"History and Poetry of the Scottish Border,\" Professor Veitch\nmentions that \"a recent discovery made at Elsdon Church, about three\nmiles from the scene of conflict, may be regarded as throwing some light\non the slaughter. There skulls to the amount of a thousand have been\ndisinterred, all lying together. They are of lads in their teens, and\nof middle-aged men; but there are no skulls of old men, or of women. Not\nimprobably these are the dead of Otterburne.\"\n\nThe length of the old building at Southdean, including tower and\nchancel, was ninety-seven feet, and the nave was about twenty-three\nfeet in width. Many notable things were unearthed during the work of\nexcavation, those of most interest possibly being a massive octagonal\nfont, cut from one block of stone, and a small stone super-altar incised\nwith the usual five crosses.\n\nAt Southdean, as elsewhere, the old church has for generations been used\nas a quarry. The retaining wall of the adjacent {168}Newcastle road is\nfull of dressed stones taken from the building, and others, some of them\ncarved, have been built into the walls of an adjoining barn. Certainly\nour ancestors in this instance had more excuse than usual to offer for\ntheir depredations, for the building was a hopeless ruin. The roof\nof the church fell in one Sunday in the year 1689, and the walls--not\nunhelped by human hands--speedily followed suit. Stones from the\nprincipal doorway seem to have been used in 1690 in the building of a\nnew church at Chesters. That too is now in ruins.\n\n{169}\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI ALE, RULE WATER, TEVIOT, HAWICK\n\n|As we ascend Teviot, after Jed its next important tributary is the\nAle, not so named from the resemblance of its waters, when flooded, to\na refreshing beverage. Sir Herbert Maxwell says that the name was\noriginally written \"Alne\" (as in Aln, Alnwick) and this form survives in\nthe place-name in Ale, Ancrum, the site of a desirable Scottish victory.\nThe word would at first be Alne crumb, the crook of Alne or \"Ale.\" Crom\ndoes mean \"crook\" in Gaelic, I understand, and Ale does make a crook or\nbend round Ancrum, so the names are tokens of the possession of the dale\nby Gaelic-speaking people, very long ago. In Timpendean, the name of\na ruined tower opposite the point where Ale enters Teviot, we have the\nEnglish \"dene\" or \"den,\" as in the neighbouring Hassendoan The places\nof most historical interest on lower Ale are Ancrum Moor and Lilliard's\nEdge, the scene of a battle in which the Scots partly avenged the\nincessant burnings and slayings by the men of Henry VIII, inflicted\nwhile the prince was furious at his failure to secure the hand of the\nbaby Queen, Mary Stuart, for his puny son, later Edward VI. Henry\nfirst hoped, by the aid of these professional traitors, chiefs of the\nDouglases,--the Earl of Angus and his brother, Sir George--to obtain\nthe Royal child and the great castles, and the {170}Crown of Scotland,\nwithout drawing sword. Baffled in this by the adroitness and patriotic\ncourage of Cardinal Beaton, he sent his forces to rob, burn, and slay\nthrough all the eastern and central Marches. In February 1545, Hertford\nhad finished his own work of ruin, despite which the Earl of Angus\ndeclared that he loved Henry VIII \"best of all men.\" There followed\na breach in this tender sentiment, _amantium irai._ Hertford's\nlieutenants, Evers and Laiton, with \"assured Scots\" of Teviotdale,\nwearing St George's cross, were harrying the Border. The Scottish\nRegent, the fickle, futile, good-humoured Earl of Arran, called for\nforces, but met little response, for, as a contemporary diarist writes,\nall men suspected the treachery of Henry's lover, and of the Douglases,\n\"ever false, as they alleged.\" Yet Scott, in his ballad of \"The Eve\nof St John,\" speaks of \"the Douglas true and the bold Buccleugh\"; the\nScotts of Buccleuch, in fact, were ever loyal. The Laird, approached\nwith bribes in English gold, rejected them in language of such\npardonable profanity as frightened and astonished the English envoy,\naccustomed to buy Scottish traitors by the gross.\n\nSo mixed were affairs that while Wharton was trying to kidnap Sir George\nDouglas for Henry, Sir George was endeavouring to betray Arran to the\nEnglish. They worsted the pacific Regent near Melrose, burned town and\nabbey, and desecrated the ancestral graves there of the Douglases, among\nthem the resting place of the Earl who fell, when \"a dead man won a\nfight,\" at Otterburne. The English clearly did not understand that Angus\nand his brother were eager to make their peace with Henry by relieving\ntheir treacheries to their country.\n\nThe ruining of his ancestors' tombs aroused the personal fury of\nAngus, moreover Henry had made large gifts of Angus's lands to Evers and\nLaiton. Angus therefore gathered his forces, breathed out threats, and\njoined hands with Arran, who was also supported by a very brave man,\nNorman Leslie, {171}presently to be one of the assassins of Cardinal\nBeaton--in Henry's interest. Norman, however, was patriotic for the\nmoment, and the bold Buccleuch was ever trusty. As Angus and Arran\nfollowed the English, Leslie and Buccleuch \"came lightly riding in\" and\nthe Scots united on the wide airy moor of Ancrum.\n\nThe English saw their approach, and saw their horses moving to the rear.\nSupposing that the Scots were in retreat, (they meant to fight on foot,\nand only sent their mounts to the rear,) the lances of Evers and\nLaiton galloped gaily in pursuit. But what they found was \"the dark\nimpenetrable wood\" of stubborn spears. With the sun and the wind and\nblown smoke in their faces, the English cavalry charged, and were\nbroken on the _schiltroms_ or serried squares as they were broken at\nBannockburn. Hereon the clan Ker, the men of Cessford and Ferniehirst,\n\"assured Scots,\" tore off their crosses of St. George, and charged\nwith Leslie, the Douglases, and Buccleuch. The English were routed, the\ncountry people rose against them; Evers and Laiton lost their new lands\nwith their lives, eight hundred of the English were slain, and two\nthousand were taken alive--which is rather surprising. The English\nevacuated Jedburgh, and the Scots recovered Coldingham.\n\nMeanwhile the good-natured, false, feckless Regent Arran wept over the\ndead body of Sir Ralph Evers. \"God have mercy on him, for he was a fell\ncruel man, and over cruel. And welaway that ever such a slaughter and\nblood shed should be among Christian men,\" sobbed the Regent. His heart\nwas better than his head. Even George Douglas had warned Henry VIII of\nwhat would result from \"the extreme war that is used in killing women\nand young children.\" In my childhood I heard and never forgot, the\ncountry rhyme on an Amazon of a girl, who, to avenge her lover, took\narms at Ancrum moor. She fell, and on her tomb, which has been many\ntimes restored, the following epitaph is {172}engraved:\n\n               \"Fair Maiden Lilliard\n\n                   Lies under this stane;\n\n               Little was her stature,\n\n                   But muckle was her fame.\n\n               Upon the English loons\n\n                   She laid many thumps,\n\n               And when her legs were cuttit oft\n\n                   She fought upon her stumps.\"\n\nClearly this is a form of\n\n          \"For Widrington I must bewail as one in doleful dumps,\n\n          For when his legs were cutten off he fought upon his stumps.\"\n\nLilliard's Edge, the ancient name of the scene of this fair lady's fall,\nmust have suggested the idea of a girl styled Lilliard, and her story\nwas thus suggested to the rhymer and became a local myth.\n\nAbout Ancrum the Ale, like the Jed, and, over the Border, the Eden and\nCoquet, beautifies itself by cutting a deep channel through the fine\nred sandstone of which Melrose Abbey is built. These channels are always\nbeautiful, but Ale, otherwise, as we ascend its valley, is a quiet trout\nstream \"that flows the green hills under.\" In my boyhood, long, long\nago, Ale abounded in excellent trout, and was my favourite among all\nour many streams. It does not require the angler to wade, like Tweed and\nEttrick; it is narrow and easily commanded. The trout were almost as\nguileless as they were beautiful and abundant; but I presume that they\nare now almost exterminated by fair and unfair methods. The Scot, when\nhe does not use nets, poisons, and dynamite, is too often a fisher with\nthe worm, and, as I remember him, had no idea of returning even tiny\nfish to the water, as James Thomson, author of The Seasons, himself a\nBorder angler, advises us to do.\n\nGuileless, indeed, since old time has been the character of the trout of\nAle. Sir Thomas Dick Lauder tells how in his boyhood he went once with\na chance-met \"souter\" from Selkirk to the long pool in Ale above Midlem\nbridge, and how there, {173}by a most unsporting device, they captured\nthe innocent trout almost by the sack-load. \"We came,\" he says, \"to a\nvery long gravelly-bottomed pool, of an equal depth all over of from\nthree to four feet. Here the souter seated himself; and, shortening both\nour rods, and fitting each of them with the three hooks tied back to\nback, he desired us to follow him, and then waded right into the middle\nof the pool. The whole water was sweltering with fine trouts, rushing in\nall directions from the alarm of our intrusion among them. But after we\nhad stood stock still for a few moments, their alarm went off,\nand they began to settle each individually in his own place.\n'There's a good one there,' said the souter, pointing to one at about\nthree yards from him; and throwing the hooks over him, he jerked him\nup, and in less than six seconds he was safe in his creel. We had many a\nfailure before we could succeed in catching one, whilst the souter never\nmissed; but at length we hit upon the way; and so we proceeded with our\nguide, gently shifting our position in the pool as we exhausted each\nparticular spot, until the souter's creel would hold no more, and\nours was more than half filled with trouts, most of which were about\nthree-quarters of a pound in weight; and very much delighted with the\nnovelty of our sport, we made our way back to Melrose by the western\nside of the Eildon hills, and greatly astonished our companion with the\nslaughter we had made, seeing that he had been out angling for a couple\nof hours in the Tweed, without catching a single fin.\" A slaughter of\nthe innocents, indeed! But the most inveterate poacher could not now,\nin any Border stream, hope to rival a feat so abominable in the eyes of\npresent-day fishers. Nor, if he did attempt it, would he be likely to\nfind trout so utterly devoid of guile as to submit thus quietly to be\nhooked out of the water one by one till the pool was emptied. Trout\nare better educated, if fewer in number, than they appear to have been\neighty or ninety years ago. It is difficult, too, to see where the fun\nof this form of fishing comes in, after the rather {174}cheap excitement\nof catching the first one or two. But they did curious things in the\nname of Sport in the earlier half of last century. Many of the methods\nof catching salmon that are written of approvingly by Scrope, that great\nangler of Sir Walter's day, are now the rankest of poaching, and are\nprohibited by law.\n\nThe mid course of Ale is through \"ancient Riddel's fair domain,\" as\nScott says in the great rhymes of William of Deloraine's midnight ride\nfrom Branksome Tower to Melrose. There is now no Riddel of Riddel.\n\nHere I shall mercilessly quote the whole of William of Deloraine's\nItinerary from Branksome Tower till he rides Ale when \"great and muckle\no' spate.\"\n\n                   \"Soon in his saddle sate he fast\n\n                   And soon the steep descent he past,\n\n                   Soon cross'd the sounding barbican,\n\n                   And soon the Teviot side he won.\n\n                   Eastward the wooded path he rode,\n\n                   Green hazels o'er his basnet nod;\n\n                   \"He pass'd the Peel of Goldiland,\n\n                   And cross'd old Borthwick's roaring strand;\n\n                   Dimly he view'd the Moat-hill's mound.\n\n                   Where Druid shades still flitted round;\n\n                   In Ilawick twinkled many a light;\n\n                   Behind him soon they set in night;\n\n                   And soon he spurr'd his coarser keen\n\n                   Beneath the tower of hazeldean.\n\n                   \"The clattering hoofs the watchmen mark:--\n\n                   'Stand, ho! thou courier of the dark.'--\n\n                   'For Branksome, ho!' the knight rejoin'd,\n\n                   And left the friendly tower behind.\n\n                   He turn'd him now from Teviotside,\n\n                   And guided by the tinkling rill,\n\n                   Northward the dark ascent did ride,\n\n                   And gained the moor at Horslichill;\n\n                   Broad on the left before him lay,\n\n                   For many a mile, the Roman way.  {175}\n\n                   \"A moment now he slack'd his speed,\n\n                   A moment breathed his panting steed;\n\n                   Drew saddle-girth and corslet-band,\n\n                   And loosen'd in the sheath his brand.\n\n                   On Minto-crags the moonbeams glint,\n\n                   Where Barnhill hew'd his bed of flint;\n\n                   Who flung his outlaw'd limbs to rest,\n\n                   Where falcons hang their giddy nest,\n\n                   Mid cliffs, from whence his eagle eye\n\n                   From many a league his prey could spy;\n\n                   Cliffs, doubling, on their echoes borne,\n\n                   The terrors of the robbers' horn;\n\n                   Cliffs, which, for many a later year,\n\n                   The warbling Doric reed shall hear,\n\n                   When some sad swain shall teach the grove,\n\n                   Ambition is no cure for love!\n\n                   \"Unchallenged, thence pass'd Deloraine,\n\n                   To ancient Riddel's fair domain,\n\n                   Where Aill, from mountains freed,\n\n                   Down from the lakes did raving come;\n\n                   Each wave was crested with tawny foam,\n\n                   Like the mane of a chestnut steed.\n\n                   In vain! no torrent, deep or broad,\n\n                   Might bar the bold moss-trooper's road.\n\n                   At the first plunge the horse sunk low,\n\n                   And the water broke o'er the saddlebow;\n\n                   Above the foaming tide, I ween,\n\n                   Scarce half the charger's neck was seen;\n\n                   For he was barded from counter to tail,\n\n                   And the rider was armed complete in mail;\n\n                   Never heavier man and horse\n\n                   Stemm'd a midnight torrent's force.\n\n                   \"The warriors very plume, I say,\n\n                   Was daggled by the dashing spray;\n\n                   Yet, through good heart, and Our Ladye's grace,\n\n                   At length he gained the landing place.\"\n\nAbove the point where William rode the water, the scenery is quiet and\npastoral; about Ashkirk and Synton we are in the {176}lands of lairds\nwhose genealogies are recounted in the rhymes of old Satchells, who\n\n                        \"can write nane\n\n                   But just the letters of his name.\"\n\nFurther up, Ale rests in the dull deep loch of Alemuir, which looks as\nif it held more pike than trout. And so we follow her into the hills and\nthe water-shed that, on one side, contributes feeders to the Ettrick.\nIt is a lofty land of pasture and broken hills, whence you see the airy\npeaks of Skelfhill, Penchrise, the Dumon, and the ranges of \"mountains\"\nas Scott calls the hills through which the Border Waters run, Yarrow,\nEttrick, Borthwick Water and Ale Water. A \"water\" is larger than a\n\"burn,\" but attains not to the name of a river.\n\nRule, the next tributary as we ascend Teviot, is but a \"Water,\" a pretty\ntrout stream it would be if it had fair play. The question of fishing\nin this country is knotted. Almost all the trout streams were open to\neverybody, in my boyhood, when I could fish all day in Tweed or Ale, and\nnever see a rod but my own. The few anglers were sportsmen. \"Duffer\" as\nI was, I remember a long summer day on Tweed at Yair, when, having come\ntoo late for the ten o'clock \"rise\" of trout, I had an almost empty\ncreel. Just before sunset I foregathered with old Adam Linton, his large\ncreel three-quarters full of beauties. \"What did you get them with?\"\nI asked. At the moment he was using the tiniest midges, and the finest\ntackle. \"Oh, wi' ae thing and another, according to the time o' day,\"\nhe answered. I daresay he used the clear water worm, fished up stream;\ndeadly sin m Hampshire, but not in the Forest. Since these days the\nworld has gone wild on angling, the waters are crowded like the Regent's\ncanal with rods. Now I am all for letting every man have his cast; but\nthe only present hope for the survival of trout is in the associations\nof anglers who do their best to put down netting and dynamiting. A\nclose time when trout are out of season, we owe to Sir Herbert Maxwell,\nopposed as he was by the Radical Member for the Border Burghs. I {177}am\nnot sure that there is a rule against slaying trout under, shall we say,\nseven inches? However it may be, I had my chance and wasted it; being a\nduffer. Trout may become extinct like the Dodo; it makes no odds to\nme. I never cast fly in Rule, nor even examined \"the present spiritless\nparish church,\" on the site of a Norman church of the early twelfth\ncentury. The few relics of carved stone fill Sir Herbert Maxwell's\nheart with bitterness against the dull destroyers. Our Presbyterian\nforefathers, as far as in them lay, destroyed every vestige of the noble\nart whereof these glens were full, when, in the twelfth century, the\nBorder was part of a civilised country. For all that I know, they were\ninnocent of ruin at Bedrule; the English of Henry VIII may here, as all\nthrough this region, have been the destroyers. They were Protestants of\na sort. Moreover in Rule dwelt the small but fierce clan of Turnbull,\nwho, between Scotts and Kers, fought both of these great clans, and\nnow, as a power, \"are a' wede awa'.\" Perhaps an enemy of theirs took\nsanctuary in the church, and they \"burned the chapel for very rage,\" as\nthe Scotts burned St. Mary of the Lowes shortly before the Reformation.\n\nSomewhere about 1620, Rule Water had her minstrel, named Robin,\nnick-named \"Sweet-milk,\" from the place of his residence. In my opinion\nthese singers of the late days of James VI and I, were the survivors of\nthe Border minstrels who, says Queen Mary's Bishop of Ross, Lesley, the\nhistorian, made their own ballads of raids and rescues, such as _Jock o'\nthe Cow_, and as much as is not Scott's of _Kinmont Willie_. There was\na rival minstrel, Willie Henderson, whom I take to have sided with the\nScotts, while Robin was the Demodocus of the Eliotts of Stobs. The pair\nmet, drank, fought, and Willie pinked \"Sweet-Milk\" Robin, the Eliotts'\nman.\n\n               \"Tuneful hands with blood were dyed,\"\n\nsays Sir Walter, but what was the cause of the quarrel? I have\na hypothesis. The famous ballad of _Jamie Telfer_ exists in two\n{178}versions. In one the Scotts are covered with laurels, while Martin\nEliott plays the part of a cur. In the other, the Eliotts gain all the\nglory, while Scott of Buccleuch acts like a mean dastard. One of these\nversions is the original, the other is a perversion. The ballad itself,\nwhich takes us all through the Border, from Bewcastle on the English\nside, to the fair Dodhead on Upper Ettrick, is not of the period of the\nincidents described. As far as these are historical, the date is about\n1596. The author of the ballad does not know the facts, and makes\nincredible statements. Consequently he is late, writes years after the\nUnion of the Crowns (1603) and the end of Border raids. I guess that\neither Will Henderson was the author of the ballad in favour of the\nScotts, and that Robin, the minstrel of the Eliotts, perverted it into\nthe Eliott version, or _vice versa_, Robert was the original author,\nWill the perverter. Here, in any case, was infringement of copyright and\ndeadly insult. The poets fought. Certainly, Robin fell, and the Eliotts\nhanged Will, gave him \"Jeddart justice.\" To the ballad we shall return;\nit is, though inaccurate, full of the old Border spirit, and is in\nitself an itinerary of the Marches.\n\nThese high powers, the Scott and Eliott clans, like the States of\nEurope, were now allies, cementing their federacy by intermarriages; and\nagain were bitter foes. The strength of the chief of the Eliotts was\nin Liddesdale, of the Scotts, in Teviotdale. They were allies for young\nJames V against his Keepers, the Douglases,\n\n               \"When gallant Cessford's life-blood dear\n\n               Reeked on dark Eliott's Border spear\"\n\nat \"Turn Again,\" a spot on Scott's estate of Abbotsford. They were foes\nin 1564-66, in Queen Mary's reign, when Martin Eliott, chief of his\nclan, plotted with the Armstrongs to betray her strong fortress of\nHermitage to the English.\n\nIn this feud the Eliotts attacked Scott of Hassendean in his tower on\nHassendean burn, the next tributary of Teviot, but {179}the ballad\nof _Kinmont Willie_ makes Gilbert Eliott of Stobs ride with the\nbold Buccleuch to the rescue of Willie from Carlisle Castle (1596).\nUnluckily, in 1596 Gilbert Eliott was not yet the Laird of Stobs.\n\n[Illustration: 0199]\n\nThis Gilbert, at all events, married the daughter of the Flower of\nYarrow, the wife of Auld Wat Scott of Harden, himself the neighbour\nand foremost fighting man of the laird of Branksome in Teviot, the\nbold Buccleuch. His descendant, Sir Walter, has made Auld Wat's name\nimmortal, and, in Jamie Telftr, has certainly interpolated a spirited\nstanza.\n\nIn the village of Denholm, on Teviot, opposite to Hassendean, was born\nJohn Leyden, the great friend of Scott, a poet in his way, but much more\nremarkable as a man of amazing energy of character, an Orientalist, and\na collector of ballads. But few now know what\n\n                   \"distant and deadly shore\n\n               Holds Leyden's cold remains,\"\n\nHis memory is twined with that of Sir Walter, and he is one of {180}the\nmost living figures in Lockhart's Life of Scott. Leyden had the poetic\nquality, not judiciously cultivated, of the old Border minstrels,\nwhile the energy which the clans expended in war was given by him to\nomnivorous studies.\n\nBelow Denholm, but on the other side of the river, nearly opposite the\njunction of Rule Water with Teviot, is Minto, in the fourteenth century\na property owned by one of that unruly clan, the Turnbulls. Later,\nit passed to the family of Stewart, and finally, somewhere about the\nbeginning of the eighteenth century, it was bought by Sir Gilbert\nElliot, ancestor of the Minto branch of that family. The present house\ndates only from 1814, but it has a curious legend attached to it, which\nis mentioned in Sir Walter Scott's diary, under date 23rd December,\n1825. He says: \"It is very odd that the common people about Minto and\nthe neighbourhood will not believe at this hour that the first Earl is\ndead.\" [He died in June, 1814.] \"They think he had done something in\nIndia which he could not answer for--that the house was rebuilt on a\nscale unusually large to give him a suite of secret apartments, and that\nhe often walks about the woods and crags of Minto at night, with a white\nnightcap and long white beard. The circumstances of his having died on\nthe road down to Scotland is the sole foundation of this absurd legend,\nwhich shows how willing the public are to gull themselves when they can\nfind no one else to take the trouble. I have seen people who could read,\nwrite, and cipher, shrug their shoulders and look mysterious when this\nsubject was mentioned. One very absurd addition was made on occasion\nof a great ball at Minto House, which it was said was given to draw all\npeople away from the grounds, that the concealed Earl might have leisure\nfor his exercise.\"\n\nTo the east of Minto House are Minto Crags, towering precipitous to\na height of over seven hundred feet. On the summit is the ruin called\nFatlips Castle, which is said to have been the stronghold of the\nfourteenth-century owner of Minto, {181}Turnbull of Barnhill, a\nnotorious Border freebooter. A small grassy platform, or level space, a\nlittle below the ruin, is called Barnhill's Bed, \"Where Barnhill hew'd\nhis bed of flint,\"--a convenient spot, no doubt, in old days on which to\nstation a sentry or look-out.\n\nThe third Sir Gilbert Elliot of Minto was apparently in his own way\nsomething of a poet, but the ever tolerant Sir Walter Scott, to whom\nhe used to read his compositions, confesses that the verses were\n\"but middling,\" Sir Gilbert had, however, a better title, at least to\ncollateral fame; he was the brother of the Jean Elliot who wrote that\nundying lament, the \"Flowers of the Forest.\"\n\nIt is curious to note that in 1374 the church of Minto belonged to the\ndiocese of Lincoln.\n\nHere at Minto, if credence in the reality of Fairies no longer lingers\namongst the people,--one of the writers of this volume records, some\nchapters back, that he found traces of the belief not very many years\nago still surviving at Flodden Edge,--at least but a very few generations\nhave passed since it died. Throughout Teviotdale, perhaps to a greater\nextent than in any other part of the Border, tales still are told which\nshow how strong was once this belief in the existence of the Little\nFolk, and many of the customs that, we are told, were followed by\ncountry dwellers in order to propitiate the Good People, or to thwart\ntheir malevolence, are very quaint, Should it chance, for instance, that\nat the time a child was born the blue bonnet usually worn by the husband\nwas not kept continually lying on the mother's bed, then there would be\nthe most imminent danger of that child being carried off by the Fairies,\nand a changeling being left in its place. Many a fine child has been\nlost through neglect of this simple precaution. Generally, if the\nabduction took place before the child had been christened, a pig or a\nhedgehog, or some such animal, was substituted for the infant; but\nif the Fairies did not succeed in their design till after the child's\nbaptism, then they left another bairn in its {182}place, usually a\npeevish, ill-thriven, wizen-faced little imp. A tale is told of a woman\nwho lived at Minto Cragfoot, and whose child, in consequence of some\ntrifling lark of precaution in the matter of the blue bonnet, was\ncarried off, and in the end was rescued only by the superior knowledge\nand power of a Presbyterian minister. Whilst she herself was engaged\none day in gathering sticks for her fire, the woman had laid her child\nbeside a bush on the hill side. She neither heard nor saw anything\nunusual, but on going to pick up her child at the close of her task,\ninstead of her bonny, smiling little son she found only a thin, wasted,\nweird little creature, which \"yammered\" and wept continually. Recourse\nwas had to the Reverend Mr. Borland, (first Presbyterian minister\nof Bedrule after the Reformation,) and that gentleman at once\nunhesitatingly pronounced that this was no mere human child. The mother\nmust go to the cliffs, said Mr. Borland, and there gather a quantity of\nthe flowers of the fox glove, (locally called \"witches thimbles,\") and\nbring them to him. These Mr. Borland boiled, poured some of the extract\ninto the bairn's mouth, scattered the boiled flowers all over its body,\nthen put it in its cradle wrapped in a blanket, and left it all night\nalone in the barn. Mr. Borland took the key of the door away with him,\nand gave instructions that under no circumstances was anybody to enter\nthe barn until he returned next day. The anxious mother watched all\nnight by the door, but heard no sound; never once did the child wail.\nAnd next morning when Mr. Borland arrived he was able to hand to\nthe mother her own child, fat and smiling as when carried off by the\nfairies. It was a heroic remedy, but probably the sick child did not\nswallow much of that decoction of _digitalis_. In any case, they did\nnot have coroners' inquests in those days, and had the worst come to the\nworst, the uncomplaining fairies would have borne the blame.\n\nIt was up Teviot, in the days when witches flourished, that a poor woman\nlived, whose end was rather more merciless than {183}that inflicted\non most of her kind. A man's horse had died suddenly,--elf-struck, or\noverlooked by a witch, of course. To break whatever spell the witch or\nelf might have cast over other animals the owner of the dead horse cut\nout and burnt its heart. Whilst the fire was at its fiercest and the\nheart sizzling in the glow, there rushed up a large black greyhound,\nflecked all over with foam and evidently in the last stage of fatigue,\nwhich tried persistently to snatch the heart from the fire. One of the\nspectators, suspecting evil, seized a stick and struck the animal a\nheavy blow over the back, whereupon, with a fearful yell, it fled, and\ndisappeared. Almost at that instant, a villager ran up, saying that his\nwife had suddenly been taken violently ill; and when those who had been\nengaged in burning the heart went in to the man's cottage, they\nfound his wife, a dark-haired, black-eyed woman, lying, gasping and\nbreathless, with her back, to their thinking, broken. She, poor woman,\nwas probably suffering from a sudden and particularly acute attack of\nlumbago. But to those wise men another inference was only too obvious.\nShe was, of course, a witch, and it was _she_ who, in the guise of a\ngreyhound, had tried to snatch the horse's heart from the fire, and who\nhad then got a stroke across her back that broke it. They insisted that\nshe should repeat the Lord's prayer,--an infallible test, for if she\nwere a witch she would be sure to say: \"lead us into temptation, and\ndeliver us not from evil.\" And so, when the poor woman, her pain failed\nto get through the prayer to their satisfaction, they bound her, carried\nher away, and burnt her alive in the fire where the horse's heart had\nbeen roasted.\n\nTwo or three miles across the river from Minto is Ruberslaw, a rugged\nhill, towering dark and solitary, a land-mark for half the Border. More\nthan any of its distant neighbours in the Cheviot range, it seems to\ndraw to itself the hurrying rain clouds, more than any other it seems to\nnurture storms. About its grim head all Teviotdale {184}may\n\n                   \"see with strange delight the snow clouds form\n\n               When Ruberslaw conceives the mountain storm--\n\n               Dark Ruberslaw, that lifts his head sublime,\n\n               Rugged and hoary with the wrecks of time;\n\n               On his broad misty front the giant wears\n\n               The horrid furrows of ten thousand years.\"\n\nLike many another wild Border hill, Ruberslaw was a favourite lurking\nplace for the persecuted Covenanters, and near its top is a craggy chasm\nfrom which, it is said, Wodrow's \"savoury Mr. Peden\" used to preach\nto his scattered congregation. It was on this hill that the pursuing\ndragoons all but caught the preacher and his flock one day; they were\ncaught, indeed, like rats in a trap, had it not been for Ruberslaw's\nwell known character for breeding bad weather. The soldiers were\nadvancing in full view of the conventicle. Way of escape there was none,\nnor time to disperse; mounted men from every quarter were scrambling up\nthe steep face of the hill, and in that clear light what chance was left\nnow to hide among the rocks and boulders!\" \"O Lord,\" prayed Peden with\nextreme fervour, \"lap the skirts of thy cloak ower puir auld Sandy.\" And\nas if in answer to his petition, there came over the entire hill a thick\n\"Liddesdale drow,\" so dense that a man might not see two feet around\nhim. When the mist cleared again, there was no one left for the dragoons\nto take.\n\nAbove Hassendean, but on the other side of Teviot, is one of the few\nremaining possessions in this country, namely Cavers, of the great and\nancient House of the Black Douglases. The relics are a very old flag;\nits date and history are variously explained by family legend and by\nantiquaries. It is not a pennon, therefore not Hotspur's pennon taken\nby the Earl of Douglas before the battle of Otterburne. It is nothing of\nthe Percys', for it bears the Douglas Heart and a Douglas motto. On the\nwhole it seems to have belonged not to the Black, but to their rivals\nand successors, the Red Douglases, who were as unruly, and \"ill to\nlippen to\" by Scottish kings, as the elder branch. {185}The lady's\nembroidered glove, with the letters K.P., ought to have belonged to\nHotspur's wife, who is Kate in Shakespeare, a better authority than you\nmere genealogists.\n\n[Illustration: 0205]\n\nAs we ascend, the water of Teviot becomes more and more foul; varying,\nwhen last I shuddered at it, from black to a most unwholesome light\nblue. It is distressing to see such a fluid flowing through beautiful\nscenes; and possibly since I mingled my tears with the polluted stream,\nthe manufacturers of Hawick have taken some order in the way of more or\nless filtering their refuse and their dyes.\n\nHawick, to the best of my knowledge, contains no objects of interest to\nthe tourist who \"picturesques it everywhere.\" A {186}hotel is called\nthe Tower Hotel, and contains part of an ancient keep of the\nDouglases--\"Doulanwrack's (Douglas of Drumlanrig's) Castell,\" which\nSussex spared in 1570 when he \"made an ende of the rest\" of Hawick,--but\n\"you would look at it twice before you thought\" of a castle of chivalry.\n\n[Illustration: 0206]\n\nThe people of Hawick have retained many of the characteristics of the\nold Borderers; they are redoubted foes at football; and are said to be\nnot very scrupulous raiders--of mushrooms. Their local patriotism\nis fervid, and they sing with passion their song of \"Teribus and\nTeriodden,\" which refers to \"Sons of heroes slain at Flodden,\"--among\nother Flowers of the Forest. And, like their neighbours at Selkirk,\nthey cherish a banner, said to have been captured from the English.\nThe Hawick {187}trophy, however, is not attributed to Flodden, but to a\nslightly later fight at Hornshole, near Hawick, when those who were left\nof the townsfolk fell on, and defeated with great slaughter, an English\nraiding party.\n\n[Illustration: 0207]\n\nThat the mysterious words Teribus {188}and Teriodden, or Odin, are a\nsurvival of a pious ejaculation imploring the help of Thor and Odin, I\ncan neither affirm nor deny.\n\n[Illustration: 0208]\n\nIt would be a gratifying thing to prove that the memory of ancient\nScandinavian deities has survived the sway of the mediaeval Church and\nthe Kirk of John Knox. But I have not heard that the words occur in\ndocuments before the eighteenth century. The town has a site naturally\nbeautiful, as Slitrig, a very rapid stream, here joins Teviot, which,\nabove the mills of Hawick is _electro clarior_; not of a pure crystal\ntranslucency, but of a transparent amber hue.\n\nSlitrig takes its rise on the Windburgh Hill, on the northern side of\nthe Liddesdale watershed, a hill of old the known resort of the Good\nPeople, whose piping and revels might {189}often be heard by the\nsolitary shepherd.\n\n[Illustration: 0209]\n\nThe rivulet is said to well out from a small, black, fathomless little\nloch high up on the hill. Here, as all knew, dwelt the Keipic, or other\nirritable spirit prone to resent human intrusion, and if a stone should\nchance to be thrown into the depths of the lakelet, {190}resentment was\npretty sure to be expressed by a sudden dangerous overflow of water into\nthe burn, whereby destruction would be carried down the valley. That,\ntradition tells, is how Hawick came to be devastated, and all but swept\naway, early in the eighteenth century. A shepherd, it was said, had\nquite accidentally rolled a large stone into the lake, and had thus\nroused the Spirit of the mountain to ungovernable fury. Leyden thus\nwrites of the tradition:\n\n               \"From yon green peak, black haunted Slata brings\n\n               The gushing torrents of unfathomed springs:\n\n               In a dead lake, that ever seems to freeze,\n\n               By sedge enclosed from every ruffling breeze,\n\n               The fountains lie; and shuddering peasants shrink\n\n               To plunge the stone within the fearful brink;\n\n               For here,'tis said, the fairy hosts convene,\n\n               With noisy talk, and bustling steps unseen;\n\n               The hill resounds with strange, unearthly cries;\n\n               And moaning voices from the waters rise.\n\n               Nor long the time, if village-saws be true,\n\n               Since in the deep a hardy peasant threw\n\n               A pondrous stone; when murmuring from below,\n\n               With gushing sound he heard the lake o'erflow.\n\n               The mighty torrent, foaming down the hills,\n\n               Called, with strong voice, on all her subject rills;\n\n               Rocks drove on jagged rocks with thundering sound,\n\n               And the red waves, impatient, rent their mound;\n\n               On Hawick burst the flood's resistless sway,\n\n               Ploughed the paved streets, and tore the walls away,\n\n               Floated high roofs, from whelming fabrics torn;\n\n               While pillared arches down the wave were borne.\"\n\nBorthwick Water, too, as well as Slitrig, was famed for its fairies--and\nfor worse than fairies, if one may judge by the name given to a deep\npool; the Deil's Pool, it is called, a place to be shunned by youthful\nfishers. But probably the youthful fisher of the twentieth century cares\nneither for deil nor for fairy. Higher up the stream than this pool\nis the Fairy Knowe, where a shepherd was once flung into the flooded\n{191}burn by the fairies,--at any rate he was carried down the burn one\nevening, late, and he _said_ it was the fairies, and no other spirits,\nthat had flung him in.\n\n[Illustration: 0211]\n\nOne very odd relic hard by Hawick is a mote, or huge tumulus, of the\nkind so common in Galloway. Probably above it was erected a palisaded\nwooden fortress, perhaps of the twelfth century. The area, as far as an\namateur measurement can determine, is not less than that of the tower\nof Goldielands, an old keep of the Scotts, some two miles further up\nthe water, almost opposite to the point where Borthwick Water flows\n{192}into Teviot on the left.\n\n[Illustration: 0212]\n\nIf we cross the bridge here and follow the pretty wandering water\nthrough a level haugh, and then turn off to the right, we arrive at a\ndeep thickly wooded dene, and from the crest above this excellent hiding\nplace of raided cattle looks down the old low house of Harden, (the\nStammschloss of Sir Walter Scott,) now the property of Lord Polwarth,\nthe head of this branch of the Scotts of Buccleuch. The house is more\nmodern than the many square keeps erected in the old days of English\ninvasions and family feuds. The Borthwick Water turns to the left, and\ndescends from the heights of Howpasley, whence the English raiders rode\ndown, \"laigh down in Borthwick Water,\" in the ballad of _Jamie Telfer_.\nA mile or a little more above Goldielands Tower, on the left side of\nTeviot is Branksome Tower, the residence of the Lady of Branksome in\n_The Lay of the Last Minstrel._ {193}At Branksome Tower we are in the\nprecise centre of the Scottish Border of history and romance, the centre\nof Scott's country.\n\n[Illustration: 0213]\n\nYet, looking at Mr. Thompson's excellent sketch, you would scarce guess\nit. The house stands very near the Teviot, but still nearer the public\nroad. Thanks to the attentions of the English at various periods,\nespecially when the bold {194}Buccleuch stood for the fairest of ladies,\nMary Queen of Scots, against preachers, presbyters, puritans, and their\nsouthern allies, perhaps no visible part of the echlice older than 1570\nremains except the tower.\n\n[Illustration: 0214]\n\nThe Lady of Branksome who finished the actual house after the old\nstronghold had been burned, appears to have thought that square keeps\nand barmkyns were obsolete in war, owing to the increasing merits of\nartillery; and she did not build a house of defence. Manifestly \"nine\nand twenty Knights of fame\" never \"hung their shields in\" _this_\n\"Branksome Hall,\" and never were here attended by \"nine and twenty\nSquires of name,\" and \"nine and twenty yeomen tall.\" {195}There is no\nroom for them, and at Branlcsome, probably, there never was. It is\nnot to be credited that, at any period, ten of the knights went to bed\n\"sheathed in steel,\" to be ready for the English, or\n\n               \"Carved at the meal, with gloves of steel,\n\n               And drank the red wine through the helmet barred.\" *\n\nThe minstrel gave free play to his fancy. The Laird of Branksome, though\nWarden of the Marches, never had, never needed, so vast a retinue,\nand was so far from \"Warkworth or Naworth, or merry Carlisle\" that no\nScrope, or Howard, or Percy, could fall on him at unawares.\n\n     *  The conjectural reading of Srhlopping, \"Carved at the\n     veal\" though ingenious (for, as he observes, \"the ancient\n     Scots did not carve oat-meal\") has no manuscript authority.\n\nThe Scotts, in the reign of James I, already owned the wild upland\npastoral region of Buccleuch between Teviot and Ettrick, and Eckford in\nTeviotdale; also Murdiestone on the lower Clyde, a place now too near\nthe hideous industrial towns and villages near Glasgow. Meanwhile a\npacific gentleman named Inglis was laird of Branksome. He grumbled, it\nis said, to Sir Walter Scott of Murdiestone about the inconveniences\ncaused by English raiders; though, as they had a long way to ride,\nInglis probably suffered more at Branksome from the Kers, Douglases,\nand ferocious Turnbulls. Scott was not a nervous man, and he offered to\nbarter Murdiestone for half of Branksome, which came into his pastoral\nholdings at Buccleuch. Inglis gladly made the exchange, and Scott's son\nobtained the remaining half of the barony of Branksome, in reward of\nhis loyalty to James II, during his struggle with the Black Douglases,\n(during which he dirked his guest, the Earl, at the hospitable table.)\nThe Scott lands, carved out of those of the fallen Douglases, extended\nfrom Lanarkshire to Langholm; and as they were loyal to their country,\n(at least till the reign of Charles I,) and withal were fighting men of\nthe best, they throve to Earl's estate, the dukedom coming in with the\nill {196}fated marriage of the heiress to James, son of Charles II, Duke\nof Monmouth. Of course if Charles II really married Lucy Walters, (as\nMonmouth's pious Whiggish adherents asserted,) the Duke of Buccleuch\nwould be our rightful king.\n\n[Illustration: 0216]\n\nBut the good king, Charles II, firmly denied the marriage, fond as he\nwas of his handsome son by Lucy Walters; and the good House of Buccleuch\nhas never believed in the Whig fable of the black box which contained\nthe marriage lines of Lucy Walters and Charles II. The marriage of\nMonmouth with the heiress of Buccleuch was made in their extreme youth\nand was unhappy. Monmouth was in love, like Lord Ailesbury, with Lady\nHenrietta Wentworth, whom he (according to Ailesbury,) spoke of as \"his\nwife in the sight of God,\" which means that she was not his wife at all.\n\nThe house of Branksome makes a picturesque object in the middle distance\nof the landscape; but is not otherwise {197}interesting. In front of the\ndoor lies, or used to lie, a rusty iron breach-loading culverin of\nthe fourteenth century; of old, no doubt, part of the artillery of the\ncastle, when it was a castle.\n\n[Illustration: 0217]\n\nReturning from Branksome Tower to the right bank of Teviot, now a clear\nand musical stream, we cross one of the many Allan Waters so common\nin Scotland, and arrive at Caerlanrig, where there is a tablet with\nan inscription bitterly blaming James V, for his treachery to Johnny\nArmstrong of Gilnockie in Eskdale, hanged in 1530. The Armstrongs,\nbeing next neighbours of England on the Border, were a clan of doubtful\nallegiance, given to intermarrying with the English, and sometimes\nwearing the cross of St. George as \"assured Scots.\" They were the\ngreatest of reivers on both sides of the Border. In 1530, James V, who\nhad escaped from the Douglases, and driven Angus, their chief, into the\nservice of Henry VIII, tried to bring the country into order. He\nfirst arrested the chief men--Bothwell (Hepburn), Ferniehirst (Ker),\nMax{198}well, Home, Buccleuch (his old ally), Polwarth, and Johnston;\nand, having kept them out of mischief, led a large force into their\nregion. He caught Scott of Tushielaw in Ettrick, and Cockburn of\nHenderland on Meggat Water. Cockburn was tried in Edinburgh for theft\nand treason, and beheaded; not hanged at his own door as legend fables.\nHe was in the conspiracy of Henry VIII and Angus, and had sided with\ninvaders. Tushielaw suffered for oppression of his tenants. Numbers of\nlairds, Kers, Douglases, Rutherfurds, Turnbulls, Swintons, Veitches, put\nthemselves on the King's mercy and gave sureties for quiet behaviour.\nGilnockie, according to the ballad, came to the King at Caerlanrig in\nroyal array, with forty retainers. I find no contemporary account of the\ncircumstances, for Lindsay of Pitscottie gives but late gossip, as he\nalways does. Calderwood, still later, says that Johnie \"was enticed by\nsome courtiers.\" Calderwood adds that one of the sufferers with Johnie\nhad burned a woman and her children in her house. The evidence for Royal\ntreachery is that of the ballad of Johnie Armstrong, which may have\nbeen the source and authority of ritscottie. We may quote it. It was a\nfavourite of Sir Walter Scott.\n\n                        JOHNIE ARMSTRANG.\n\n               Sum speikis of lords, sum speikis of lairds,\n\n                   And sik like men of hie degrie;\n\n               Of a gentleman I sing a sang,\n\n                   Sum tyme called Laird of Gilnockie.\n\n               The King he wrytes a luving letter,\n\n                   With his ain hand sae tenderly,\n\n               And he hath sent it to Johnie Armstrang\n\n                   To cum and speik with him speedily\n\n               The Eliots and Armstrangs did convene;\n\n                   They were a gallant cumpanie--\n\n               \"We'll ride and meit our lawful King,\n\n                   And bring him safe to Gilnockie.  {199}\n\n               \"Make kinnen * and capon ready, then,\n\n                   And venison in great plentie;\n\n               We'll wellcum here our royal King;\n\n                   I hope he'll dine at Gilnockie!\"\n\n               They ran their horse on the langholme howm,\n\n                   And brak their spears wi' mickle main;\n\n               The ladies lukit frae their loft windows--\n\n                   \"God bring our men weel hume again!\"\n\n               When Johnic cam before the King,\n\n                   Wi' a' his men sae brave to see,\n\n               The King he movit his bonnet to him;\n\n                   He ween'd he was a King as weel as he.\n\n               \"May I rind grace, my sovereign liege,\n\n                   Grace for my loyal men and me?\n\n               For my name it is Johr.ie Armstrong,\n\n                   And a subject of yours, my liege,\" said he.\n\n               \"Away, away, thou traitor Strang!\n\n                   Out o' my sight soon may'st thou be!\n\n               I grantit never a traitor's life,\n\n                   And now I'll not begin wi' thee.\"\n\n               \"Grant me my life, my liege, my King!\n\n                   And a bonny gift I'll gie to thee--\n\n               Full four-and-twenty milk-white steids,\n\n                   Were a' foal'd in ae yeir to me.\n\n               \"I'll gie thee a' these milk-white steids,\n\n                   That prance and nicker at a speir;\n\n               And as mickle gude Inglish gilt,\n\n                   As four o' their braid backs dow bear.\"\n\n               \"Away, away, thou traitor strang!\n\n                   Out o' my sight soon may'st thou be!\n\n               I grantit never a traitor's life,\n\n                   And now I'll not begin wi' thee!\"\n\n               \"Grant me my life, my liege, my King!\n\n                   And a bonny gift I'll gie to thee--\n\n               Gude four-and-twenty ganging mills,\n\n                   That gang thro' a' the yeir to me.\n\n       * Rabbits.\n\n{200}\n\n\n               \"These four-and-twenty mills complete\n\n                   Sail gang for thee thro' a' the yeir;\n\n               And as mickle of gude reid wheit,\n\n                   As a' their happers dow to bear.\"\n\n               \"Away, away, thou traitor strang!\n\n                   Out o' my sight soon may'st thou be!\n\n               I grautit never a traitor's life,\n\n                   And now I'll not begin wi' thee!\"\n\n               \"Grant me my life, my liege, my King!\n\n                   And a great great gift I'll gie to thee--\n\n               Bauld four-and-twenty sisters' sons,\n\n                   Sail for thee fecht, tho' a' should flee!\"\n\n               \"Away, away, thou traitor strang!\n\n                   Out o' my sight soon may'st thou be!\n\n               I grantit never a traitor's life,\n\n                   And now I'll not begin wi' thee!\"\n\n               \"Grant me my life, my liege, my King!\n\n               And a brave gift I'll gie to thee--\n\n                   All between heir and Newcastle town\n\n                   Sail pay their yeirly rent to thee.\"\n\n               \"Away, away, thou traitor strang!\n\n                   Out o' my sight soon may'st thou be!\n\n               I grantit never a traitor's life,\n\n                   And now I'll not begin wi' thee!\"\n\n               \"Ye lied, ye lied, now King,\" he says,\n\n                   T Altho' a King and Prince ye be!\n\n               For I've luved naething in my life,\n\n                   I weel dare say it, but honesty--\n\n               \"Save a fat horse, and a fair woman,\n\n                   Twa bonny dogs to kill a deir;\n\n               But Ingland suld have found me meal and mault,,\n\n                   Gif I had lived this hundred yeir!\n\n               \"She suld have found me meal and mault,\n\n                   And beef and mutton in a' plentie;\n\n               But never a Scots wyfe could have said,\n\n                   That e'er I skaithed her a puir flee.\n\n{201}\n\n\n               \"To seik het water beneith cauld ice,\n\n                   Surely it is a greit folie--\n\n               I have asked grace at a graceless face,\n\n                   But there is nane for my men and me! *\n\n               \"But had I kenn'd ere I cam frae liame,\n\n                   How thou unkind wad'st been to me!\n\n               1 wad have keepit the Border side,\n\n                   In spite of all thy force and thee.\n\n               \"Wist England's King that I was ta'en,\n\n                   O gin a blythe man he wad be!\n\n               For ance I slew his sister's son,\n\n                   And on his breist bane brak a trie.\"\n\n               John wore a girdle about his middle,\n\n                   Imbroidered ower wi' burning gold,\n\n               Bespangled wi' the same metal,\n\n                   Maist beautiful was to behold.\n\n               There hang nine targats ** at Johnie's hat,\n\n                   And ilk ane worth three hundred pound--\n\n               \"What wants that knave that a King suld have\n\n                   But the sword of honour and the crown?\n\n               \"O where gat thou these targats, Johnie,\n\n                   That blink sae brawly abune thy brie?\"\n\n               \"I gat them in the field fechting,\n\n                   Where, cruel King, thou durst not be.\n\n               \"Had I my horse, and harness gude,\n\n                   And riding as I w ont to be,\n\n               It suld hae been tauld this hundred yeir,\n\n                   The meeting of my King and me!\n\n               \"God be with thee, Kirsty, my brother,\n\n                   Lang live thou Laird of Mangertoun!\n\n               Lang may'st thou live on the Border syde\n\n                   Ere thou see thy brother ride up and down!\n\n               \"And God be with thee, Kirsty, my son,\n\n                   Where thou sits on thy nurse's knee!\n\n               But an' thou live this hundred yeir,\n\n                   Thy father's better thou'lt never be.\n\n     * This and the three preceding stanzas were among those that\n     Sir Walter Scott most delighted to quote.\n\n     ** Tassels.\n\n{202}\n\n\n               \"Farewell! my bonny Gilnoek hall,\n\n                   Where on Esk side thou standest stout!\n\n               Gif I had lived hut seven yeirs mair,\n\n                   I wad hae gilt thee round about.\"\n\n[Illustration: 0222]\n\n               John murdered was at Carlinrigg,\n\n                   And all his gallant companie;\n\n               But Scotland's heart was ne'er sae wae,\n\n                   To see sae mony brave men die--  {203}\n\n               Because they saved their country deir\n\n                   Frae Inglishmen! Nane were sa bauld,\n\n               Whyle Johnie lived on the Border syde,\n\n                   Nane of them durst cum neir his hauld.\n\nIt will be observed that Gilnockie puts forward as his claim to respect\nthe very robberies in England for which, says the poet, he was hanged.\nThe only sign of treachery is that Johnnie did come to Caerlanrig,\nprobably in hope of making his peace like many other lairds. Whether he\nwere \"enticed by some courtiers,\" or whether he risked the adventure\nis not manifest. According to Pitscottie he had held England as far as\nNewcastle under blackmail.\n\nAbove Caerlanrig, Teviot winds through the haughs and moors and under\nthe alders to its source at Teviot-stone. {204}\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII TWEED, ST. BOSWELLS, DRYBURGH, NEWSTEAD, AND THE LEADER\n\n|We now return from Teviotdale to Tweed, which we left at Kelso. The\nriver passes through one of its rock-fenced and narrow defiles at the\nTrows of Makerstoun, (accent the penultimate,) itself the home from\nancient days of a branch of the once great Argyll clan--and generally\nwestern clan--of Mac-dougal. How they came so far from their Celtic\nkindred, potent in Dalriadic Scotland before the Campbells came to the\nfront as allies of Robert Bruce, is not known to me. As foes of Bruce,\nthe Macdougals of Lome suffered much loss of lands after the king's\ntriumph. At the Trows the river splits into very deep and narrow\nchannels, and to shoot one of them in a canoe needs a daring and a\nfortunate paddler.\n\nIn former years there were four of these channels, two of very great\ndepth--thirty feet and more, it is said--but so narrow that, with the\nriver at summer level, it was possible for an active man to jump from\nstone rib to stone rib, across the swift rushing stream. The feat was\nattempted once too often, however, with fatal result, and since then the\nmiddle rib has been blasted out, so that it is no longer possible\nfor any one to tempt fate in this manner. Even an expert and powerful\nswimmer, filling in there, would have but a slender chance of coming\nout alive, for if he were not sucked under by the eddies of that boiling\ncurrent and jammed beneath some sunken ledge, {205}the odds would be\nvery great on his brains being knocked out amongst the rocks that thrust\ntheir ugly fangs here and there above the surface of the stream. Both\nbelow and above the Trows, the trout fishing--for those who may fish--is\nextremely good, but the wading is licklish; pot-holes, ledges, and large\nboulders are apt to trap the unwary to their undoing. There are, too,\nsome excellent salmon casts in the Makerstoun Water, and it was in one\nof them that the famous Rob o' the Trows--Rob Kerss, a great character\nin Sir Walter's day,--nigh on a hundred years ago landed a fish so huge,\nthat even a master of the art so skilled as Rob,--Stoddart says he had\nfew equals as a fisher--was utterly spent when at length his silvery\nprize lay gasping on the bank. Before taking the fly from its mouth, Rob\nturned half aside to pick up a stone which might conveniently be used\nas a \"priest\"; but even as he turned, out of the tail of his eye he saw\nthe monster give a wallop. Rob leapt for the fish. Alas! as he\njumped, his foot caught the line and snapped it, and walloping fish and\nstruggling man plunged together off a shelf into the icy water,--from\nwhich Rob emerged alone. The rod with which Kerss killed so many\nhundreds of fish is still in the possession of one of his descendants,\nnear Beattock. Compared with present-day masterpieces of greenheart or\nsplit cane, it is a quaint and clumsy weapon, of extraordinary thickness\nin the butt, and of crushing weight. The writer has handled it, and he\nis convinced that one hour's use could not fail to choke off for the\nrest of the day even the most enthusiastic of modern salmon fishers.\n\nIt is not often that ancient weapons are found in Tweed, but some\nyears ago, when the river was unusually low, a moss-trooper's spear\nwas recovered at a spot a little above Makerstoun. It was lying at\nthe bottom, below what used to be a ford of sorts across the river.\nCuriously enough, shaft and head were both intact, and in fair\npreservation after their long immersion. If the spear was not used by\nsome trooper in days when fighting was the Borderer's chief {206}delight\nand occupation, it is difficult to imagine to what use it could have\nbeen put. Salmon cannot be successfully speared with a single-pointed\nunbarbed weapon; so that it is certain this was no poacher's implement.\n\nAbove Makerstoun is Rutherford, once the home of the Rutherfurds of that\nIlk, but now it knows them no more. A like doom, as I write, hangs\nover Mertoun, long the beautiful home of the Scotts of Harden, Lord\nPolwarth's family.\n\n               \"And Minstrel Burne cannot assuage\n\n                   His grief, while life endureth,\n\n               To see the changes of this age,\n\n                   That fleeting Time procureth;\n\n               For mony a place stands in hard case,\n\n                   Where blythe folk ken'd nae sorrow,\n\n               Wi' Homes that dwelt on Leader-side,\n\n                   And Scotts that dwelt in Yarrow!\"\n\nMertoun is a modern house; hard by it, across the river, the strong\nruins of Littledean tower (once the Kers') speak of old Border wars.\n\nFollowing the curves of Tweed we reach St. Boswells, named after an\nAnglo-Saxon saint to whom St. Cuthbert came, laying down his spear, and\nentering religion. At St. Boswells are sheep fairs; Hogg preferred\nto attend one of these festivals rather than go to London and see the\nCoronation of George IV. My sympathies are with the shepherd! The paths\nnear Lessudden, hard by, are haunted by a quiet phantasm in costume\na minister of the Kirk of the eighteenth century. I know some of the\npercipients who have seen him individually and collectively. There is\nno tradition about the origin of this harmless appearance, a vision of a\ndream of the dead; walking \"in that sleep of death.\"\n\nAbove Lessudden the Tweed winds round and at the foot of the beautiful\nruins of Dryburgh Abbey, softly mourning for him who lies within that\nsound \"the dearest of all to his ear,\" Sir Walter Scott. The great\nMagician lies, with Lockhart at {207}his feet, within the ruined walls,\nin the place which, as he wrote to his bride that was to be, he had\nalready chosen for his rest. The lady replied with spirit that she would\nnot endure any such sepulchral reflections.\n\n[Illustration: 0227]\n\nThis is one of the most sacred places, and most beautiful places in\nbroad Scotland.\n\nApproaching Dryburgh, not from the riverside but from the road, we come\nby such a path through a beautiful wood as {208}that in which proud\nMaisie was \"walking so early,\" when \"bold Robin on the bush singing so\nrarely,\" spaed her fortune. The path leads to a place of such unexpected\nbeauty as the ruinous palace where the Sleeping Beauty slumbered through\nthe ages. The beauty is that of Dryburgh itself, delicately fair in her\nsecular decay; fallen from glory, indeed, but still the last home of\nthat peace which dwelt in this much harried Borderland in the days\nof the first White Friars, and of good St. David the king. They were\nEnglishmen out of Northumberland, teachers of good farming and of other\ngood works. What remains of their dwellings is of the age when the round\nNorman arch blended with the pointed Gothic, as in the eastern end of\nthe Cathedral of St. Andrews. Thrice the English harmed it, in the\ndays of Bruce (1322) during a malicious and futile attack by Edward II;\nagain, under Robert II, when Richard II played the Vandal; and, lastly,\nduring the wasting of the Border in 1544, which was the eighth Henry's\nrough wooing for his son, of the babe Mary Stuart. The grounds, the\nproperty of a member of the House of Scott's eccentric Earl of Buchan,\nare kept in charming order. The Earl was the only begetter of a huge\nstatue of Sir William Wallace, who used Ettrick Forest now and again\nin his guerilla warfare, and from the Forest drew his archers, tall\nmen whom n death the English of Edward I admired on the lost field of\nFalkirk.\n\nThe said Earl of Buchan rather amused than consoled Scott, during a\nsevere illness, by promising to attend to his burial in the place so\ndear to him, which, till the ruin of his paternal grandmother, had\nbelonged to the Haliburtons, also n old days the lords of Dirleton\ncastle. Readers of Lockhart remember the great Border gathering at\nthe funeral of the latest minstrel, and how his horses, which drew the\nhearse, paused where they had been wont to rest, at a spot where it had\nbeen Sir Walter's habit to stop to admire the landscape. His chief, the\nyoung Duke of Buccleuch, was prevented by important {209}business from\nbeing an attendant. You would never guess what the business was! No\nman knows but I only; and if Scott could have known, I doubt whether\nhe would have drawn his shaggy brows into a frown, or laughed; for the\nbusiness was----but I must not reveal so ancient a secret!\n\nMoving up the river on the left bank, we reach that ancient House\nconcerning which Thomas of Ercildoune's prophecy is still unbroken.\n\n               \"Betide, Betide, whate'er betide,\n\n               There shall aye be a Haig in Bemersyde.\"\n\nThe family were at home in Bemersyde in the days of Malcolm the Maiden.\nOne of them was condemned to pay a dozen salmon yearly to the monastery\nof Melrose, for some scathe done to the brethren. It must have been\nan ill year for the angler when Haig expressed a desire to commute the\ncharge for an equivalent in money as he could not get the fish.\nThere was scarce a Border battle in which the Haigs did not leave a\nrepresentative on the field of honour. Here, too, befell \"the Affliction\nof Bemersyde,\" when the laird, after a long fight with a monstrous\nsalmon, lost him in the moment of victory. The head of the fish would\nnot go into the landing net, his last wallop freed him; he was picked up\ndead, by prowlers,--and he weighed seventy pounds. Probably no salmon\nso great was ever landed by the rod from Tweed. Only the Keep of the\nmansion is of great antiquity.\n\nIt may be worth while to leave the river and climb to Smail-holme\n'I'cwer, where Scott's infancy was passed. The tower, standing tall\nand gaunt above a tarn, is well known from Turner's drawing, and is the\nscene of Scott's early ballad, _The Eve of St. John_. Perhaps the verses\nwhich have lingered longest in my memory are those which tell how\n\n               \"The Baron of Smailholme rose with day,\n\n                   And spurred his charger on,\n\n               Without stop or stay down the rocky way\n\n                   That leads to Brotherton.\"\n\n{210}\n\n[Illustration: 0230]\n\n{211}He did not go, as we remember, to Ancrum fight, but he returned\nwith armour sorely dinted, having slain in private quarrel a knight\nwhose cognisance was\n\n                   \"A hound in a silver leash bound\n\n                   And his crest was a branch of the yew.\"\n\nAnd that same eve the dead man was seen with the lady of Smailholme.\nThe story is a version of that ancient tale, the Beresford ghost story,\nwhich can be traced from the chronicle of William of Malmesbury to its\nIrish avatar in the eighteenth century--and later. Do ghosts repeat\nthemselves? It looks like it, for the Irish tale is very well\nauthenticated.\n\nIt was not actually in the tower, but in the adjacent farmhouse of\nSandyknowe, his grandfather's, that Scott, at first a puny child, passed\nhis earliest years, absorbing every ballad and legend that the country\npeople knew, and the story of {212}every battle fought on the wide\nlandscape, from Turn Again to Ancrum Moor.\n\nWe have reached the most beautiful part ol Tweed, dominated by the\ntriple crest of the pyramidal Eildons, where the river lovingly embraces\nthe woods of Gladswood and Ravens-wood, and the site of Old Melrose, a\nCeltic foundation of Aidan, while as yet the faith was preached by the\nIrish mission aries of St. Columba. This is the very garden of Tweed,\na vast champaign, from which rise the Eildons, and far away above Rule\nWater \"the stormy skirts of Ruberslaw,\" with the Lammermuir and Cheviot\nhills blue and faint on the northern and southern horizons.\n\nOn the ground of Drygrange, above Bemersyde, but on the right bank\nof Tweed at Newstead, the greatest stationary camp in Scotland of\nAgricola's time has been excavated by Mr. Curie, who also describes it\nin a magnificent and learned volume. Here were found beautiful tilting\nhelmets, in the shape of heads of pretty Greek girls, and here were the\nenamelled brooches of the native women who dwelt with Roman lovers. But\nthese must be sought, with coins, gems, pottery, weapons and implements\nof that forgotten day, in the National Museum in Edinburgh.\n\nThe chief tributary on the northern side as we mount the stream is\nLeader Water, where Homes had aince commanding.\"\n\n               Sing Erslington and Cowdenknowes,\n\n                   Where Humes had aince commanding;\n\n               And Drygrange, with the milk-white yowes,\n\n                   Twixt Tweed and Leader standing:\n\n               The bird that flees through Redpath trees\n\n                   And Gladswood banks ilk morrow,\n\n               May chant and sing sweet Leader Haughs\n\n                   And bonnie howms of Yarrow.\n\nIt is scarcely possible to conceive a scene more beautiful than that\nwhere Leader winds her cheery way through the woods of Drygrange. When\nthe Borderland is starred thick {213}with primroses, and the grassy\nbanks of Leader are carpeted with the blue of speedwell and the red of\ncampion; when a soft air and warm sun hatch out a multitude of flies at\nwhich the trout rise greedily, then is the time to see that deep, leafy\nglen at the bottom of which sparkles the amber-clear water over its\ngravelly bed. In cliff or steep bank the sides tower up perhaps to the\nheight of a couple of hundred feet, thick clad with rhododendrons and\nspreading undergrowth, and with mighty larch, beech, elm, or ash, and\neverywhere the music of Heaven's feathered orchestra smites sweetly on\nthe ear. It is, I think, to this Paradise that good birds go when they\ndie, where the ruthless small boy's raiding hand is kept in check, and\nevery bird may find ideal nesting place.\n\nThe district is most famous in ballad, song and story, Leaderdale,\nbeing apparently equivalent to Lauderdale, giving a title to the Earl of\nLauderdale, the chief of the Maitlands. \"They call it Leader town,\" says\nthe enigmatic ballad of _Auld Maitland_, speaking of the stronghold of a\nMaitland of the days of Wallace, a shadowy figure still well remembered\nin the folk lore of the reign of Mary Stuart. The ballad has some good\nand many indifferent verses. It was known to the mother and uncle of\nJames Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd. He copied it out for Will Laidlaw,\nScott's friend and amanuensis, and this began the long and valuable\nassociation of Hogg with the Sheriff. The authenticity of the ballad\nhas been impugned, Hogg and Scott, it has been asserted, composed it and\nScott gave it to the world as genuine. This is demonstrably an erroneous\nconjecture, (as I have shown in _Sir Walter Scott and the Border\nMinstrelsy_). Letters which had not been published refute all suspicions\nof forgery by Hogg or Scott or both. But the ballad had, apparently,\nbeen touched up, perhaps in the seventeenth or eighteenth century,\nprobably by one of the witty and literary family of Maitland. It came to\nHogg's mother from \"auld Babby Metlan,\" (Maitland,) housekeeper to the\nlast of the Scotts of Tushielaw; herself perhaps a reduced {214}member\nof the impoverished family of \"the flower of the wits of Scotland,\"\nQueen Mary's Secretary of State, Maitland of Lethington.\n\nThough the legendary \"Maitland or auld beard grey\" may have stoutly held\nhis house of Thirlestane against Edward I, (as he does in the ballad\nof _Auld Maitland_), I have found no record of the affair in the State\nPapers of the period. Thereafter the Maitlands of Lethington, though a\nfamily of ancient origin, play no conspicuous part in Scottish history,\ntill we reach old Sir Richard, who died at the age of ninety in 1586. He\nwas not openly recalcitrant against, but was no enthusiast for, the new\ndoctrines of Knox and his company. A learned, humorous, peaceful man,\nhe wrote Scottish verses and collected and preserved earlier poetry in\nmanuscripts.\n\nOf his sons the eldest, William, was--setting Knox aside--the most\nextraordinary Scott of his time. Knox was essentially Scottish in the\ngood and not so good of his character, and was essentially an extreme\nCalvinist of his period; \"judged too extreme,\" he says, by his\nassociates. Young Maitland of Lethington, on the other hand, might have\nbeen French or Italian, hardly English. He was an absolutely modern man.\nIn religion, even before the revolution of 1559, he was in favour of the\nnew ideas, but also in favour of compromise and, if possible, of peace.\nWe first meet him i i private discussion with Knox,--pleading for\ncompromise, but yielding, with a smile, or a sigh, to the amazingly\nconfident fallacies of the Reformer. He serves the Queen Mother, Mary\nof Guise, a brave unhappy lady, as Secretary of State, till he sees that\nher cause is every way impossible, and goes over to the Reformers,\nand wins for them the alliance of England, and victory. He had a great\nideal, and a lofty motive, a patriotic desire for honourable peace and\nalliance with England. On all occasions when he encountered Knox, he\nmet him with the \"educated insolence\" of his wit, with the blandest\n_persiflage_; Knox writhed and reports his ironies, and--Knox, in the\nlong run, {215}had the better of this smiling modern man, no fanatic, no\nbeliever in any preacher's infallibility.\n\nMaitland served Queen Mary loyally, while he might; when things went\notherwise than he wished, was behind the scenes of the murder of Riccio;\nbut was frankly forgiven as the husband of the dearest of the Four\nMaries, Mary Fleming, and as Indispensable. He and his brother John,\nlater the able minister of James VI, were in the conspiracy to murder\nDarnley; that is the central mystery in his career, his part In that\nbrutal, blundering needless crime. He was partner with the violent\nBothwell, a brute of culture, who hated, captured, bullied, and\nthreatened him; for Maitland discountenanced, with remarkable and\nsolitary courage, Bothwell's marriage. Escaping from Bothwell's grip, he\nfled to the nobles who had risen against Bothwell; he corrupted Mary's\ncommander in Edinburgh Castle; when she was a captive, he is said,\nby the English agent, Randolph, to have urged that she should be\nslain,--for, as she said, \"she had that in black and white which would\nhang Lethington.\" She escaped, and his policy was, in his own interests,\nto appear to prosecute her, and secretly to advise and aid her; to win,\nif not her forgiveness, an amnesty, if she returned to power, which\nhe believed to be inevitable. She hated no man more bitterly, but she\nneeded no man so much. As he had lost for her Edinburgh Castle,\nhe gained it for her once more by winning to her cause the gallant\nKirkcaldy of Grange, commanding therein for her enemies. He lived, a\ndisease-stricken man. through the siege of the castle, meeting Knox once\nor twice with the old insolent smooth-spoken disdain of the prophet. He\nescaped the gibbet by a natural death, when the castle surrendered and\nKirkcaldy was hanged. This \"Michael Wiley,\" (Scots for Macchiavelli,)\nhad trusted too absolutely to his own wit, his own command over violent\nmen.--trusted too much to sheer intellect; been too contemptuous of\nhonour There is no one who at all resembles him in the history of\nScotland; he {216}fascinates and repels us; one likes so much in him,\nand detests so much.\n\nFrom a brother's descendants came the notorious Lauderdale of the\nCovenant and the Great Rebellion; a scholar; at one time professedly\ngodly; the natural and deadly opposite of the great Montrose, the coarse\nvoluptuary and greedy governor of Scotland, and the servile buffoon of\nCharles II during the Restoration. He paid a trifling pension to the\ndescendants of Lethington, who are so impoverished that I guess at one\nof them in \"auld Babby Metlan,\" \"other than a gude ane,\" who handed on\nthe ballad of _Auld Maitland_ and was housekeeper to the last Scott of\nTushielaw on upper Ettrick.\n\nThese two are the great men of Leader Water (an ideal trout stream if\nnot poached out), Lethington and--St. Cuthbert! It was while he watched\nhis flocks by night on the braes of Leader that Cuthbert saw, either\nsome meteoric phenomenon which he misconstrued, or the soul of Bishop\nAidan passing heavenward in glory. Next day he walked or rode to Old\nMelrose, leaned his spear on the wall at the portal, and confided to\nBoisil (St. Boswells) his desire to enter into religion. From his noble\nbiography by the Venerable Bede (he has \"got his step\" now, I think, and\nis Blessed Bede, _beatus_), we know this great and good man, Cuthbert,\nchief missionary on the violent Border, who sleeps in Durham Cathedral.\nThe English have captured him, the great glory of Leader Water, but m\nhis region, in his day, the people were already English by blood to\na great degree, and in language. Cuthbert, despite the Reformation,\ncontinued to be a favourite Christian name north of Tweed, witness\nCuddie Headrig, whose mother, Mause, had nothing papistical in her\nconvictions!\n\nBy a burn that takes its rise far up Leader near a summit of the\nLammermuirs called Nine Cairn Edge, is the Well of the Holy Water\nCleuch. It was here that St. Cuthbert spent his shepherd boyhood; here\nthat he saw the vision which sent {217}him to Mailros. And here, after\nCuthhert's death, they built in his honour, beside the Holy Well, the\nChildeschirche, the name of which survives to us now as Channelkirk.\n\nWere one of Border birth to quit \"sweet Leader Haughs,\" leaving\nunnoticed \"True Thomas,\" Thomas of Ercildoune, I do not know how he\nmight again face his fellow Borderers. For, though Thomas may not have\nbeen a great man, in the same sense that St. Cuthbert and Lethington\nwere great, yet to most of his countrymen he is better known than\neither. For one at the present day to whom the name of Cuthbert is\nfamiliar, or one to whom \"Lethington\" conveys any very definite idea,\nyou will find a hundred who take an intelligent interest in Thomas the\nRhymer, and who believe with Spottis-woode, who wrote of him early in\nthe seventeenth century: \"Sure it is that he did divine and answer true\nof many things to come.\" Fact regarding the Rhymer is so vague, and so\nbeautifully blended with fiction, that I doubt if most Borderers do not\nmore than half persuade themselves still to accept as fact much of the\nfiction that they learned of him in childhood. To Border children, not\nso very long ago, nothing was more real than the existence of a tree,\nstill alive and growing somewhere about the enchanted land of Eildon,\nwhich must necessarily be _the_ Eildon Tree:\n\n               \"Syne he has kissed her rosy lips\n\n                   All underneath the Eildon Tree;\"\n\nnothing was more certain than that True Thomas, at the call of the Queen\nof Fa\u00ebry, rose and obediently followed the hart and the hind into the\nforest, and returned no more.\n\n               \"First he woxe pale, and then woxe red,\n\n                   Never a word he spake but three;--\n\n               'My sand is run, my thread is spun,\n\n                   This sign regardeth me.'\"\n\nNo spot was looked on, in early youth, with more awe than that Bogle\nBurn whose stony bed crossed over the St. Boswells and Melrose road in\nthe cheerless hollow beside a gloomy wood; it was here that True Thomas\nbeheld things unseen by mere mortal eye. Who could doubt? Was there not\nstill standing in Earlston the remains of his old tower to confute all\nscoffers!\n\n[Illustration: 0238]\n\n  \"The hare sail kittle on my hearth stane,\n\nAnd there never will be a Laird Learmunt again.\"\n\nAnd, a hundred years ago and more, did not a hare actually produce\nits young on the shattered, grass-grown hearth-stone of the Rhymer's\ndwelling? So everybody believed. But if doubt yet lingered anywhere\nregarding some portion of True Thomas's story, it was easily set at rest\nby the words cut on that old stone built into the wall ot the church at\nEarlston.\n\n                   \"Auld Rymer's race\n\n                   Lyes in this place,\"\n\nit says; and somehow it gave one a peg to hang one's faith upon. The\nwhole, or at least a sufficient part of it, is quite real in that\ncountryside by the Rhymer's Glen where True Thomas lay \"on Huntlie\nbank.\" and where flourished the Eildon Tree; and that True Thomas's\nstill unfulfilled prophecies will yet one day come to pass, is a sound\narticle of belief. Though how the ruthless prediction is to come about\nregarding the house of Cowdenknowes, (which is not far removed from the\nRhymers old tower,) one does not quite see. But it was a doom pronounced\nagainst a pitiless Home who there \"had aince commanding.\" And the Homes\nare gone.\n\n               \"Vengeance! Vengeance! when and where?\n\n               On the house of Coldingknow, now and ever mair!\"\n\nPerhaps, too, that was not of True Thomas's foretelling. One prefers\nrather to think of Cowdenknowes in connection with the ballad:\n\n               \"O the broom, and the bonny, bonny broom,\n\n                   And the broom of the Cowdenknowes!\n\n               And aye sae sweet as the lassie sang,\n\n                   I' the bught, milking the ewes.\"\n\n\n{220}\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII ST. BOSWELLS GREEN, MELROSE, DARNICK, ABBOTSFORD, AND THE\nELLWAND\n\n|All the way up Tweed from a mile below Mertoun Bridge, up past the\ncauld where the pent water spouts and raves ceaselessly, along the bank\nwhere lies St. Boswells Golf Course, round that noble sweep where\nthe river holds Dryburgh lovingly in the crook of its arm, up by\nthe boulder-strewn streams above, and round the elbow by the foot\nsuspension-bridge, past the lofty red scaurs and the hanging woods to\nthe Monk's Ford, trout fishing--at least from the right bank--is\nfree. And though it goes without saying that pool and stream are \"sore\nfished,\" yet it is not possible by fair angling to spoil Tweed. Many a\nfisher may depart, empty and downcast, but if he persevere, some day he\nshall have his reward. To him who patiently teaches himself to know the\nriver and the whims of its inhabitants, to him who studies weather and\ntime of day--or, may be, of night--there must at length come success,\nfor many are the trout, and large. The writer has known a yellow trout\nof 8 lbs. 12 ozs. to be killed with fly hard by the golf course. The\nweight is of course exceptional, but many a beauty of 2 lbs. and over is\nthere to be taken by him who is possessed of skill and patience; and\nto me is known no more enticing spectacle than one of these long swift\npools of a summer evening, in the gloaming, when the water is alive with\nthe dimples of rising trout.\n\nAnd what a river it is, however you take it! What a series of noble\nviews is there for him who can withdraw his attention from the water.\n\n[Illustration: 0241]\n\nLet him climb, in the peaceful evening light, to the top of the red\nand precipitous Braeheads behind the long single street of St. Boswells\nGreen, pleasantest of villages, and there gaze his fill at the beautiful\nAbbey far beneath his feet, sleeping amongst the trees across the river.\nOr let him go farther still, up by the leafy path that overhangs the\nrushing water, till he come to the little suspension-bridge. And let\nhim stop there, midway across, and face towards the western sky and the\nthree peaks of Eildon that stand out beyond the trees clear-cut against\nthe warm after-glow. At his feet, mirroring the glory of the dying day,\na broad shining sweep of quiet water broken only by the feeding trout;\non his left hand, high in air the young moon floating like lightest\nfeather; above the fretful murmur of some far-off stream, a bird piping\nto his mate. And over all, a stillness that holds and strangely moves\nthe very soul. I think that if there be one with him attuned to his\nmood, an hour may pass and the gloaming have deepened almost to dusk,\nand neither of them shall have spoken a word, or noticed that the time\nhas sped. And still they will linger, unwilling to break the spell.\n\nAt Leaderfoot the river is crossed by two stone bridges, one, the lofty\nnaked viaduct of the Berwickshire Railway; the other, older and more\npleasing, carries the picturesque road that, breaking out from the leafy\nwoods of Drygrange and leaving on its left hand the hallowed site of Old\nMelrose, leads past St. Boswell's Green and the Kennels of the Buccleuch\nHunt, over by Lilliard's Edge to Jedburgh. Between, and immediately\nabove, the bridges at Leaderfoot are some glorious salmon casts, where\nnigh on a century ago Scrope was wont to throw a fly. Strange that\nduring twenty years, in all that magnificent water fished by him, from\nKelso to Caddonfoot, he never once landed a salmon of thirty pounds,\nand but few as heavy as twenty. There may have been more fish in his\nday,--one cannot judge; they got more, but then they took them not\nonly with fly, but by \"sunning\" and by \"burning\" the water, and by many\nanother means that now is justly considered to be poaching. But they\nseldom caught a salmon approaching in weight those which are now\ncommonly taken in Tweed every season. Thirty pounds is a weight by no\nmeans noticeable now-a-days, and scarcely a year passes that fish of\nforty pounds and over are not taken by some fortunate angler; even above\nMelrose cauld, an obstruction that checks the ascent of many big fish,\nthey have been got, far up the river, as heavy as thirty-eight pounds.\nFloors Water, at Kelso, I believe holds the record as regards size; in\n1886 a fish of fifty-seven and a half pounds was captured. And as to\nnumbers, though it is of course possible to labour for a week or more in\nTweed--as elsewhere--even with the water apparently in good order, and\nwith plenty of fish up, fresh from the sea, and meet with no manner of\nsuccess, on the other hand there is on Makerstoun Water the pleasing\nrecord of twelve, fourteen, fifteen and sixteen salmon killed by one\nrod on four consecutive days; fifty seven fish in all, and\n{223}seventy-three for the week.\n\n[Illustration: 0243]\n\nAnd in a similar period in November, 1903, Upper and Lower Floors Water\nproduced between them one hundred and forty-three fish, the average\nweight for Lower Floors being nineteen pounds. {224}A little\nabove Leaderfoot, on the opposite bank, is Newstead with its Roman\ncamp,--though the visitor will be disappointed with what he may now see;\nthere are no walls, no remains of buildings, such as exist at Bremenium,\nor down on the Roman Wall in Northumberland.\n\n[Illustration: 0244]\n\nBehind Newstead, high on the nearest peak of Eildon, are well-defined\nremains of a Romo-British station. Where they got a sufficient supply of\nwater at that elevation is puzzling: it is a large camp, and could not\npossibly be held by a numerically weak body of men.\n\nFrom the head of that \"brae\" by Newstead that overhangs the river, you\nwill look on a scene typical of Tweed. Far through the broad and smiling\nvalley the river winds towards you, like a ribbon shot with silver; a\nmile away, across green fields, lies the venerable abbey, dreaming in\nthe sunshine--\"thy ruins mouldering o'er the dead.\" And, up stream,\nthe distant belching chimneys of Galashiels cause one fervently {225}to\nthank Heaven that beside the old monastic pile there are no tweed mills\nto foul the air, and to pollute the lovely stream more even than is now\nthe case.\n\n[Illustration: 0245]\n\nMercifully, as regards trade, it is still at Melrose as it was when\nthe \"solemn steps of old departed years\" paced through the land\nwith youthful vigour. The little town is yet guiltless of modern\niniquities--except as regards the railway and the inevitable\nHydropathic, both of which are no doubt necessary evils (or blessings?)\nof these latter days. And except, also, that the modern villa is\novermuch in evidence. A hundred years ago, when there was little of a\ntown but the open Market Place hedging round the Old Cross of Melrose,\nit must have been a better, or at least a more picturesque place. On to\nthe Abbey itself now the town's houses jostle, treading on its skirts,\npertly encroaching. Therefore it lacks the charm and solitude of\nDryburgh. Yet is its own charm irresistible, its beauty matchless,--\"was\nnever {226}scene so sad and fair.\"\n\n[Illustration: 0246]\n\nTo the halting pen, it is the indescribable. In the deathless lines of\nthe Wizard himself, its beauty lives to all time. But a thousand years\nof purgatory might not suffice to wipe from their Record of Sin the\nguilt {227}incurred by Hertford, and Evers, and Laiton, in 1544 and 1545\nwhen they wantonly profaned and laid waste this dream in stone and lime,\nwrought by \"some fairy's hand.\" Nor in later days were our own people\nfree from offence in this respect. The number of old houses in the\nimmediate neighbourhood is probably very small into which have not\nbeen built stones from the ruined abbey. Even across the river they are\nfound; in the walls of a mouldering old farm house there, pulled down\nbut a few years ago, were discovered many delicate bits of scroll work\nand of finely chiselled stone.\n\nA mile to the west of Melrose lies the village of Darnick. Here is a\nfine old tower dating from the sixteenth century, the property still of\nthe family that originally built it. Fain would Sir Walter Scott have\nbought this picturesque old building after he moved to Abbotsford,\nand many another has looked on it with longing eyes, but no offer has\nsucceeded in divorcing it from the stock of the original owner, though\nthe surrounding lands have melted away. Somewhere about 1425 a Heiton\nbuilt the earliest tower. That, naturally, could not stand against the\nall-destroying hand of Hertford in 1544, but the Heiton's descendant\nrepaired, or rebuilt, it in 1569, and ever since it has remained in the\npossession of the family, still, I believe, is occasionally inhabited\nby them. It is now probably the finest existing specimen of the old\nbastel-house. From its watch-tower may be had a glimpse of Tweed\nat Bridgend, where Father Philip, Sacristan of St. Mary's, took his\ninvoluntary bath. This is the Bridgend mentioned in Sir Walter's Notes\nto _The Monastery_. The ancient and very peculiar bridge over Tweed\nwhich gave to the hamlet its name is described in the text of the novel.\nThere is now no trace of such a bridge, but in the early part of the\neighteenth century the pillars yet stood. They are described in Gordon's\n_Itnerarium Septentrionale_ (1726), and in Milne's account of the Parish\nof Melrose published in 1794, there is a full description. Those pillars\nyet stood, he says. \"It has been a timber bridge; in the {228}middle\npillar there has been a chain for a drawbridge, with a little house for\nthe convenience of those that kept the bridge and received the custom.\n\n[Illustration: 0248]\n\nOn this same pillar are the arms of {229}the Pringles of Galashiels.\"\nIn Sir Walter's day, only the foundations of the piers existed. He tells\nhow, \"when drifting down the Tweed at night, for the purpose of killing\nsalmon by torch light,\" he used to see them.\n\nA Heiton of Darnick fell at Flodden. His successor played no\ninconspicuous part in the bitter fight by his own tower side, on\nSkirmish Field, scene of that memorable encounter in 1526 between Angus\nand Huccleuch, when the stake was the person of the young king, James\nV. Turn-Again, too, is in the immediate neighbourhood, on the lands of\nAbbotsford, where the Scotts turned fiercely on their pursuers, and Ker\nof Cessford was slain. It is curious to note that beneath what is now\na lawn at Darnick Tower many skeletons were dug up some years ago, and\nbeside them were swords. Doubtless the skeletons were those of men slain\nin this fight; but why were their swords buried with them? Over the\nhill, at Holydene, an ancient seat of the Kers of Cessford, there was\nalso unearthed years ago within the walls of the old castle, a gigantic\nskeleton, by its side a very handsome sword. Were their weapons, in the\nsixteenth century, laid convenient to the grasp of the dead warriors, as\nin Pagan times they were wont to be?\n\nBowden Moor and Halidon are but over the hill from Darnick. It was\nfrom this direction, by the descent from Halidon (or Halyden, modern\nHolydene), that Buccleueh came down on Angus, after Cessford and\nFernihirst and Home had ridden off. But the Homes and the Kers returned,\nand spoiled the play for the outnumbered Scotts.\n\n               \"Now Bowden Moor the march-man won,\n\n                   And sternly shook his plumed head,\n\n               As glanced his eye o'er Halidon;\n\n                   For on his soul the slaughter red\n\n               Of that unhallowed morn arose,\n\n               When first the Scott and Carr were foes;\n\n               When royal James beheld the fray,\n\n               Prize to the victor of the day; {230}\n\n               When Home and Douglas, in the van,\n\n               Bore down Buccleuch's retiring clan,\n\n               Till gallant Cessford's heart-blood dear\n\n               Reek'd on dark Elliot's border spear.\"\n\n[0250]\n\nLess than a couple of miles to the west from Darnick, we come to that\nwhich Ruskin pronounced to be \"perhaps the most incongruous pile that\ngentlemanly modernism ever designed.\" I fear that even the most\ndevoted Borderer must admit that Abbotsford _is_ an incongruous pile.\nNevertheless it is hallowed ground, and one may not judge it by common\nstandards. It reminds only of the gallantest struggle against hopeless\nodds that ever was made by mortal man; it speaks only of him whom\neveryone loved, and loves. \"The glory-dies not, and the grief is past.\"\n\nBut what a marvellous change has been wrought over all {231}that\ncountryside since \"the Shirra\" bought Abbotsford, a hundred and two\nyears ago. Undrained, unenclosed, treeless and bare, covered for the\nmost part only with its rough native heath--that was the character of\nthe country. And the house; \"small and poor, with a common _kail-yard_\non one flank, and a staring barn on the other; while in front appeared\na filthy pond covered with ducks and duckweed, from which the whole\ntenement had derived the unharmonious designation of Clarty Hole.\" It\ndoes not sound enticing; and already offers had been made to him of a\nproperty near Selkirk, where, among fields overhanging the river, was a\nsite unsurpassed for natural beauty of prospect, whence Ettrick could\nbe viewed winding past \"sweet Bowhill,\" far into the setting sun. It was\nErskine, I think, who urged him to buy this property--land which then\nbelonged to the writer's grandfather and greatgrandfather. But it\nwas too far from Tweed, Scott said; \"Tweed was everything to him--a\nbeautiful river, flowing broad and bright over a bed of milk-white\npebbles,\" (pebbles, alas! that, there at least, are no longer\nmilk-white, but rather grey with sewage fungus and the refuse of mills).\nIn spite of all its manifest drawbacks, \"Clarty Hole,\" appealed to\nScott. It was near the beautiful old abbey, and the lands had been\nabbey-lands. An ancient Roman road led through the property from Eildon\nHills to that ford over Tweed which adjorned the farm, (and with this\nford for sponsor, he changed the name from \"Clarty Hole\" to \"Abbot's\nFord.\") Over the river, on the rising ground full in his view was the\nfamous Catrail; and through his own land ran the Rhymer's Glen, where\nTrue Thomas foregathered with the Queen of Fa\u00ebry. Bit by bit, Scott\nadded to his land, bit by bit to his cottage, regarding which his first\nintention was \"to have only two spare bedrooms, with dressing-rooms,\neach of which will on a pinch have a couch-bed.\" And his tree-planting\nhad begun at once. When the property was first acquired from the\nReverend Dr. Douglas of Galashiels, there was on it but one solitary\nstrip of {232}firs, so long and so narrow that Scott likened it to a\nblack hair-comb.\n\n[Illustration: 0252]\n\nIt ran,\" says Lockhart, \"from the precincts of the homestead to near\nTurn-Again, and has bequeathed the name of _the Doctor's reiding-kame_\nto the mass of nobler trees amidst which its dark, straight line can now\nhardly be traced.\" I do not think that \"the Doctor's redding-kame\" now\nsurvives {233}as a name, even if the original trees be still to the\nfore. In any rase they would attract no attention, for what Sir Thomas\nDick Lauder says was then \"as tame and uninteresting a stretch of ground\nas could well be met with in any part of the world,\" is now rich in\nwoods, and everywhere restful and pleasing to the eye--though it may be\nconceded that Galashiels has stretched a villa-bedecked arm farther up\nTweed's left bank than might have been quite acceptable to Sir Walter.\n\nAt Boldside, of whose \"ruined and abandoned churchyard\" he writes in\nhis introduction to the _Monastery_, there is now a railway station,\nand suburban villas, large and small, dot the landscape ever the more\nplentifully as one approaches that important manufacturing town which\na century back was but a tiny village peopled by a few industrious\nweavers. No longer, I fear, can it be said that Boldside's \"scattered\nand detached groves,\" combining with \"the deep, broad current of the\nTweed, wheeling in moonlight round the foot of the steep bank.... fill\nup the idea which one would form in imagination for a scene that Obcron\nand Queen Mab might love to revel in.\"\n\nThe Fairy Folk have fled from scenes tainted by an atmosphere of railway\nand modern villa. Even the Water-bull has ceased to shake the hills with\nhis roar around Sir Walter's \"small but deep lake\" at Cauldshiels. Yet\nas late as the time of our grandsires people told gravely how, one warm\nsummer's day, a lady and her groom, riding by the sullen shore of this\n\"lochan,\" ventured a little way from the edge in order to water their\nthirsty horses, and were immediately engulfed in the Kelpie's insatiable\nmaw. If such a tragedy ever did happen, no doubt the explanation is\nsimple enough. Without any warning the hard upper crust would give way\nbeneath the horses' feet, and, struggling vainly, they would sink in the\nfathomless, spewing, inky slime below. Once trapped in that, no power on\nearth could ever bring them out {234}again, dead or alive. A like\nfate nearly befell the writer when fishing alone one day in a gloomy,\nforsaken, kelpie-haunted Border hill loch. Dense fog came down,\nwreathing over the quiet water, hiding the dripping heather and the\nbenty hill. A bird of the bittern kind boomed dismally at intervals, and\na snipe bleated. It was a cheerless prospect; and the temperature had\nfallen with the coming of the fog. But through the mist could be heard\nthe sound of trout rising in the little loch, and one bigger than his\nfellows persisted in rising far out. The sound was too tempting. The\nfisher waded out, and still out; and ever the big trout rose, luring him\non. Another step, and another; it was no longer stony under foot,\nand the bottom began to quake, Still the footing was hard enough,\nand nothing happened; and again the big fish rose just out of casting\ndistance. One more step would do it; and what danger could possibly be\nadded in so small a distance? So one more step was taken, and--without\na second's warning the crust broke. Only one thing saved the fisher;\ninstinctively, as he sank through the fetid slime, he threw himself\non his back, striking vigorously with his arms. But it took many an\nagonised, almost despairing, stroke ere his legs _sucked_ out of that\ndeath trap. Nor, as long as there was water shoreward deep enough\nto swim in, did he again attempt to wade. His rod had not been\nabandoned--which was matter for gratulation; but, soaked to the skin,\nchilled to the very marrow, and reeking with the stench of putrid swamp,\nit was no thing of joy that day to make his devious way home over an\nunfamiliar hill that was wrapped in impenetrable folds of dense mist.\n\nThere is an origin, likely enough, for the Water-Bull. A great volume of\nmarsh-gas, bursting from the bottom of a swampy loch, might be seen some\nstill, foggy day, or in the uncertain evening light, suddenly to boil\nup on the surface far out. The wallowing upheaval caused by the belching\ngas would readily suggest the part-seen back or side of some formless\nmonster, whose gambols were agitating the water and {235}causing billows\nto surge upon the weed-fringed shore; and a bittern's hollow boom\nquivering on the still night air, would easily be construed by the\ncredulous and ignorant as the bellow of this fearsome monster that they\nthought they had seen wheeling and plunging. If he was anything more\nsubstantial than gas, what a beast he would have been to troll for!\n\nOne should not forget that it was by the shore of Cauldshiels Loch that\nScott wrote the exquisitely sad lines that yet so vividly paint the\nscene:\n\n               \"The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill,\n\n                   In Eterick's vale is sinking sweet;\n\n               The westland wind is hushed and still,\n\n                   The lake lies sleeping at my feet.\n\n               Yet not the landscape to mine eye\n\n                   Bears those bright hues that once it bore;\n\n               Though evening with her richest dye,\n\n               Flames o'er the hill of Ettrick's shore.\n\n               With listless look along the plain,\n\n                   I see Tweed's silver current glide,\n\n               And coldly mark the holy fane\n\n                   Of Melrose rise in ruined pride.\n\n               The quiet lake, the balmy air,\n\n                   The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree,\n\n               Are they still such as once they were,\n\n                   Or is the dreary change in me?\n\nIt is only a little above \"the holy fane of Melrose\" that there enters\nTweed on the northern side an interesting little burn, the Ellwand, or\nAllen. Up the glen--the Fairy Dene, or Nameless Dene--formed by this\nstream, lies Glendearg, the tower described in the opening scenes of the\n_Monastery_. There are, in fact, three towers in the glen, Hillslap (now\ncalled Glendearg), Colmslie, and Langshaw. Over the door of the first is\nthe date 1595, and the letters N. C. and E. L., the initials of Nicolas\nCairncross and his wife. Colmslie belonged to the family of Borthwick;\ntheir crest, a Goat's Head, is still on the {236}ruin,--or was some\nyears ago. But who in old days owned Langshaw is not known to me. For\nmutual protection, Border towers were very commonly built thus, in\ngroups of three--as is instanced, indeed, at the neighbouring village\nof Darnick, where formerly, besides the present existing bastel-house,\nthere stood two others. \"In each village or town,\" says Sir Walter,\n\"were several small towers, having battlements projecting over the\nside-walls, and usually an advanced angle or two with shot-holes for\nflanking the door way, which was always defended by a strong door of\noak, studded with nails, and often by an exterior grated door of iron.\nThese small peel houses were ordinarily inhabited by the principal\nfeuars and their families; but, upon the alarm of approaching danger,\nthe whole inhabitants thronged from their own miserable cottages, which\nwere situated around, to garrison these points of defence. It was then\nno easy matter for a hostile party to penetrate into the village, for\nthe men were habituated to the use of bows and fire arms, and the towers\nbeing generally so placed that the discharge from one crossed that of\nanother, it was impossible to assault any of them individually.\"\n\nThe Nameless Dene is famed for the \"fairy\" cups and saucers that are\nstill to be found in the streamlet's bed after a flood, little bits of\nsome sort of soft limestone which the washing of the water has formed\ninto shapes so fantastic and delicate that one hardly needs the\nimagination of childhood to believe they are the work of fingers more\nthan mortal. Up this valley ran the ancient Girthgate, a bridle-way over\nthe hills used of old by the infrequent traveller, and always by the\nmonks of Melrose when duty took them to visit the Hospital which Malcolm\nIV founded in. 1164 on Soltre, or Soutra, Hill. As late as the middle of\nlast century the grassy track was plainly to be seen winding through the\nheather; perhaps in parts it is not even yet obliterated. Nature does\nnot readily wipe out those old paths and drove roads that the passing of\nman and beast traced across the hills many centuries back.\n\n{237}\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX GALASHIELS AND THE GALA, LINDFAN\n\n|And now we come to a once beautiful stream, of which, in the present\ncondition of its lower stretches, it is not easy to speak with due\nmoderation.\n\n                   \"Deil take the ditty trading loon\n\n                   Wad gar the water ca' his wheel,\n\n                   And drift his dyes and poisons down\n\n                   By fair Tweed side at Ashiesteel.\"\n\nIt is not the Tweed at Ashiesteel, however, that in this instance is\ninjured, but the Gala at Galashiels, and Tweed below that town. \"It\nwould,\" says the Official Report issued in 1906 by H.M. Stationery\nOffice, \"be impossible to find a river more grossly polluted than the\nGala as it passes through Galashiels,\"--a verdict with which no wayfarer\nalong the banks of that dishonoured stream will be inclined to disagree.\nThe grey-blue liquid that sluggishly oozes down the river's bed among\nstones thick-coated with sewage fungus, is an outrage on nature most\nsaddening to look upon. He does wisely who stands to windward of the\nabomination. It is true that of late years much has been done, much\nmoney spent, in the praiseworthy effort to bring purity into this home\nof the impure; but to the lay eye improvement is yet barely perceptible.\n\"Fools and bairns,\" however, they tell us, \"should never see half-done\nwork.\" The filter-beds of the extensive sewage works {238}are said to be\nnot yet in working order, and so one may not despair of even yet living\nlong enough to see Gala as Gala should be.\n\n[Illustration: 0258]\n\nIn the meantime, and till the entire sewage scheme is in full working\norder, there are--if one may judge from reports in the daily Press,--a\nfew minor improvements not quite out of reach of the inhabitants. On\n15th July, 1912, an evening paper published the account of \"another\"\ndead pig which at that date was lying in the river \"immediately in front\nof the main entrance to the Technical College.\" The carcase, we are\ntold, was \"much decomposed, and attracted huge swarms of flies.\" This\npaper, in commenting on the corpse of an earlier defunct pig, which a\nfew days before had reposed in the same tomb, remarks that \"it has been\nthe custom up to now for all kinds of objectional matter to be deposited\non the river banks or thrown into the bed of the river to await the\nfirst flood to carry it down to the Tweed.\"\n\n\"The river,\" the journal continues, {239}\"is at present at its lowest\nsummer ebb, and during the heat wave the smells arising from decomposing\nmatter have been overpowering.\" In an arctic climate, there may perhaps\nbe some excuse for the proverb: \"the clarder the cosier,\" but it seems\nscarcely applicable to Gala; and there might, one would imagine, be\nother and more modern methods of dealing with decomposed pigs than that\nof floating them into outraged Tweed. The condition of \"fishes that\ntipple in the deep\" and quaff cerulean dyes in every stream, is not\nlikely to be improved by a diet of sewage fungus and decayed pig, any\nmore than is the health of human dwellers by the banks likely to benefit\nby the proximity of decomposing animal matter.\n\nThe history of Galashiels is mainly industrial, mainly the history of\nthe'\"Tweed\" trade. There were mills of a sort in the town as early as\n1622, but even a hundred and fifty years later the trade cannot have\ngreatly harmed the river; only 170 cwt. of wool were then used in all\nthe mills of Galashiels, and there was no such thing as the manufacture\nof modern \"tweeds.\" All the wool then used was made into blankets, and\n\"Galashiels Greys,\" (whatever fearful fowl _they_ may have been). The\nterm \"tweeds\" came later, one is given to understand, and arose through\nthe mistake of an English correspondent of one of the Galashiels\nmanufacturers. This gentleman misread a letter, in which the Scottish\nwriter spoke of his \"tweels.\" The Englishman, having read the letter\nsomewhat carelessly, and knowing that Galashiels was somewhere near\nthe river Tweed, hastily concluded that the goods under discussion\nwere termed \"tweeds,\" and gave his order accordingly. The name was\nuniversally adopted in the trade, and now--as the professional cricketer\nsaid about \"yorkers,\"--\"I don't see what else you _could_ call them.\"\n\nGalashiels has a tradition to which it clings, that it was once a royal\nhunting seat. Mr. Robert Chambers says that the lodge or tower used by\nthe Scottish monarchs when they came here a-hunting was pulled down\nonly so recently as about the {240}year 1830. It was called the Peel,\na strong square tower with small windows, \"finer in appearance than any\nother house in the whole barony, that of Gala alone excepted.\" From it a\nnarrow lane called the King's Shank led to the town. I cannot say it the\nname survives in Galashiels.\n\nBut there is another tradition in which perhaps Galashiels takes greater\npride, the tradition connected with the plum tree in the Town's Arms.\n(Though what the little foxes are doing at the foot of the tree, and\nwhat they have to do with the legend, none can say. Perhaps they are\nEnglish foxes; and they got the plums--sour enough, as it turned\nout.) The incident commemorated is said to be this: During one of the\ninvasions of Edward III, a party of his soldiers had taken up their\nquarters in Galashiels. The country no doubt had been pretty well\nharried and laid waste--Edward's men had plenty of practice--and\nthey may have been careless, with the carelessness begotten of\noverconfidence. Anyhow, they straggled through the? woods, looking for\nwild plums, the story goes--though one would imagine that the only plums\nthey would be likely to find there would be sloes, not a fruit that one\nwould expect to tempt them far afield. But perhaps, as some say, they\nwere robbing an orchard--if there were orchards in Scotland in the\nfourteenth century. In any case, a party of Scots, either a passing\narmed band, or, as Galashiels would fain believe, the inhabitants of the\ntown themselves, swearing that they would give the southern swine\nsourer plums than any that had yet set their teeth on edge, fell on the\nEnglish, drove them in headlong rout to the banks of Tweed opposite\nto where Abbotsford now stands--the Englishmen's Dyke, they call\nthe spot--and slew them to a man. \"Soor Plums in Galashiels\" has for\ncenturies been a favourite air in the town, though the words of the song\nhave perished.\n\nGala as a stream has been badly misused by man--at and below the town\npoisoned by sewage and mill refuse, above the town overfished, and\npoached, almost to the extinction of its {241}trout. Matters now,\nhowever, are, I believe, vastly improved as regards sport; the\nGalashiels Angling Association works with & will to make things what\nthey should be in a stream once so famed, and one hears that its efforts\nare meeting with the success they deserve. But it can never come back to\nwhat it must have been \"lang syne,\" say in Sir Thomas Dick Lauder's day.\n\n[Illustration: 0261]\n\nThat gentleman records that he and a friend fished one day from\nBankhouse down to Galashiels, and turning there, fished Gala up to its\njunction with the Ermit Burn, then followed the latter to its source on\nSoutra Hill, and found at the end of the day that they had filled three\ncreels; their total catch was over thirty-six dozen trout. A good many\nwere caught in the burn with worm, of course, and most of the trout\ntaken were probably very small, but it shows what possibilities these\nsmall Border streams might hold if they were well treated. Nobody,\nhowever, one may hope--no reasonable mortal out of his teens, that\nis--now wants to catch over four hundred trout in a single day under any\ncircumstances. Even to the very juvenile schoolboy there can be but the\nvery minimum of sport in jerking fingerings on to the bank. If a fixed\nlimit of size could be imposed; if the close season were continued for\nanother fortnight or three weeks in Spring; and, above all, if the sale\nof trout could be prohibited by law until at least the beginning of\nApril, our Border fishing would be improved beyond recognition. Great\ntakes are made now, with worm, early in the season, when the waters are\ndiscoloured and the trout lean and ravenous; and long before they are in\nanything like condition either to give sport or to be decently fit for\nfood, vast quantities of fish from the Border streams are sent off\nto the English markets. If those markets were kept closed a few weeks\nlonger, many a trout would have a chance to reach maturity that is now\nsacrificed in extreme youth to put a few \"bawbees\" into a poacher's\npocket. The great takes at the season's opening are not made by fair\nfishing. The writer was informed, three or four years ago, by the\nsolitary porter of a very small Tweed-side railway station--himself\na keen and skilful fisher--that on 2nd March of that year two men had\nconsigned to Manchester from that one little station _one hundred and\nten pounds weight_ of trout. How were _they_ caught? Certainly not by\nfair means. They are not _fishers_ who take trout after this fashion.\nThese are the men who, to suit their immediate wants and their own\nconvenience, would deplete every stream in the Border and put a speedy\nend to all sport. As things are at present there is practically nothing\nto prevent them from taking what they please from any water.\n\nHowever, to return to Gala. Here, as everywhere in the Border, vast are\nthe changes that the past sixty or seventy years have wrought on the\nface of nature. Even at a time so comparatively recent as that when the\npresent North British line of railway from Edinburgh to Carlisle was\nbeing constructed down the valley, Sir Thomas Dick Lauder remarks on the\nrevolution that in his own experience a few years had made. \"We know of\nno district,\" says he, \"which has been so com{243}pletely metamorphosed\nsince the days of our youth as that of Gala Water.\" In his boyhood, the\nwhole wore a pastoral character. Crops were rare, and fences hardly to\nbe met with.\n\n[Illustration: 0263]\n\nNot a tree was to be seen, except in the neighbourhood of one or two old\nplaces, and especially at and around Torwoodlee and Gala House, near\nthe mouth of the river. Everything within sight was green, simple, and\nbare. Then he contrasts {244}this with the appearance of the valley at\ndate of his writing, when \"the whole country is fenced, cultivated, and\nhedged round. Thriving and extensive plantations appear everywhere.\"\n\n[Illustration: 0264]\n\nCould he see it, he would find the change even more marked now, with the\n\"thriving plantations\" grown and extended, countless trains thundering\nup and down the line day and night, and above all with his little\nvillage of \"two thousand two hundred and nine inhabitants\" grown into a\ngreat and busy town.\n\nIn ancient days, this valley through which Gala flows was called\nWedale,--the Dale of Woe, the Valley of Weeping, for here says Professor\nSkene, was fought one of King Arthur's great battles against the Pagans.\nAt what is now the village of Stow--the Stow (old English, \"place,\") of\nWedale--the Bishops of St. Andrews had a palace; and here, by the\nLady well at Torsonce, stood in Arthurian days a church famed for its\npossession of fragments of the True Cross, bestowed, it was {245}said,\nby King Arthur himself.\n\n[Illustration: 0265]\n\nHere, too, were preserved in great veneration, long years after Arthur\nhad passed away \"to be king among the dead,\" portions of that miraculous\nimage of the Blessed Virgin which, the old historian Nennius tells us,\nthe king bore into the stress of battle that day among the hills of\nWedale. And here, till about 1815, lay a very large stone on whose face\nwas the well marked impression of a foot, said by tradition to have been\nthe imprint of the foot of the Virgin. To be converted into road-metal\nhas doubtless been its fate. There are still, I believe, in Stow, the\nremains of a very old church, not, however, those of the original church\nof Wedale.\n\nLeaving Galashiels by road past Boldside, with a glimpse of the Eildons\nand Abbotsford to the left, three miles from the town and immediately\nabove the junction of Tweed with its tributary the Ettrick we cross the\nformer river. Hard by, to the right, in a wood on top of Rink Hill, are\nthe remains of a very fine British camp. {246}Here for the time we\nagain quit the banks of Tweed, and proceed up Ettrick. A mile from the\njunction of the rivers, we pass near the old churchyard of Lindean,\nwhere once stood the ancient church in which, the night after his\nassassination in 1353, lay the bloody corpse of Sir William Douglas, the\nKnight of Liddesdale, slain by his kinsman.\n\nIn connection with this churchyard, there used to exist a belief that\ngreatly troubled the minds of country folk in the surrounding district.\nAway back in those evil times when the Plague raged through Scotland,\nvery many of its victims were buried in a common grave in Lindean\nchurchyard. But the church was demolished after the Reformation, and the\nchurchyard gradually fell out of use as a place of burial. There came\na time when the people had no farther need for it; why, thought some\npractical person, should it not be ploughed up and cultivated? There was\nbut one thing that saved it from this fate;--not reverence for the ashes\nof the rude forefathers of the hamlet that lay here at rest, but the\nsure and certain belief in the minds of their descendants that in the\nevent of the soil being disturbed, there must inevitably be a fresh\noutbreak of the dreaded Plague. It is curious and interesting to read\nof the blind horror with which our ancestors in their day regarded this\nscourge; but their horror is not hard to understand. Sanitation did not\nexist in those times, medicine as a science was impotent to curb the\nravages of the dreaded pestilence. The people were helpless; to save\nthemselves there remained only flight. And in what remote spot might\nflight avail them in a Plague-swept land! In that outbreak during the\nseventeenth century, temporary houses, or shelters, were erected in many\nparts of the Border, and into them were hurried persons smitten by the\npestilence--and often, no doubt, persons suffering from some very minor\nailment which their panic-stricken neighbours diagnosed as Plague. It\nis not to be supposed that once there, they would get much, if any,\nattention; they would simply take their {247}chance--a slender one--of\nrecovery. And if they died, so great was the dread in the minds of\nthe living that, in many instances, to save unnecessary risk, the\nauthorities merely pulled down the building over the dead bodies,\nand heaped earth on top. At a period even so late as in the writer's\nboyhood, there were many spots--perhaps in very remote districts there\nmay yet be a few--where the Plague was said to be buried, and where\nto disturb the soil was believed to be a matter of extreme danger; the\npestilence, like some malevolent fiend long held down, would inevitably\nbreak loose, and again Grim Death would hurl his darts broadcast at old\nand young, rich and poor. In his _Scenes of Infancy_ Leyden alludes to\nthe belief:\n\n               ' \"Mark, in yon vale, a solitary stone,\n\n               Shunned by the swain, with loathsome weeds o'ergruwn!\n\n               The yellow stonecrop shoots from every pore,\n\n               With scaly sapless lichens crusted o'er:\n\n               Beneath the base, where starving hemlocks creep,\n\n               The yellow Pestilence is buried deep.\n\n               Here oft, at sunny noon, the peasants pause,\n\n               While many a tale their mute attention draws; *\n\n               And, as the younger swains, with active feet,\n\n               Pace the loose weeds, and the flat tombstone mete,\n\n               What curse shall seize the guilty wretch, they tell,\n\n               Who drags the monster from his midnight cell.\"\n\nAll manner of precautions were adopted to hinder the spreading of the\npestilence. Orders were even issued forbidding the assembling together\nof more than three or four persons at any one place, but the Privy\nCouncil Records of the time show that this regulation was obeyed only\nwhen it suited the people to observe it. There were limits to the dread\nin which the pestilence was held, and even fear of the consequences did\nnot always reconcile the Borderers to such an interference with their\nliberty. It is on record that, in 1637, when, in the execution of his\nduty as Convener of the Justices of his county, Sir John Murray of\nPhiliphaugh went to Selkirk, he {248}found that a marriage was about to\ntake place, and that most part of the community had been invited to be\npresent. Sir John at once forbade the assemblage, and, later, he sent\nfor the father of the bride, a man named James Murray, and informed him\nthat on no account would more than four or five guests be permitted. But\nJames was not to be thus coerced. \"Na, na!\" he cried, \"If ye be feared,\ncome not there. But the folk are comin'.\"\n\nSo Sir John called on the bailies to commit the offender at once to\nprison. The bailies, however, were probably included in the number of\nthe wedding guests, and were looking forward to the \"ploy\" with as great\npleasurable anticipation as was even the most irresponsible of those\ninvited. They paid no heed to Sir John's demand; \"there was no obedience\ngiven thereto,\" say the Records. And next day, when the postponed\nwedding took place, \"there was about four or five score persons who met\nand drank together all that day till night.\" Whether Sir John remained\nto take any part in the festivities we are not told, but of this at\nleast we may be very sure: his interference did not tend to lessen the\namount of liquor consumed on the occasion.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X SELKIRK\n\n|Two{249} miles up the river from Lindean you come to Selkirk. But\nthis is not the route by which that town should be approached; by the\nGalashiels road, one is in the heart of Selkirk almost before one is\naware of any streets. To see properly the old royal burgh clinging to\nthe steep side of its hill, and to realise the beauty of its situation,\nit is necessary to come from Galashiels up Tweed by the road diverging\nat Rink. Thence cross Yair Bridge, go by that beautiful highway through\nthe shaggy woods of Sunderland Hall, past Ettriek-bank and the Nettley\nBurn, down by Linglie, across Ettrick by the old bridge, and so up into\nthe Market Place of Selkirk by the Green, (which is not anything in the\nnature of a lawn, but, on the contrary, a rather steep road).\n\nThis is a route longer, but to those not pressed for time, one\ninfinitely more pleasant and beautiful than the direct way between the\ntwo towns. By it you see the exquisite bit of Tweed valley that lies\nbetween the junction and Yair Bridge, and, pausing as you cross that\nbridge, you have on either hand a prospect infinitely fair of heathery\nhill, green, leafy wood, and glorious river, the latter, above you on\nthe right, hurrying down from Yair Cauld, a glittering sheet of eddying\nwater, sweeping in magnificent curve past its elms at the foot of a\nmighty tree-clad brae; then passing beneath your feet, chafing and\nhoarsely roaring, it plunges through between imprisoning rocks, till\nonce more comparative peace is gained in reaches dear to the heart of\nsalmon fishers. Then you leave the bridge at Yair, and climbing an easy\ngradient, pass along by a pleasant, shady road through rich woods, over\nthe hill to Ettriekbank, where tradition says Queen Mary crossed the\nEttrick on her way to Jedburgh in 1566.\n\n[Illustration: 0270]\n\nIn itself, Ettriekbank possesses no feature of interest, but it recalls\nto mind the fact that here, in 1818, two harmless-looking hawkers with a\ncart were wont to call at intervals, ostensibly to sell fish. Had their\nreal errand been known, it is little fish they would have sold, and\nshort would have been their shrift at the hands of the roused and\nhorrified country-folk. They were Burke and Hare, the notorious\nbody-snatchers, and the real purpose of the cart in which they brought\nfish was to carry back to Edinburgh the bodies they might procure in the\ncountry.\n\nBurke and Blare! Still, after the lapse of close on a century their\nmemory is held in execration in the Border, still is their name a kind\nof vague horror even to those to whom it may convey little else, and who\nare almost wholly ignorant of what hideous crimes were committed by the\npair. It was, of course, not only _dead_ bodies that they took. These\nthey ravished from new made graves; but they took also living men,\ndrugged or filled with drink, and murdered them for the sake of the\nprice their corpses would bring as subjects for dissection by some of\nthe doctors of that day. Hare turned king's evidence. After the trial\nand execution of his accomplice, he was smuggled away to the United\nStates. There his identity was discovered, and an infuriated mob\nthrew him into a limekiln, where he was badly burned and his eye\nsight destroyed. After a time, when the rage and horror aroused by his\nmisdeeds might to some extent be supposed likely to have died away, he\nreturned to England, and as late as 1855 he was alive and in London. A\nblind, white haired, frouzy, ragged old man, led by a dog, used daily to\nslouch up Oxford Street, turn at the Circus towards Portland Place,\npost himself near where the Langham Hotel stands, and beg there from\ncharitable passers-by. How many of them would have given, had they known\nthat this old man was Hare, a ruffian stained with the blood of perhaps\nhalf a score of victims? How many of them, shrinking aside, would have\nstepped into the foulest gutter rather than be contaminated by even\nbrushing against the hem of his filthy old garments? Few then knew who\nhe was; but there are men yet alive who may possibly remember having\nseen him. An eminent London surgeon, who died, comparatively speaking,\nbut the other day, very well remembered, and occasionally spoke of, the\ngrizzly old ruffian who stood, with tapping stick, holding a bowl for\nalms. The late Mr. Serjeant Ballantine, too, in his _Reminiscences_\ndescribes the appearance of the man.\n\nImmediately after passing Ettriekbank, the road, coming {252}suddenly\nout from a clump of trees, breaks into view of a wide and pleasant\nvalley, with a goodly prospect of wood and heathery hill stretched\nfar to the west and south. Down this valley sweeps the gravelly bed of\nEttrick; on its farther bank, on the flat haugh, stand a long line\nof mills and the station of a branch line of railway. Above, rising\nabruptly, tier upon tier in cheerful succession, trees and houses that\nblend into the smiling face of Selkirk. And perhaps it is by reason of\nthe width of the setting in which they are placed, or because down the\nmighty funnel of the valley comes rushing the west wind that sweeps all\nsmoke away, but somehow it seems that the mills on the haugh below the\ntown give no air of squalor or of dirt to the landscape.\n\nWould that one could say the same with regard to the effect of their\ndyes and refuse on the condition of the river. By a steep red \"scaur\"\nbelow Linglie there once was a pool clearer than amber, across which\nin summer weather small boys, breathless but greatly daring, essayed\nto swim. Farther down, at the back of Lindean Flour Mill, was another,\nwhere in the long twilights of June,\n\n                   \". . trout beneath the blossom'd tree,\n\n                   Plashed in the golden stream,\"\n\nand whence many a pounder and half-pounder was drawn by eager young\nfishers. Where is that seductive amber-clear water now? Alas! in these\ndays it is of a sickly blue tint, smelling evilly; and the stones in\nits bed, that once were a clear, warm grey, with yellow boulders\ninterspersed that flashed in the stream of a sunny day like burnished\ncopper,--they are slime-covered and loathsome, things to be shunned.\nSurely more can be done to check this pollution of our beautiful\nstreams. So far as can be ascertained, there is but one of the mills of\nSelkirk that strives (and I believe it strives successfully,) so to deal\nwith its refuse that the water it uses may be returned to Ettrick in a\ncondition that does not defile that stream. {253}Nevertheless, it has to\nbe admitted that during the autumn floods salmon do run the gauntlet\nof Ettrick's lower reaches, and in countless numbers congregate below\nSelkirk Cauld (or weir), where the difficulty of ascent acts as a\npartial check on their continued migration. On a day in the month of\nNovember, if there should happen to be a considerable flood in the\nriver, this cauld is a sight worth going a long way to look at. A\nwide rushing sea of tawny, foaming water--a hundred yards from bank to\nbank--races over the sloping face of the cauld, and, where it plunges\ninto the deep pool at foot, rears itself in a mighty wave, with crest\nthat tosses in the wintry breeze \"like the mane of a chestnut steed.\"\nFrom daylight till dark you may watch the fish,--big and little, from\nthe thirty-pound leviathan to the little one or two-pound sea trout--in\ntheir eagerness to reach the spawning-beds of the upper waters, hurl\nthemselves high in air over this great barrier-wave, then, gallantly\nstruggling, continue for a while their course up the rushing torrent,\ntill gradually they lose way and come tumbling back, head over tail,\ninto the pool from which half a minute before they had emerged. It is\nlike standing by one of the jumps in an endless kind of tinny Grand\nNational Steeple-chase; so many fish are in the air at once at any given\nmoment that one becomes giddy with watching them. Probably a good\nmany do in time accomplish the ascent, or perhaps get up by the\nsalmon-ladders in mid-stream, but the great majority are swept back,\nover and over again. Those that make their attempt near the side, in the\nshallow water out of the main force of the current, are frequently taken\nin landing-nets (by water-bailiffs stationed there for the purpose), and\nare carried up and set at liberty in the smooth water above the cauld.\nIt must be confessed that a considerable number are also taken in this\nway, or with the help of a \"cleek,\" by poachers. The bailiffs cannot be\neverywhere; and a salmon is a temptation before which (in the Border)\nalmost the most virtuous of his sex might conceivably succumb. The\naverage {254}Borderer, indeed, I believe would cheerfully risk his life\nsometimes, rather than forego his chance of \"a Fish.\"--\"The only crime\nprevalent [in Selkirk] is that of poaching,\" says the Rev. Mr. Campbell,\nminister of the parish for fifty years, writing in 1833. There was one,\ngreatly sinning in this respect, of whom nevertheless, because of his\ngallant end, I cannot think without a feeling almost of affection.\nHe--with a fish where no fish should have been--was hopelessly\noutmanoeuvred by the bailiffs, escape cut off on every side, and only\nthe river, red, swollen, and cold as ice, open to him. \"Here's daith or\nglory for Jockie!\" he cried, and plunged into a torrent from which he\ncame no more alive.\n\nA little higher up than the cauld is the Piper's Pool, where, until he\nwas hit by a chance bullet that brought him rolling like a shot rabbit\ndown the brae into the water, a piper stood piping that September\nmorning of 1645, when Montrose and Leslie were striving for the victory.\nOn the bank above, those inhabitants of Selkirk who cared to run some\nrisk--which was probably the whole community--took up their position\nand watched the fight as from a grand stand. There is no better vantage\npoint imaginable.\n\nLeslie, I suppose, crossing opposite the gap called Will's Nick, (not\nfar from Lindean), came up the left bank of Ettrick and, hidden by the\nfog, skirted along the edge of the hills till he was within striking\ndistance of the Royal camp, when he took them, no doubt, both in flank\nand in rear. But how did a man of Montrose's experience allow himself to\nbe thus fooled? Montrose passed the night in Selkirk, and he received\nno information whatever of any hostile movement. It was too late when\nhe and what mounted men he could hastily collect came thundering and\nfoaming through the shallow stream next morning, and went spurring over\nthe flat haugh against the enemy. Someone besides Traquair must have\nplayed him false. It is inconceivable that he had no pickets out, or\nemployed none of his cavalry on outpost duty. If they were {255}out, in\nspite of the fog they could not fail to have got in touch with some part\nof Leslie's force. No large body of troops could have come undetected by\na route so obvious, if those on the look-out for them were doing their\nduty.\n\nSelkirk on this occasion saw war, as it were from the dress circle.\nThe town was burned to the ground by the English after Flodden, and at\nvarious other odd times, but I do not think that it ever saw much actual\nstreet fighting such as was the experience of Jedburgh again and again.\nSelkirk was out of the main current of invasion, and it was only odd\n\"spates\" that came her way, such as when, in 1304, Edward I passed\nthrough the town on his march back to England; and again when in 1309\nEdward II, following an unexpected route to the north, took her on his\nway. Still, Selkirk had always been familiar with at least the pomp and\ncircumstance of war. The town was old when Earl David founded its abbey\nin 1113; probably it had always been a headquarters of the Scottish\nKings and their retinue, when hunting in the Forest. Certainly William\nthe Lion, Alexander II, and Alexander III all passed a good deal of\ntime in his castle, which of old stood on an eminence in what are now the\ngrounds of Haining, near the \"head\" of the town. Probably the Court came\nhere chiefly for the purpose of hunting; the Forest of Ettrick was famed\nfor its deer, as its men--unlike the majority of their countrymen--were\nfamed for their archery. At Falkirk, in 1298, the English themselves\nbore witness to the warlike prowess of the men of Selkirk, as well as to\ntheir stature and fine appearance. At Bannockburn the sons of the forest\ndistinguished themselves. And again at Flodden.\n\nRegarding the part borne by her sons in the last-named great struggle,\nthere are many trad-'fons to which the inhabitants of Selkirk cling\ntenaciously. Some, I fear, will not bear too close investigation,\nTraditions are mis-chancey things to handle; it does not always do to\nenquire too closely if one would retain one's faith. A large body of the\nmen of {256}Selkirk and the Forest went to Flodden, and they fought as\nthey always did fight. That much, at least, is certain. But who shall\nsay how many returned from that fatal field? The Burgh Records are\nsilent. There is a mournful gap of two months in the history of the\ntown; not an entry of any sort for eight weeks in the autumn of 1513.\nAnd, says Mr. Craig-Brown in his History of Selkirkshire, \"Quite as\nmournful and significant are the frequent services of heirs recorded\nafter the battle.\" Selkirk suffered severely at Flodden. There, as\nelsewhere, her sons did their duty; and they fell gloriously. One could\nwish that that might suffice: it is an ungrateful task to rake among the\ndead cinders of time-honoured traditions. But it is the detestable habit\nof the day to leave none of our ancient beliefs unassailed: the more\nbeloved the tradition, the more likely is some one to remain unsatisfied\ntill he has upset it. Yet it must be admitted that few of our cherished\nlegends emerge triumphant when assailed by the scoffer. That, for\ninstance, of Fletcher and the English standard captured at Flodden,\nwhich has been revered in Selkirk by so many generations of Souters, I\nfear, when it is investigated, must crumble into dust.\n\nCertainly the tradition regarding the origin of the town's Arms is\nimpossible of maintenance. The figures are so obviously those of the\nVirgin and Child; the halo and the glory round their heads forbid\nany other interpretation. But it is easy to imagine that after the\nReformation no Scottish town would care to acknowledge any connection,\nhowever remote, with the detested Church of Rome. Hence probably the\nlegend of the dead woman and her still living baby who were found at\nthe Lady-wood Edge by the Selkirk survivors of Flodden. Such a body, of\ncourse, may quite possibly have been discovered, and the tradition would\nbe used later to account for the figures that appear in the town's Arms.\nJust in the same way is a gargoyle in Melrose Abbey, beside the reputed\ngrave of Michael Scott, now pointed out to {257}American and English\ntourists as an authentic representation in stone of that mighty Wizard.\n\nAs to the \"Souters of Selkirk,\" there can be no proof either way; but\nI prefer to believe that the song is old, almost as old as Flodden.\nPerhaps I have misread Mr. Craig Brown, and am wrong in believing that\nhe regards it as commemorating a famous football match played in 1815\nbetween Souters and men under the leadership of Lord Home. If that\nwere so, it could not have been sung at Dalkeith in 1804, when the\nSelkirkshire Yeomanry were present at a banquet there after the False\nAlarm. We read that Lord Home called for the song on that occasion,\nbut that none of the Yeomanry cared to sing it before a man on whose\nancestor it reflects, whereupon, amid rapturous applause, Lord Home sang\nit himself. If it refers to a football match, it must be to one of very\nancient date, but one that surely could not fall to have left some mark\non the minds of the Souters. Mr. Plummer, of Sunderland Hall, Sheriff\nDepute of the county prior to Sir Walter Scott, writing in 1793 says\nthat though he had lived all his life within two miles of Selkirk and\nhad known the song from his boyhood, there was not in his day, and he\nbelieved there never had been, any tradition connecting the song with\nanything of the nature of a football match. The verses may not have been\nwritten, probably were not written, immediately after the battle, but I\nam confident that it refers to Flodden--in spite of the fact that there\nwas then no _Earl_ of Home. No doubt the song has had variants from\ntime, to time; probably there was no allusion to an \"Earl\" in the\noriginal verses. Popular calumny shortly after Flodden taxed Lord Home\nwith having been the cause of James's defeat and death; he was unable,\nas we know, to come to his Sovereign's aid. This popular belief, coupled\nwith the fact that Selkirks representatives suffered more cruelly than\ndid Lord Home's men---and therefore, of course local prejudice would\ninfer, did their duty {258}better--would be quite sufficient to give\nrise to the sentiment: \"Down wi' the Merse to the Deil.\" In his letter\nof 1793, referred to above, Mr. Plummer says: \"At election dinners,\netc., when the Selkirk folks begin to get _fou'_ they always call for\nmusic, and for that tune in particular. At such times I never heard\na Souter hint at the football, but many times speak of the battle of\nFlodden.\" So far as it goes, there is nothing in the evidence to suggest\na football origin for \"The Souters of Selkirk.\"\n\nIt has always seemed to me, (who, being a native, am on that account\npossibly no impartial witness,) that the people of Selkirk have ever\npossessed in greater degree than their neighbours the true Spirit of\nthe Sportsman. Of the inhabitants of Yarrow and Selkirk, a\nseventeenth-century writer recorded that \"they are ingenuous, and hate\nfraud and deceit; theft or robbery are not heard among them, and very\nrarely a Ly to be heard in any of their mouths, except among them of\nthe baser sort.\" There has always been in them, I think, little of that\n\"win, tie, or wrangle\" disposition which is usually to be found among\nsmall communities; and they were never of the sort who \"heave half a\nbrick at the head\" of the outland wayfarer. In their dealings with the\nFrench officers, prisoners of war on parole, who were quartered in the\nold town from 1811 to 1814, the Selkirk people displayed an admirable\ngenerosity and a gratifying amount of good feeling,--though in that\nrespect none of our Border towns can be said to have been lacking. One\nof these French prisoners afterwards, when an old man, published most\ninteresting reminiscences of his stay, and he writes of his involuntary\nhosts with appreciation, and almost with affection. In 1811, when the\naccumulation of prisoners of warm England had become very great, it\nwas decided to distribute a large part of them throughout Scotland. To\nSelkirk, as its share, came a hundred and ninety men.\n\nHow it may be now, I cannot say, but in the writer's boyhood the memory\nof these prisoners still lived, and old people told {259}innumerable\ntales of the strange habits of \"thae Frainch.\" \"They made tea oot o'\ndried whun (furze) blossoms, an' they skinned the very paddas (frogs),\"\nsaid one old man. The writer of the reminiscences referred to above\nmakes no allusion to \"paddas,\" but he does mention that \"a lake in the\nneighbour hood supplied abundance of very delicate pike.\" This lake may\nhave been the Haining Loch, a picturesque sheet of water over which,\nhowever, there is, or used to be, at times a nasty vegetable scum. \"One\nof the most beautiful and peaceful lakes that ever was seen,\" is Sir\nThomas Dick Lauder's description of it as it was in his day. I think,\nhowever, that the French writer probably refers to the Pot Loch, a small\nand once very deep lochan, or pond, nestling in a hollow at the foot of\nthe pleasant heathery hills on which is now the Selkirk Golf Course.\nIt is a much more likely spot than the Haining for the prisoners to\nfrequent. The former is on the town's property, the latter on an\nestate in private hands. And in the former there are, or at least there\ncertainly used to be, many pike of no great size. It was here, too, that\ntradition told us the prisoners went to catch frogs? That Frenchmen in\ntheir own land lived chiefly on a diet of frogs was the firm belief of a\nmajority of the town's inhabitants, (\"French frogs\" of course was a term\nof contemptuous reproach,) and that the prisoners went to the Pot Loch\nfor any other purpose than to obtain supplies of what seemed to the\ntownsfolk to be a very loathsome dainty, would never occur to them. The\nfact that the edible frog did not exist there, would make no difference\nin their belief. That was no difficulty; frogs were frogs all the world\nover; and frogs of course included toads. The French ate them all.\n\nThe writer of the reminiscences, M. Doisy de Villargennes, tells us that\nsome of the prisoners were \"passionately fond of fishing, and excelled\nin it,\"--national prejudice of course forbids that we should accept the\nlatter part of the statement as correct!--and that they used to fish in\nEttrick and {260}Tweed. Part of the former, close to the town, would\nbe within their \"bounds,\" but the Tweed is far outside the mile radius\nwhich was their limit of liberty.\n\n[Illustration: 0280]\n\nOn every road, one mile from the town, was placed a post bearing the\nwords \"Limit of the Prisoners of War\"; down the road which leads towards\nBridgelands there is still a memorial of these unfortunates,--a thorn\nbush, called the Prisoner's Bush, which marked their limit in that\ndirection. Any prisoner found outside the boundary was liable to be\nfined one guinea--a process, one would imagine, something akin in\ncertain cases to getting blood from a stone--and the fine was supposed\nto go to the person who informed on the delinquent. To the credit of\nSelkirk it must be recorded that no one ever claimed this reward; even\nwhen a prisoner uprooted a notice post and carried it a mile farther\nalong the road, it was, we are told, only \"to the amusement of the\ninhabitants,\" who, M. Doisy adds, \"never on any occasion took advantage\nof a regulation ir virtue of which whoever might see us outside the\nfixed limits was entitled to one guinea, payable by the delinquent.\"\nHe himself, he says, \"frequently went fishing several miles down the\nTweed,\" and {261}was never fined, never in any way molested. In fact,\ngreat and small in Selkirk, from the Sheriff Depute of the county down\nto the town's bellman, and the \"drucken\" ne'er-do-weel who is to be\nfound in every small town, and whom one would scarcely expect to be\nproof against a bribe that would provide him with the wherewithal for\na royal spree, all combined to wink at these infringements of the\nregulations. Sir Walter himself, indeed, who was then living at\nAbbotsford, used frequently to have some of the prisoners to dine and\nspend the evening there. It is interesting to read the account of these\nvisits, and to note how Sir Walter impressed his foreign visitors. Says\nthe writer of the Reminiscences: \"There was one person just at this time\nwhom I did not then appreciate as I afterwards did--Sir Walter Scott,\nthen plain Mr. Scott. Probably no one knew, unless his publishers,\nor ever suspected him of being 'The Great Unknown,' the author\nof 'Waverley.' As for us we only saw in Mr. Scott, the Sheriff of\nSelkirkshire, a lawyer of some repute in Edinburgh. As sheriff be\nfrequently came to Selkirk, he having his home at Abbotsford, little\nmore than three miles distant from Selkirk.\n\n\"Mr. Scott became acquainted with one of our comrades, named Tarnier,\na young man of brilliant talent, excellent education, and of remarkably\nexuberant spirits. Shortly after, without the knowledge of the\nGovernment agent, or rather, with his tacit approval, Tarnier was\ninvited to Abbotsford, and he gave us on his return a vivid description\nof his reception there. Later, probably at our countryman's suggestion,\nhe was requested by Mr. Scott to bring with him three of his friends\neach time he was invited to dinner at Abbotsford. Thus I was present\non two or three occasions, invited, not by the host himself, but by my\ncomrade Tarnier.\n\n\"It would be, as far as I can remember, about the month of February,\n1813, and our mode of procedure was as follows:--In the twilight,\nthose who were invited repaired to the boundary the milestone already\nmentioned--there a carriage {262}awaited us, which took us at a good\npace to Abbotsford, where we were most graciously received by our host.\nWe only saw Mrs. Scott during the few moments before the announcement\nof dinner, at which she was not present. Mrs. Scott was, as we supposed,\nFrench, or of French extraction; in fact, she spoke French perfectly:\nMr. Scott had married her at Carlisle. Our host appeared to us in quite\na different aspect to that under which we had known him passing in the\nstreets of Selkirk. There he gave us the impression of being a cheery\ngood-natured man, whose face was rather ordinary, and whose carriage\nsomewhat common, and halting in his gait, this probably due to his\nlameness. At Abbotsford, on the contrary, we found him a gentleman full\nof cordiality and gaiety, receiving his guests in a fashion as amicable\nas it was delicate. The rooms were spacious and well lighted; the table,\nwithout being sumptuous, was on the whole _recherch\u00e9_. One need not\nexpect me to describe very exactly the surroundings of Abbotsford, as on\nthe occasions I was privileged to be there, we arrived in the twilight,\nand we returned when it was quite dark by the same means of locomotion.\nThus, with the exception of the dining room, and a short glimpse of\nthe salon, all that I know about Abbotsford has been derived from\npublications which everyone has read. Neither should it be expected that\nI can give details of repasts to which I was invited sixty-five years\nago. But the general theme of our conversation has remained Immutably\nfixed in my memory. The principal subject of our discussion did not\nordinarily turn on politics, but on minute details concerning the French\narmy. All that particularly referred to Napoleon, and above all, traits\nand anecdotes, appeared to interest our host in the highest degree, who\nalways found the means, we observed, to bring round the conversation\nto this subject if it happened to have diverged in any way. As can be\nimagined, we took good care to repeat nothing unfavourable regarding the\ncharacter of our beloved Emperor. We little suspected that our host was\ngathering material for a {263}work published ten years later under the\ntitle of 'A Life of Napoleon Bonaparte.'\" That Sir Walter's estimate of\nthe Emperor greatly displeased M. Doisy, goes almost without saying.\nIt will be remembered, also, that the French General, Gourgaud, was so\nbitterly incensed by some statements in this book that a challenge to\nSir Walter was fully expected; and assuredly it would have been accepted\nif given.\n\nSelkirk in the Time of the French prisoners was a small place of two\nthousand inhabitants or less, the houses nearly all picturesquely\nthatched, very few roofed with slate as at present. It must have been\nmatter of no small difficulty in such a community suitably to house a\nsudden influx of strangers. Indeed there _was_ very great difficulty,\nuntil it was discovered that the Frenchmen were to pay for their\naccommodation, and then the difficulty vanished. But it would be hard at\nthe present day to find in Selkirk lodgings of any sort at the rate (2s.\n6d. a week) which then satisfied owners of houses.\n\nThe following is the French prisoner's description of Selkirk: \"The town\nis encircled by beautiful hills on all sides: in the centre it had a\nlarge square adorned with a fountain; a very fine bridge crossed the\nEttrick. An ordinary-looking building belonging to the National Church\nand a much larger one owned by the Presbyterians, or rather the\nsect known by the name of Anti-Burghers, who had for their pastor an\nexcellent and venerable man named Lawson, were the only two buildings in\nSelkirk worthy of notice.\"\n\nThe hills are still beautiful; perhaps, owing to extensive tree\nplanting, more beautiful now than then; still within a step of Selkirk\nis the purple heather, and the heartsease and blue-bell a-swing in the\nsummer breeze; still on every side the view lies wide and glorious.\nAnd even in the winter, when snow first \"grimes\" the hills, or when the\nnorthern blast has wrapped them in its winding sheet, one can gaze, and\nrepeat with heartfelt and perfect sincerity:\n\n               \"By Yarrow's stream still let me stray,\n\n               Though none should guide my feeble way;\n\n               Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break,\n\n               Although it chill my wither'd cheek.\"\n\n[Illustration: 0284]\n\n\"In {264}the centre it had a large square adorned with a fountain.\" The\n\"square\" of Selkirk is, in effect, a triangle, (in which now stands\nSir Walter Scott's monument,) but as to the \"fountain,\" I should have\ndoubts; it was probably what used to be called the \"Pant Well,\" whence\nwas drawn water (supplied from the {265}Haining Loch) of a body and\nbouquet indescribable. \"Hoots!\" scornfully cried, in later days, an old\nwoman, apropos of a new and irreproachable supply which had been got for\nthe town from another source, \"Hoots! It has naether taste nor smell!\"\nAlas! that one should record the fact,--in old days the drainage of the\nupper town (what there was of drainage in those times, that is to say),\nfell into the Haining Loch not a hundred yards from the spot where\nthe town's supply was drawn off! And yet people lived in Selkirk to\nunusually great ages. Our ancestors were hardy persons; but perhaps it\nwas only the very fit who then survived.\n\nIt must have been a dull, uneventful, depressing life, that of the\nprisoners in Selkirk, more especially in those months between October\nand March, when darkness comes early and the days are chill and grey.\nWhat news they got was chiefly of fresh disasters to their country's\narms in Spain, and the rejoicing of the townsfolk over Wellington's\nvictories was of necessity exceedingly bitter to the Frenchmen. It was\nexecrable taste on the part of the inhabitants of Selkirk thus to show\ntheir joy, says the writer of the Reminiscences--\"indelicate,\" he calls\nit. But the chances are that they were chiefly mannerless schoolboys\nwho thus misbehaved. I fear he looked for more than poor fallen human\nnature is prepared to give, if he expected the townspeople entirely to\nsuppress their pleasure. Many a heart in Selkirk was then following with\ndire anxiety the movements of our Army in the Peninsula, dreading the\nnews that any hour might bring of mishap or death to son, brother,\nor friend; every soul the place took the profoundest interest in the\nwelfare of those men who had gone from their little community \"to fecht\nthe French\" and, however desirable it might be that the feelings of\nprisoners should not be lacerated, it seems too much to expect that the\ntownsfolk should go apart in secret places in order to express, without\noffence, the joy they must feel when those they loved were covering\nthemselves with glory. {266}Provided that no one was ill-mannered enough\nto jeer at or to taunt the prisoners, I hardly think they had a right\nto complain, more especially as they themselves had already sinned in\nrespect of rejoicing openly over victory. On a certain occasion they\nheard of a great French success in Russia. Two prisoners concealed\nthemselves and were locked up in the church one Sunday after evening\nservice; about midnight these men admitted their comrades, and together\nthey roused sleeping Selkirk by a terrific joy-peal of bells. Honours\nwere easy between the two nations, I think. Both acted under strong\nfeeling; those were strenuous days, and feeling naturally ran high.\n\nIn the writer's possession are letters sent from Spain to Selkirk at\nthis period by his grand-uncle, an ensign in the Scots Brigade, now\nthe 94th Regiment. One, which gives a vivid picture of the storming and\ncapture of Ciudad Rodrigo on 19th January, 1812, could not have failed\nto arouse intense enthusiasm in the town. In so small and friendly a\ncommunity, no doubt everybody was in possession of the chief details of\nthis letter, (and of any other that might chance to come from a soldier\nat the front,) within a few hours of its receipt, and that a townsman's\nregiment should be the first to enter the besieged town would be\nlegitimate ground for extreme pride. The following is an extract from\nthe letter: \"About 5 in the afternoon orders came that we were to make\nthe attack at 7 in the Evening, the Light Division at one Breach and\nours at another. Picks and axes were given to the front rank of the\nGrenadiers, and to the first Company of our Regt., and also Ropes to\nswing us down into the Ditch, which we were to clear of any obstructions\nthat were supposed would be laid in our way. Accordingly we moved off\nabout dusk, and got under cover of a Convent, to a short distance from\nthe Ditch; there we remained till the hour of attack; it being come, and\neverything ready, we rushed forward as fast as our legs could carry us,\ncheering all the way. On reaching {267}the Ditch, we found it only about\nsix feet high, so we leaped down as quick as possible and made to the\nBreach with all possible speed, and met with no obstacles. After getting\nto it, we found ourselves to be the first there; on the front rank\ngetting to the top of it, the Enemy saluted us with a volley of grape\nshot and shells (the latter they had laid across the top in rows) the\nexplosion of which was so dreadful that I thought we should have been\nall blown up in the air together.... Some of the Men that had got up\nto the top came tumbling down, dead as herrings. It stunned us for a\nmoment, but we gave another cheer and rushed on, scrambled to the top\nand drove the fellows from the Guns opposite the Breach. Our Regt. was\nabout five minutes in the Town (and it is only 200 Men strong) before\nany other Regt. came to its support; at last the 5th came, and the\nothers followed. The French dogs kept peppering at us with Musketry and\nHand-grenades at such a rate that I well thought we would all have been\nslain together. At last we drove them from the Ramparts into the Town,\nand then they threw down their Arms and surrendered. I went down from\nthe Ramparts into the Town, but such a scene of confusion I never\nbeheld: there were our troops plundering the houses as fast as they\nwere able, one fellow to be seen with two or three Loaves stuck on his\nBayonet, another with as much Pork, and in another place a parcel of\nfellows knocking out the end of a Wine Cask with their Firelocks and\ndrinking away with the greatest fury; some ravishing the Women,\nothers breaking open doors, and into all such a noise, altogether\ninconceivable. This continued four or five hours, and our Brigade was\nshortly after moved out of the Town, at which I was very glad.... We\nhad two Captains killed, but immediately on their falling a Sentry\nwas placed over them, to guard them from being strip't, and had them\nafterwards brought to the Camp and decently buried.... The Enemy that\nnight blew up the Mines, which killed a great many, both of their\n{268}own Men and ours. It was a shocking spectacle, the sight of the\ndead bodies lying at the place where it happened, all bruised and burnt\nquite black, some wanting both Legs, others blown all to pieces, Legs\nand Arms mixed together in confusion; it was there where Genl. M'Kinnon\nwas killed. You were always wishing to hear of our Regt. doing something\ngreat; Now I think it has done a great deal, but I fear much it will not\nreceive the praise due to it, as it was not intended that it should be\nthe first that should enter the Breach, it was only meant that it should\nclear the way for the other Brigade; but somehow or other we got to it\nbefore them, and of course did not wait their coming.\"\n\nExcept on this occasion of the bell-ringing, and one other, when\nthe French officers with some difficulty had induced certain of the\ntownsfolk to drink to the health of the Emperor, and to shout\n\"_Vive l'Empereur_\" friendly relations were unbroken. But the latter\nunpleasantness at one time had threatened to ripen into a very ugly\naffair. Bloodshed was narrowly averted. Friendship, however, was\nrestored, and the prisoners continued to make the best of their\nsituation. They obtained a billiard table from Edinburgh; they started a\ncaf\u00e9, they opened a theatre, with an excellent orchestra of twenty-five\nperformers \"superior to all those to which the echoes of our Scottish\nresidence had ever till then resounded.\" This theatre was established in\na barn which then belonged to the writer's grandfather. Frescoes on the\nwalls, which had been painted by the prisoners, were still fairly fresh\nin colour though hopelessly obscure as to design, when the writer saw\nthem in his early boyhood.\n\nIn connection with the time when Peace was proclaimed and the prisoners\nwere being sent back to France, it is pleasant to have to record an\nincident greatly to the credit of Selkirk. The pockets of the Frenchmen\nwere naturally, in their situation, not very well filled; indeed,\namongst the hundred and ninety they could raise no more than \u00a360, a\nsum not nearly {269}sufficient to provide transport to the sea port\nof Berwick for the entire party. They resolved, therefore, to march on\nfoot, using what money they had to hire carriages for the few among them\nwho were in bad health. After an excited night (spent by most of the\nex-prisoners in the Market-place, where they shouted and sang till\ndaylight, like a pack of schoolboys), just as they were preparing to\nset out on their long tramp to Berwick, \"an altogether unexpected and\npleasant sight met our view,\" writes M. Doisy. \"Vehicles of all kinds\ncame pouring in by the streets converging on the centre of the town,\ncarriages, gigs, tilburys, carts, and a few saddle-horses, all of which\nhad been sent by the inhabitants of the surrounding parts to convey\nus free of expense as far as Kelso, about half-way to Berwick.\nThis delicate attention had been so well calculated, and so neatly\naccomplished, that we could not do otherwise than avail ourselves of\nit with many thanks. We therefore separated from our Selkirk friends\nwithout carrying away on the one part or the other any particle of\ngrudge that might previously have existed between us.\"\n\nSimilar good feeling, however, appears to have been very general between\nthe French prisoners and the people of the many Border towns where the\nformer were quartered--though it was almost too much to expect that no\nunpleasantnesses should ever occur, when we remember how great a bogie\nthe Emperor Napoleon then was to the majority of British people, and how\nto hate the French was looked on as almost a virtue. \"Bless us, and save\nus, _and keep the French from us_,\" was a common form of invocation,\nthen and later. Persons more ignorant or prejudiced than their\nneighbours were sure, sooner or later, to overstep the mark, and bring\ndisgrace on their nation by boorish or brutal conduct to the defenceless\nprisoners. Thus, at Jedburgh for instance, not only did schoolboys\nsometimes jeer at and stone the Frenchmen, but one bitter old man, who\nno doubt thought that in hating the French he was only carrying out\na manifest duty, actually {270}pointed his gun at, and threatened\nto shoot, a prisoner whom he found outside the mile limit. A very\nregrettable incident occurred, too, in the same town during rejoicings\nover a great British victory. An effigy of the Emperor, mounted on\na donkey, was paraded by torchlight through the streets and was then\npublicly burned, in full view of the deeply-pained French officers.\nWhatever the faults of the Emperor, he was at least adored by his army,\nand such instances of brutal ill manners were bound to lead to bad blood\nand to reprisals.\n\nAmongst themselves, the prisoners do not seem to have been quarrelsome,\nnor were duels common--for which fact, of course, the lack of suitable\nweapons may probably have been responsible. There was, however, a duel\nat Lauder between two of the prisoners quartered in that town, and one\ncannot help thinking that it must have suggested to Stevenson the duel\nin \"St. Ives,\" between prisoners in Edinburgh Castle. In Stevenson's\nnovel, they fought with the separated blades of scissors, securely\nlashed to sticks. At Lauder, they used the blades of razors secured in\nsimilar fashion. But, whereas in \"St. Ives\" the result was the death\nof one combatant, in the real duel at Lauder no greater harm came of it\nthan slashed faces. It might be bloody enough, a duel with razor-blades,\nbut it could not be very dangerous, except to the tips of noses.\n\nIt might perhaps be unseemly to quit the subject of Selkirk without\nmaking at least some mention of a custom which has prevailed there\nfor something like four centuries. The great day of the whole year in\nSelkirk is that of the Common Riding, the Riding of the Marches of\nthe town's property. The custom as yet gives no sign of waning in\npopularity; indeed, as the years pass, it seems to rise steadily in\nfavour, and where one rode fifty years ago there must now be a good half\ndozen who follow the cavalcade. It is a cheerful ride and a beautiful,\nin the sweet air of a sunny June morning. Selkirk needs no awakening\nthat day by the shrill fifes that are so early afoot in the streets;\neven the old and the scant of breath {271}rise from their beds betimes,\nand make a push to see the muster of riders in the Market Place. Then it\nis through the shallows of the gushing river, and away over the breezy\nhills, for horsemen all filled with enthusiasm if not in all cases very\nsecure of seat. It is a pleasant ride,--away over the hill by \"Tibbie\nTamson,\" the lonely grave of a poor eighteenth century Suicide, a\nSelkirk woman, the victim of religious despair. Of unpardoned sinners\nthe chief, as she imagined, in a pious frenzy she took her own life;\ntherefore must her body be denied Christian burial and the poor\nprivilege of lying beside her friends in \"the auld Kirk yaird.\" Bundled\ninto a pauper's coffin, she was carted out of Selkirk under a hail of\nstones and of execrations from her righteous neighbours, and here, on\nthe quiet hill, her body found rest.\n\nThen the route runs across the heather--where whaups wail eerily and\nthe grouse dash out with sudden whir that sets some horses capering--and\naway to the cairn of the Three Brethren, overlooking Tweed and\nFairnilee; then down by the Nettley Burn and across Ettrick where Queen\nMary is said to have forded it, and so home by the Shawburn. to see\nthe Colours \"cast\" in the Market Place. And then to breakfast with an\nappetite that in ordinary circumstances comes only \"when all the world\nis young.\" It is two hundred years and more since it was ordained\nthat the Marches be ridden on the first Tuesday of June in each\nyear--formerly, August had been the month--and that the Deacons of all\nthe Crafts in Selkirk were not only to attend themselves, with their\nhorses, but that they were to see that every man of their trade who had\na horse should also ride, \"all in their best equipage and furniture.\"\nWhy the change was made from August to June, I do not know,--unless\nit was to permit of the introduction of those immense and very famous\ngooseberry-tarts which are so conspicuous a feature in Common Riding\nrejoicings. The day's arrangements then and earlier, were much as they\nare now, no doubt. But there are {272}no Kers now to slay the Provost,\nas in the sixteenth century days of Provost Muthag. The only danger in\nthese times is that some of the horsemen--unseasoned vessels--may be\ninduced to swallow one or more of the glasses of raw whisky which are\npassed round with liberal hand as the cavalcade sets out from Selkirk.\nWhether this is a practice ordained of old with the laudable object of\ncounteracting any possible risk of chill from the nipping air of the\nearly morning, or whether it is done in order to inspire courage in the\npossible John Gilpins of the assemblage, I know not. Yet of those who\npartake, the major part seem to thrive well enough on it; they are none\nthe worse in the afternoon, when the great body of the townsfolk stream\nout southward over the hill to the Gala Rig. Here horse races are run,\nover a course most gloriously situated, where a matchless view lies\nwidespread to the Cheviots and down to far Liddesdale, and away up among\nthe dim blue hills of Ettrick and Yarrow. There were races held here\nat least as early as 1720, and I suppose races of a sort have probably\ntaken place annually on the same ground ever since.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI THE ETTRICK, CARTERHAUGH, OAKWOOD, TUSHIELAW, THIRLESTANE,\nETTRICK KIRK\n\n|And{273} now we shall go--as they say in Selkirk--\"up the Watters,\" a\nphrase which, to us of \"the Forest,\" used of old to convey the idea of\ngoing on a vast journey. \"Did ye see the Eclipse, on Monday?\" asked a\nSelkirk man of his crony. \"Man, _No!_ I was up the Watters that day.\"\nWhich reply-conveyed, perhaps not so much the feeling that an eclipse\nwas a frivolous affair pertaining to geographically remote Selkirk\nalone, as that the answerer had been too deeply engaged up the waters\nwith other business to have leisure to attend to such petty trifles as\nsolar phenomena. Business \"up the Watters,\" one used to understand, was\nnot seldom protracted far into the night, and at times there were lunar\nphenomena observable, such as double moons, and stars whose place in the\nheavens was not definitely fixed.\n\nLeaving Selkirk by the Ettrick road, in about a couple of miles we come\nabreast of the spot where Yarrow drowns herself in Ettrick. And here\nbelow Bowhill, on the sunny, wooded peninsula formed by the two rivers,\nlies Carterhaugh, scene of that famous fairy tale \"The Young Tamlane.\"\nTamlane when a boy of nine was carried off by the Fairies.\n\n               \"There came a wind out of the north,\n\n                   A sharp wind and a snell;\n\n               And a deep sleep came over me,\n\n                   And frae my horse I fell.\"\n\n{274}The Queen of the Fairies \"keppit\" (caught) him as he fell, and bore\nhim off to dwell in Fairyland. There he remained, neither increasing in\nyears nor in stature, but taking at will his human shape, and returning\nto earth for a time when it pleased him.\n\n[Illustration: 0294]\n\nCarterhaugh was his special haunt, and here, if they did not altogether\nshun that neighbourhood, young women too often had cause to repent\nhaving met him.\n\n               \"O I forbid ye, maidens a',\n\n               That wear gowd on your hair,\n\n               To come or gae by Carterhaugh,\n\n                   For young Tamlane is there.\"\n\n\"Fair Janet,\" however, was one who would take no warning:\n\n               \"I'll cum and gang to Carterhaugh,\n\n                   And ask nae leave o' him,\"  {275}said she. And she went. But\n\n               \"She hadna pu'd a red red rose,\n\n                   A rose but barely three;\n\n               Till up and starts a wee wee man,\n\n                   At Lady Janet's knee.\"\n\n\"He's ta'en her by the milk-white hand, amang the leaves sae\ngreen,\"--and Janet rued her visit. Later, Tamlane tells her how he may\nbe rescued from Fairyland, and the ballad relates Janet's successful\nventure:\n\n               \"The night it is good Hallowe'en,\n\n                   When fairy folk will ride;\n\n               And they that wad their true love win\n\n                   At Miles Cross they maun bide.\n\n               \"Gloomy, gloomy, was the night,\n\n                   And eiry was the way,\n\n               As fair Janet in her green mantle,\n\n                   To Miles Cross she did gae.\n\n               \"The heavens were black, the night was dark,\n\n                   And dreary was the place;\n\n               But Janet stood, with eager wish\n\n                   Her lover to embrace.\n\n               \"Betwixt the hours of twelve and one,\n\n                   A north wind tore the bent;\n\n               And straight she heard strange elritch sounds,\n\n                   Upon that wind which went.\n\n               \"About the dead hour o' the night,\n\n                   She heard the bridles ring;\n\n               And Janet was as glad o' that\n\n               As ony earthly thing.\n\n               \"Their oaten pipes blew wondrous shrill,\n\n                   The hemlock small blew clear;\n\n               And louder notes from hemlock large,\n\n                   And bog-reed, struck the ear.\n\n               \"Fair Janet stood, with mind unmoved,\n\n                   The dreary heath upon;\n\n               And louder, louder wax'd the sound,\n\n                   As they came riding on.\n\n               \"Will o' the Wisp before them went,\n\n                   Sent forth a twinkling light;\n\n               And soon she saw the Fairy bands\n\n                   All riding in her sight.\n\n               \"And first gaed by the black, black steed.\n\n                   And then gaed by the brown;\n\n               But fast she grip't the milk-white steed,\n\n                   And pu'd the rider down.\n\n               \"She pu'd him frae the milk white steed,\n\n                   And loot the bridle fa';\n\n               And up there raise an erlish cry--\n\n                   'He's won among us a'!'\n\n               \"They shaped him in fair Janet's arms,\n\n                   An esk, but and an adder;\n\n               She held him fast in every shape--\n\n                   To be her bairn's father.\n\n               \"Th     ey shaped him in her arms at last\n\n               A mother-naked man:\n\n               She wrapt him in her green mantle,\n\n                   And sae her true love wan!\"\n\nA mile or two up the river from Carterhaugh, on Ettrick's right bank,\nstands the interesting and well-preserved old tower of Oakwood, the\nproperty of the Scotts of Harden, in whose possession it has been since\n1517. Locally, the belief is implicitly held that this tower was, in\nthe thirteenth century, the residence of the great Michael Scott, the\nWizard, out of whose tomb in Melrose Abbey William of Deloraine took\n\n               \"From the cold hand the Mighty Book,\n\n               With iron clasp'd, and with iron hound:\n\n               He thought as he took it the dead man frowned.\"\n\nThere _was_ a Michael Scott who once owned Oakwood, but that was long\nafter the Wizard's day. In spite of all tradition--for whose birth Sir\nWalter is probably responsible--it is not {277}likely that the veritable\nMichael (Thomas the Rhymer's contemporary, and a Fifeshire man) ever was\nnear Oakwood.\n\n[Illustration: 0297]\n\nCertainly he never lived in the tower that stands now on the steep bank\nhard by the river. That is no thirteenth century building. I fear,\ntherefore, that the story of Michael and the Witch of Fauldshope, and of\nhow, bursting one day from her cottage in the guise of a hare, he was\ncoursed by his own dogs on Fauldshope Hill, can no more be connected\nwith Selkirkshire than can the legend of his embassy to Paris, to which\ncity he journeyed in a single night, mounted on a great coal-black\n{278}steed, who indeed was none other than the Foul Fiend himself. There\nis, however, a Witchie Knowe on Fauldshope; perhaps the Michael who\nreally did live at Oakwood, sometime about the beginning of the\nseventeenth century, may have had dealings with the woman, which in some\nway gave rise to the legend. This \"witch,\" by the way, was an ancestress\nof Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd.\n\nOakwood Tower is not very old, and it never was very strong--as the\nstrength of peel towers is reckoned; its walls are little more than four\nfeet in thickness, which is almost flimsy compared with those of its\nnear neighbour, Newark. Above the dungeons, Oakwood is three stories in\nheight, and its external measurements are thirty-eight by twenty-three\nand a half feet. Into one wall is built a stone on which are the initals\nR.S. L.M, initials of Robert Scott and his wife, probably a Murray.\nBetween them is the Harden crescent; and below, the date, and 1602,\nwhich is no doubt the true year of the present tower's erection.\nTradition tells of a haunted chamber in Oakwood; the \"Jingler's Room,\"\nit was called, but what the story was, the writer has not been able to\nlearn. The tower now is used chiefly as a farm building, and if there\nare any hauntings they probably take the unpleasant form of rats.\n\nFollowing up the Ettrick, presently we come to the village of\nEttrickbridgend, near to which are the picturesque Kukhope Linns and\nKirkhope Tower, a well preserved Border peel. In this tower in old days\nat times dwelt Auld Wat of Harden, or one of his family. Tradition\ntells that it was Wat who first spanned Ettrick with a bridge. It was a\npenance, self-inflicted, because of a mishap that occurred at the ford\nhere to a young boy, heir of the Nevilles, whom Wat had carried off from\nhis home in Northumberland. Wat's bridge stood a little way above the\nsite of that which now crosses Ettrick at Ettrickbridgend, and I am\ntold--though I have not seen it--that a stone from the old bridge, with\nthe Harden coat of arms carved on it, may now be seen built into the\npresent structure.\n\n{279}\n\n[Illustration: 0299]\n\nA little higher up, there falls into Ettrirk the Dodhead Burn, at the\nhead of which is \"the fair Dodhead,\" the reputed residence of Jamie\nTelfer, hero of the famous ballad.\n\n[Illustration: 0300]\n\nThese Border hills have produced from time to time many a long-distance\nrunner of immense local celebrity,--such for instance, as the far-famed\nWill of Phaup--but few of them, I imagine, could have \"lived\" with Jamie\nTelfer in that burst of his across the trackless heather and the boggy\nmoors from the Dodhead, over by the headwaters of Ale, across Borthwick,\nacross Teviot, on to Slitrig at \"Stobs Ha',\" and from there back again\nto Teviot at Coultercleuch. It must be a good sixteen miles at the\nleast, across a country over which no runner could travel at a pace so\nfast as that with which the ballad credits Jamie. But if anyone did this\nrun, I fear it was no Jamie Telfer. At least in the fair Dodhead\nup Ettrick there was at the supposed date of the ballad, and for\ngenerations before, no Telfer, but a Scott. The Dodhead of the ballad\nmust be some other place of the same name, possibly that near Penchrise,\nby Skelfhill.\n\nFollowing up Ettrick, past Hyndhope and Singlie, we come to Deloraine,\nan ancient possession of the Scotts, for ever {281}famed through\nits association with William of Deloraine and the \"Lay of the Last\nMinstrel\":\n\n                   \"A stark moss-trooping Scott was he,\n\n               As e'er couch'd Border lance by knee.\"\n\nThere are various theories as to the derivation of the name \"Deloraine.\"\n\n[Illustration: 0301]\n\nOne, in accord with the local pronunciation of the word--\"Delorran,\"\nwith the accent on the second syllable--gives its origin as from the\nGaelic, \"dal Grain,\" the place or land of Orain, who, I understand,\nwas a Celtic saint. There is also the explanation given by the Rev. Dr.\nRussell of Yarrow, in the Statistical Account of the Parish of 1833. \"In\n1503, James IV endowed his Queen, the Lady Margaret of England, with the\nForest of Ettrick and Tower of Newark, which had formerly been the dowry\nof Mary of Guelders. Hence, probably, our two farms of Deloraine (de\nla reine) received their name, or afterwards perhaps from Mary of\n_Lorraine_.\" One would prefer to adopt Dr. Russell's interpretation of\nthe name, but probably the place was called \"Delorran\" long before the\nday of any of the historical characters mentioned.\n\nHigher still up Ettrick is Tushielaw, with its fragment of{282} a ruined\ntower, the home in old days of that formidable freebooter Adam Scott,\n\"the king of the Border,\" or \"king of thieves.\" Local tradition tells\nthat he was hanged by James V to the branch of an ash tree that grew\nwithin his own castle walls--retributive justice on a man who had\nhimself, in like manner, sent to their doom so many poor wretches\nfrom the branches of that same tree. The ash no longer stands, but in\n_Chambers' Gazetteer_ for 1832 there is this note concerning it: \"It\nis curious to observe that along its principal branches there are yet\nvisible a number of nicks, or hollows, over which the ropes had been\ndrawn wherewith he performed his numerous executions.\"\n\nLike too many local traditions, however, the story of his execution will\nnot bear examination. Adam Scott was arrested and hanged in Edinburgh, a\nfull month before the King set out on his memorable expedition to pacify\nthe Border. James certainly laid a heavy hand on the freebooters; and\nhe appears also to have very materially altered the face of things in\nother ways in these Border hills. The timber which clothed them began\nfrom this time to disappear--birch and oak it appears to have been for\nthe most part, interspersed with ash, mountain-ash, thorn, and hazel, to\njudge by the numbers of stumps and pieces of decayed trees still found\nin mossy ground. They mostly suggest timber of no great size, but now\nand again the remains of a fine tree are come upon, even in exposed and\nhigh-lying situations. The remains of a very large oak, for instance,\nwere discovered some years ago during draining operations among the wild\nhills right at the head of Jed.\n\nProbably James destroyed a great deal of timber in his efforts to\nconvert the country into a sheep-run. According to Pitscottie, the king\nsoon had \"ten thousand sheep going in the forest, under the keeping of\nAndrew Bell, who made the King as good an account of them as if they\nhad gone in the bounds of Fife.\" {283}James V no doubt was a good\nhusbandman,--it was his boast that in these wilds he \"made the rush bush\nkeep the cow,\"--but he was a better husbandman than he was a sportsman,\nat least as we now understand the word.\n\n[Illustration: 0303]\n\nWe should now probably call him a pot-hunter. It was early in June when\nhe started on his expedition; young calves are then with the hinds,\nand the harts are yet low in condition, and \"in the velvet\" as to\ntheir horns. Yet Pitscottie says: \"I heard say he slew in these bounds\neighteen score of harts.\" However, if his expedition had to be made\nthen, {284}his army--and it was an army--must necessarily be fed; and\nno doubt if he wanted to run sheep there, the stock of deer had to be\ncleared out.\n\n[Illustration: 0304]\n\nBut what a place for game of all kinds this forest must then have been.\nOne may learn from the place-names which still linger among the hills\nwhat manner of beasts formerly inhabited this part of the Border:\nOx-cleuch, Deer-law, Hart-leap, Hynd-hope, Fawn-burn, Wolf-cleuch,\nBrock-hill, Swine-brae, Boar-cleuch, Cat-slack. The Hart's-leap is said\nto have got its name owing to an incident that occurred during King\nJames's expedition in 1530; a deer, in sight of the king, is said to\nhave cleared at one bound a distance so remarkable that James directed\nhis followers to leave a memorial of the leap. Two grey whinstones here,\ntwenty-eight feet apart, are said to be those which were then set up.\nOx-cleuch was probably so named from some ancient adventure with a Urus,\nor wild bull, or possibly because it was a favourite haunt of those\nformidable beasts. Their skulls are still occasionally dug up during the\nprocess of draining swampy lands among our Border hills. There is a very\nfine specimen {285}now at Synton (between Selkirk and Hawick), home of\none of the oldest branches of the Scott family.\n\n[Illustration: 0305]\n\nIf one may judge from that skull, the horns must have been something\nlike twice the size of the ox of the present day. He was the ancestor, I\nsuppose, of the fierce wild cattle of Chillingham. {286}Half a mile, or\na little more, above the inn at Tushielaw--a comfortable hostelry, and a\ngood fishing centre--the Rankle Burn flows into Ettrick.\n\n[Illustration: 0306]\n\nUp this burn's right bank, through the lonely vale and over the hills\nruns a road leading to Hawick, and on your right, as you head in that\ndirection, a few miles up is Buccleuch, one of the earliest possessions\nin the Border of the great Scott clan. Near the road, in a deep ravine\nor cleuch, is pointed out the spot where, they say, the buck was slain\nfrom which' originated the title of the present ducal house. Farther on,\njust upon the water-shed between Ettrick and Teviot, is Bellenden, which\nbecame the Scotts' mustering place and whose name was the clan's slogan.\nAs Mr. Thomson's sketches show, it is a wild country enough; in winter\nits bleakness at times is surely past the power of words to tell. It\nmust be a hardy race that can live and thrive here. A land of swamp, and\nsullen, dark, moss-hag, this must have been in days of old. Still among\nthe hills, bogs and lochs innumerable are scattered: of the latter,\nClearburn, Ringside, Crooked Loch, Windylaw, Hellmuir, Alemuir, and\nvarious {287}others, all within a few miles, but not many, I think, such\nas need tempt the wandering fisher.\n\nA couple of miles up Ettrick, above Tushielaw, is Thirlestane, the seat\nof Lord Napier of Ettrick, surrounded by its woods. It is a mansion\nbuilt something less than a hundred years ago, but close to it are the\nremains of the old Thirlestane Castle. I do not know if Hertford's long\narm was responsible in 1544 for its ruin. It is probable enough. The\nstronghold belonged then to Sir John Scott, a prominent man in those\ndays, and the only Scottish baron at Fala-muir who did not refuse to\nfollow James V into England, for which reason the king charged \"our lion\nherauld and his deputies for the time be and, to give and to graunt to\nthe said John Scott, ane Border of ffleure de lises about his coatte of\narmes, sik as is on our royal banner, and alsua ane bundell of launces\nabove his helmet, with thir words, _Readdy, ay Readdy_, that he and all\nhis after-cummers may bruik the samine as a pledge and taiken of our\nguid will and kyndnes for his true worthines.\" Lord Napier is this John\nScott's descendant.\n\nAcross the river from Thirlestane are the ruins of another\ncastle--Gamescleuch, built by Simon Scott, named Long Spear, a son of\nJohn of Thirlestane. Tradition says that Gamescleuch was never occupied,\nbut was allowed to fall into decay because its owner, Simon of the\nSpear, was poisoned by his step-mother the night before he should have\nbeen married and have taken up his abode there.\n\nWe are getting far into the wild hills now, near to the head of Ettrick,\nby Ettrick Pen, Wind Fell, and Capel Fell, all hills considerably over\ntwo thousand feet in height. But before crossing over to Yarrow and\nSt. Mary's, there remain to be noticed Ettrick Kirk, and James Hogg's\nbirthplace, Ettrick Hall. Ettrick Kirk, of course, is inalienably\nassociated with the Rev. Thomas Boston, \"Boston of Ettrick,\" minister of\nthe parish for a quarter of a century, a man who left a deep mark on the\nreligious life of Scotland. He died here in 1732, and {288}his monument\nstands in the little graveyard by the kirk, not lar from the head-stone\nto the memory of the Ettrick Shepherd, and near to the spot where, as\nthe stone tells us, \"lyeth William Laidlaw, the far-famed Will of Phaup,\nwho for feats of Frolic, Agility, and Strength, had no equal in his\nday.\" Liaidlaw was Hogg's grandfather.\n\n[Illustration: 0308]\n\nHow many persons now-a-days are familiar with, or indeed, perhaps, ever\nheard of, Boston's \"Fourfold State,\" or his \"Crook in the Lot\"? Perhaps\nin Ettrick there may yet be, in cottages, an odd copy or two, belonging\nto, and possibly yet read by, very old people. But Boston, who as a\ntheologian had once so marked an influence, is now little more than a\nname, even to the descendants of his flock in Ettrick, and his books,\nwhich {289}formerly were to be found in almost every peasant's house in\nScotland, are unknown to later generations. Nor, perhaps, is that great\nmatter for wonder. It must be confessed that these writings, which,\nup to even quite a recent date, had so great a hold on the Scottish\npeasant, and which, indeed, with the Bible formed almost his only\nreading, do not appeal to present day readers. The plums in the pudding\nto modern eyes seem few and far between. But there _are_ plums to be\nfound, and many a forcible expression. In \"The Crook in the Lot,\" for\ninstance, where his theme is profligacy, the expression is a happy one\nwhereby he warns the vicious man against the possibility of a \"leap out\nof Delilah's lap into Abraham's bosom.\"\n\nLike most of his class and creed in those days, Boston was stern and\nunbending in his Calvinism, and when he came to Ettrick in 1707, he was\nfaced by a state of affairs that bred for a time great friction between\nminister and congregation. The flock had been for a while without a\nshepherd, and laxity had crept into their church-going. Boston had to\ncomplain of the \"indecent carriage of the people at the kirk, going out\nand in, and up and down the kirkyard the time of divine service.\" But\nhe speedily drilled them into a line of conduct more seemly; and whereas\nwhen he dispensed the Sacrament for the first time in 1710 there had\nbeen present only fifty-seven communicants, in 1731 when he dispensed\nit for the last time, there were no fewer than seven hundred and\nseventy-seven. Crowds of people from other parishes came vast distances\nover the pathless mountains in order to be present. Where did they all\nfind food and accommodation, one wonders. The farmers, then as now the\nmost hospitable and kindly of human beings, fed and housed numbers, as a\nmatter of course, but they could not accommodate all, and there was then\nno inn at Tushielaw, none indeed nearer than Selkirk. Great must have\nbeen the fervour of those many scores of men and women who resolutely\ntramped so far over {290}the wild hills to be present at \"the\nSacrament.\" There were no roads in those days, or practically none.\n\n[Illustration: 0310]\n\nEven at late as 1792, the Statistical Account of the Parish says: \"The\nroads are almost impassable. The only road that looks like a turnpike is\nto Selkirk, but even it in many places is so deep as greatly to obstruct\ntravelling. The distance is about sixteen miles, and it requires four\nhours to ride it. The snow also at times is a great inconvenience;\noften for many months we can have no intercourse with our neighbours....\nAnother great disadvantage is the want of bridges. For many hours the\ntraveller is obstructed on his journey when the waters are swelled.\"\nSuch was the condition of the hill country sixty-years after Boston's\ndeath. In his day it must have been even worse; probably the only road\nthat resembled a road in 1792 was a mere track earlier in the century.\n\nClose by Ettrick Kirk is Ettrick Hall, where Hogg was born. Though in\nname suggestive of a lordly mansion, it was in reality but a mean, and\nrather damp, little cottage, or \"butt and ben,\" of which there are now\nno remains. I understand that the walls fell down about the year 1830.\nThere is {291}now a monument to \"the Shepherd\" where the cottage stood;\nand there is of course the commemorative statue over by St. Mary's, hard\nby \"Tibbie Shiels.\"\n\nHogg was, as the late Professor Ferrier said: \"after Hums (_proximus sed\nlongo intervallo_) the greatest poet that has ever sprung from the bosom\nof the common people.\"\n\n[Illustration: 0311]\n\nBut to how many of those who visit his birth place, or look on his\nmonument over in Yarrow, are his works now familiar? How many of\nus, indeed, have any but the merest nodding acquaintance even with\n\"Kilmeny\"? And of his prose waitings, who of the general public, except\nhere and there a one, knows now even the \"Brownie of Bodesbeck,\" a\nCovenanting story that used to thrill every Scottish boy?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII YARROW\n\n|In{282} whatever part you take the vale of Ettrick, there is about it,\nand about its scenery and its associations, a charm, different perhaps\nfrom that of the more widely famed Yarrow, yet almost equally powerful.\nThere is in the summer season a solemnity and a peace brooding over\nthese \"round-backed, kindly hills,\" that act like a charm on the body\nand mind that are weary. Each vale has its distinctive peculiarities,\nyet each blends imperceptibly into the other.\n\nFrom the head of Ettrick by Ettrick Kirk over to Yarrow is but little\nmore than a step across the hills, either by the bridle track by\nScabcleuch and Penistone Knowe over to the Riskinhope Burn and the head\nof the Loch of the Lowes, for those afoot; or by the road up Tushielaw\nBurn, for those on whom time, or years, press unduly, and who prefer to\ndrive. It is not a very good road, but it serves, though the descent to\nSt. Mary's is something of the abruptest,--one in ten, I think. If the\nbridle track has been followed, as one comes down towards Riskinhope,\nthere, on the opposite side of the valley, is Chapelhope, for ever\nassociated with Hogg's \"Brownie of Bodesbeck.\" And at Riskinhope itself,\nRenwick, last of the Scottish Covenanting Martyrs, preached no long time\nbefore his execution at the Grassmarket in Edinburgh in February, 1688.\n\"When he prayed that day, few of his hearers' cheeks were dry,\" says the\nEttrick Shepherd.\n\n[Illustration: 0313]\n\nIt was here\n\n               \"Where Renwick told of one great sacrifice,\n\n               For he himself had borne in full his cross,\n\n               And hearts sublimed were round him in the wild,\n\n               And faces, God-ward turned in fervent prayer,\n\n               For deeply smitten, suffering flock of Christ;\n\n               And clear uprose the plaintive moorland psalm,\n\n               Heard high above the plover's wailing cry,\n\n               From simple hearts in whom the spirit strong\n\n               Of hills was consecrate by heavenly grace,\n\n               And firmly nerv'd to meet, whene'er it came,\n\n               In His own time, the call to martyrdom.\"\n\n\"The plover's wailing cry.\"--It is curious to note how even to this\nday the peewit, or plover, is hated in the Border hills, because its\nincessant complaining wail when disturbed so often betrayed to the\ndragoons the presence of lurking Covenanters, or the whereabouts of some\nConventicle of the persecuted people. The shepherd or the peasant of\nto-day will stamp on the eggs of the peewit wherever he comes on\nthem, muttering to himself curses on the bird as it wheels and plunges\noverhead, wailing dolefully.\n\nBut of Yarrow, how is one to write? The task is hopeless, whether it\nbe to speak of its beauty, of its legend, its poetry, or of its\nassociations. From Scott and Wordsworth downwards, what poet has not\nsung its praises? However halting may be his pen, what writer in prose\nhas not tried in words to picture its scenes? It is left to one now only\nto repeat what has been said by better men; at the best, one may but\nparaphrase the words of another. There is nothing new to be said of\nYarrow, no fresh beauty to be pointed out. Its charm affects each one\ndifferently; each must see and feel for himself. But whether the season\nbe sweetest summer-tide, or that when winter's blast comes black and\nroaring down the glens, fiercely driving before it sheets of water\nsnatched from the tortured bosom of lone Saint Mary's,--there, still,\nabides the indescribable charm of Yarrow. Yet on the whole, I think\nalmost that I should prefer my visit to be in the winter time, if a\nfew fine days might be assured, or days at least without storm. In the\nsummer season now, and especially since the advent of the motor\ncar, from morning till night so constant a stream of visitors and\n{295}tourists passes through the vale, and along the lake side, that\neven Yarrow's deathless charm is broken, her peace disturbed; one's soul\ncan take no rest there now, far from the clamour of the outer world.\n\n[Illustration: 0315]\n\nNo longer may one quote Alexander Anderson's beautiful lines:\n\n               \"What boon to lie, as now I lie,\n\n                   And see in silver at my feet\n\n               Saint Mary's Lake, as if the sky\n\n                   Had fallen 'tween those hills so sweet.\n\n               \"And this old churchyard on the hill,\n\n                   That keeps the green graves of the dead,\n\n               So calm and sweet, so lone and still,\n\n                   And but the blue sky overhead.\"\n\nAnd yet, even in summer, if one can betake oneself to the old churchyard\nof St. Mary of the Lowes, at an hour when the chattering, picnic-ing\ntourist is far from the scene, one may still lie there and dream,\nunvexed by care; and, if fate be kind, one may yet spend long restful\ndays among the hills, beside some crooning burn that\n\n                   \". . . half-hid, sings its song\n\n               In hidden circlings'neath a grassy fringe\";\n\nstill rejoice in the unspoilt moorlands and the breezy heights:\n\n               \"There thrown aside all reason-grounded doubts,\n\n               All narrow aims, and self-regarding thoughts,\n\n               Out of himself amid the infinitude,\n\n               Where Earth, and Sky, and God are all in all.\"\n\n[Illustration: 0316]\n\nAnd in these hills, what fitter place can there be for dreams than St.\nMary's chapel, overlooking the silent lake, with Yarrow gliding from its\nbosom? Here you will find a Sabbath peace, as placid as when\n\n                   \"... on sweet Sabbath morns long gone,\n\n               Folks wended to St. Mary's Forest Kirk,\n\n               Where mass was said and matins, softly sung,\n\n               Were borne in fitful swell across the Loch;\n\n               And full of simple vision, there they saw\n\n               In Kirk and Quire, the brier and red rose,\n\n               That fondly meet and twin'd o'er lover's graves,\n\n               Who fled o' night through moor up Black Cleuch heights\n\n               Pass'd through the horror of the mortal fight,\n\n               Where Margaret kiss'd a father's ruddy wounds.\"\n\n{297}The ballad of the Douglas tragedy is known to everyone; it need not\nbe quoted.\n\n[Illustration: 0317]\n\nThis is the kirk where the lovers lie buried, almost within distant\nsight of the ancient tower from which they had fled, and whose ruins\nare still to be seen near Blackhouse, on the Douglas Burn. The Douglas\nstones, which, tradition tells us, mark the spot where Lady Margaret's\nseven brothers fell under the sword of her lover, are out high on the\nmoor: but there are eleven, not seven, stones, though only three are\nleft standing. It was at Blackhouse, one may remember, that Sir Walter\nfirst made the acquaintance of Willie Laidlaw, whose father was tenant\nof the farm. James Hogg was shepherd here from 1790 to 1800, but he had\nleft before Sir Walter's visit, though the two met very shortly after.\nIt was whilst Hogg was in service here that there came the tremendous\nsnow storm of 1794, of which he gave so vivid a description in\nBlackwood's Magazine of July, 1819.\n\nThere are now no remains of the chapel of St. Mary;\n\n                   \"O lone St. Mary of the waves,\n\n                   In ruin lies thine ancient aisle.\"\n\n{298}It was destroyed about the year 1557, and was never rebuilt.\nA Cranstoun, flying from the Scotts, sought sanctuary in the holy\nbuilding, and the Scotts, heedless of the terrors of excommunication,\nburnt it down. \"They burned the Chapel for very rage,\" says The Lay,\nbecause Cranstoun escaped them. The churchyard is little used now, but a\nfew privileged families do still, I understand, bury their dead in that\nquiet spot. It is an enviable place in which to lie at rest, where the\nlark sings high in air, and the free wind comes soughing over the hill.\n\nNear to the burial ground is the mound called Binram's Coise, the\ngrave, they say, of a wizard priest, whose bones might not find rest in\nhallowed ground.\n\n               \"Strange stories linger'd in those lonely glens,--\n\n               Of that weird eve when wizard Binram old,\n\n               Was laid in drear unrest, beyond hallow'd ground;\n\n               How, at bell-tolling by no mortal hand,\n\n               And voices saying words which no man knew,\n\n               There rose such shrieks from low depths of the lake,\n\n               And such wild echoes from the darken'd hill,\n\n               That holy men fled from the scant fill'd grave,\n\n               And left bare buried that unholy priest.\"\n\nAcross the loch from the quiet grave-yard on the hill, lies \"Bowerhope's\nlonely top,\" and Bowerhope farm, so loved of its tenant of many years\nago. In his \"Reminiscences of Yarrow,\" the late Rev. Dr. Russell\nmentions that \"Bowerhope farmhouse was so low in the roof that my father\nat the exhortations had to stand between two of the rafters, so that the\nKitchen full of people and full of smoke was not the most pleasant\nplace to speak in. Yet old Sandy Cunningham, the tenant, used to say:\n'Ministers may talk o' Heevin' as they like; commend me to Bowerhope; I\ncud tak a tack [lease] o't to a' eternity.'\"\n\nOn our right, on the same side of the loch with us as we stand facing\nBowerhope, is Henderland, where, on a spot called the Chapel Knowe, is\na grave-slab, and on it, sculptured, a sword and what appear to be\narmorial bearings, with the inscription: {299}\"Here lyis Perys of\nCokburne and hys wyfe Marjory.\" This, we used to be told, was the grave\nof a famous freebooter, whom King James V, (dropping in, as it were, one\nday while the unsuspecting reiver sat at dinner,) took, and hanged over\nthe gate of his own castle, the tower whose weather-battered fragments\nare still to be seen here.\n\n[Illustration: 0319]\n\nHis wife, it was said, fled to the adjacent Dow Glen, a rocky chasm\nthrough which rushes the Henderland burn, and there, says Sir Walter\nScott, cowering on what is still called the Lady's Seat, she strove \"to\ndrown amid the roar of a foaming cataract, the tumultuous noise which\nannounced the close of his existence.\" But Cokburne of Henderland, like\nAdam Scott of Tushiealaw, was executed in Edinburgh, before King James\nset out on his expedition. Moreover, that Cokburn of Henderland's\nChristian name was {300}William. This, therefore, cannot be the grave\nof James' victim in 1530. but whatever the real story of \"Perys Cokburne\nand hys wyfe, Marjory,\" their fate has given rise to a ballad fuller of\npathos than all the countless pathetic ballads of Yarrow,\n\n                   \"My love he built me a bonny bower,\n\n                   And clad it a' wi' lilye flower,\n\n                   A brawer bower ye ne'er did see,\n\n                   Than my true love he built for me.\n\n                   \"There came a man, by middle day,\n\n                   He spied his sport and went away;\n\n                   And brought the King that very night,\n\n                   Who brake my bower, and slew my knight.\n\n                   \"He slew my knight, to me sae dear;\n\n                   He slew my knight, and puin'd his gear;\n\n                   My servants all for life did flee,\n\n                   And left me in extremitie.\n\n\n                   \"I sewed his sheet, making my mane;\n\n                   I watch'd the corpse, myself alane;\n\n                   I watch'd his body, night and day;\n\n                   No living creature came that way.\n\n                   \"I took his body on my back,\n\n                   And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat;\n\n                   I digged a grave, and laid him in,\n\n                   And happ'd him with the sod sae green.\n\n                   \"But think na ye my heart was sair,\n\n                   When I laid the moul' on his yellow hair;\n\n                   O think na ye my heart was wae,\n\n                   When I turn'd about, away to gae?\n\n                   \"Nae living man I'll love again,\n\n                   Since that my lovely knight is slain,\n\n                   Wi' ae lock of his yellow hair\n\n                   I'll chain my heart for evermair.\"\n\nJust by Henderland is Coppercleuch, (called Cappercleuch in my boyhood,)\nand below it, Megget, flowing into the loch--a troutful stream, at least\nin earlier days. Pike used to bask in {301}the shallows here of a hot\nsummer's day; perhaps even yet they do so. But I think these fish are\nmore numerous now in the Loch of the Lowes than in St. Mary's.\n\n[Illustration: 0321]\n\nUp Megget's left bank runs a hill road leading over into Tweedsmuir. It\nhas been negotiated by motors, but it is far from being a desirable road\nfor that form of traffic, or indeed for any except foot traffic. The\nsurface is rough and hilly, and where it plunges down past Talla Linns\nit is exceedingly steep, and n places very soft.\n\nHigher up the loch than Coppercleuch is the Rodono Hotel, and beyond,\non the isthmus at the very head of St. Mary's, \"Tibbie's,\" that\nfamous little hostelry, haunt lang syne of Christopher North and Hogg;\n\"Tibbie's,\" with its queer little antiquated box-beds, that I believe\neven yet exist. But it is not the \"Tibbie Shiels\" of North's day, or\neven of much later {302}days; it has not the same simplicity; it has\ngrown, and is no longer the simple little cottage into which Tibbie and\nher husband entered just ninety years ago this year of 1913.\n\n[Illustration: 0322]\n\nRobert Chambers described it in 1827 as \"a small, neat house, kept by a\ndecent shepherd's widow... It is scarcely possible to conceive anything\nmore truly delightful than a week's ruralizing in this comfortable\nlittle mansion, with the means of so much amusement at the very door,\nand so many interesting objects of sight and sentiment lying closely\naround.\"\n\nPerhaps in some ways it is as delightful now as ever; but motors and\nbicycles have changed its air, and its aspect. They seem as inconsistent\nwith the air of \"Tibbie's\" as would be a railway train, or penny\nsteamers on the loch. Necessarily, there is now about the place a more\ncommercial air; it is no longer the mere cottage, with its simple fare\nof oatmeal porridge,--cooked as nowhere now it is cooked; milk, rich\nand frothy; of ham and eggs, the mere whiff of which would bring you in\nravenous from loch or hill; of fresh caught trout fried in oatmeal\nand still sizzling as they were brought in. There are trout now as of\n{303}old, no doubt, and hens yet lay eggs, and pigs are turned to bacon;\nbut you eat now with a sense of having a train to catch, or a motor\nhurriedly to jump into; your eye seems to be ever on the clock, and the\nold air of leisure and of peace is gone. Tibbie Shiel herself departed\nin time. She who, when all the world was young, listened many a time to\nthat Shepherd who had\n\n                   \"Found in youth a harp among the hills,\n\n                   Dropt by the Elfin people,\"\n\nI think could ill have brooked this twentieth century rush and hurry;\nshe was spared the trial of finding the pure air of St. Mary's poisoned\nby the stench of petrol fumes. A native of Ettrick, born in 1782, Tibbie\nlived at her home in Yarrow till the summer of 1878, and she lies in the\nsame kirk-yaird that \"haps\" all that is mortal of James Hogg. And here\nby the loch, almost at her door, with plaid around him, the Shepherd\nsits in effigy, as Christopher North predicted to him in 1824, with\n\"honest face looking across St. Mary's Loch and up towards the Grey\nMare's Tail, while by moonlight all your own fairies will weave a dance\nround its pedestal.\"\n\nThey were weird things, those box beds, that have been mentioned as\nstill existing in Tibbie Shiel's cottage, weird, and responsible for\nmuch ill-health, more especially one would suppose, for consumption.\nThey were built into the wall of a room, and they had wooden doors that\ncould be drawn close at night, entirely cutting them off from the room,\nand jealously excluding every breath of fresh air. Some had a very small\nsliding trap, or eyelet hole, in one of the doors, opening at the side\njust above the pillow, but the custom was, as I understand, to shut even\nthat. The box-bed was of old almost universal in peasants' cottages in\nthe Border. No doubt it gave a certain amount of privacy to the occupant\nor occupants, but what countless forms of disease it must have fostered!\nThe present writer can remember the case of a young man of twenty-five\nor so, who, to the puzzled wonder of his friends, {304}died of a\ngalloping consumption. \"I canna think hoo he could hae gotten't,\" said\nhis sister to the daughter of her mistress. \"He was aye _that_ carefu'\no' himsel'. Od! he wad hap himself up that warm, an' he aye drew the\ndoors o' his bed close, an' shuttit the verra keek-hole. Na! I canna\nthink hoo he could hae catched it.\"\n\n[Illustration: 0324]\n\nTo add to the sanitary joys of those homes of disease germs, it was,\ntoo, the almost universal custom to use the space below the bed as a\nkind of store house. The writer can remember as a boy to have seen\nin one of the most decent and respectable of such cottages, bags of\npotatoes stowed under the sleeping place occupied by a husband and\nwife! {305}Quitting now the Loch, and following the road that leads\ndown Yarrow to Selkirk, on our left, half a mile or so from the road and\noverhanging the burn, stands the massive little tower of Dryhope. This\nwas the birthplace, about the year 1550, of the beautiful Mary Scott,\nthe Flower of Yarrow, bride of Scott of Harden. I suppose that Harden\nmust have succeeded his father-in-law in the possession of Dryhope,\nfor in 1592, James VI issued orders to demolish the tower of Dryhope,\n\"pertaining to Walter Scott of Harden who was art and part of the\nlate treasonable act perpetuate against His Highness' own person at\nFalkland.\" James' instructions, however, cannot have been carried out\nvery effectually, if at all, for Dryhope, though roofless, is in rather\nbetter preservation than are the majority of Border peels.\n\nAnd now, on the far side of Yarrow, we pass Altrive, the farm which,\nfrom 1814 till his death in 1835, Hogg leased from the Duke of\nBuccleuch, at a merely nominal rent. Here, as Allan Cunningham said, he\nhad \"the best trout in Yarrow, the finest lambs on its braes, the finest\ngrouse on its hills, and as good as a _sma' still_ besides.\" Indeed\nhe must almost have needed a \"sma' still,\" in order effectually to\nentertain the crowds of people who came here unasked, to visit him, once\nhe had established his reputation as a Hon. The tax on him must have\nbeen even heavier in proportion than it was on Sir Walter at Abbotsford.\n\nFarther down, by the intersection of the cross road that leads over\nto Traquair and Tweed, there is the Gordon Arms, snuggest of fishing\nquarters, where in the endless twilights of June and July you may lie\nlong awake, yet half steeped in sleep, listening contentedly to the\nwavering trill of whaups floating eerily over the hill in the still\nnight air; or in the lightest dreamland you forecast the basket of\ntomorrow. It was here, at the Gordon Arms, that Scott and Hogg parted\nfor the last time in the autumn of 1830, when the waters were already\nrising high that were so soon to close over Sir Walter's head. Slowly\nthey {306}walked together a mile down the road, Scott leaning heavily\non Hogg's shoulder, and \"I cannot tell what it was,\" wrote the latter\nafterwards, \"but there was something in his manner that distressed me.\n\n[Illustration: 0326]\n\nHe often changed the subject very abruptly, and never laughed. He\nexpressed the deepest concern for my welfare and success in life more\nthan I had ever heard him do before, and all mixed with sorrow for\nmy worldly misfortunes. There is little doubt that his own were then\npreying on his vitals.\" In truth Sir Walter then might well \"never\nlaugh.\"\n\nHe had already had a slight paralytic stroke, and he could not but\nrealise that the end of his titanic labours was approaching.\n\nA few miles down stream from the Gordon Arms, we come to Yarrow Kirk,\nand Yarrow Manse, smiling in a valley that to me in some strange way\nalways speaks of sunshine and of peace. Perhaps it is due to thoughts of\nthose who laboured here so long, and who gave to everyone\n\n                \"That best portion of a good man's life--\n\n               His little, nameless, unremembered acts\n\n               Of kindness and of love.\"\n\n\n{307}I think I am not mistaken in saying that in this Parish of Yarrow\nthere have been during a hundred and twenty-two years only three\nministers.\n\n[Illustration: 0327]\n\nFrom 1791 to 1883 there were the Russells, father and son,--the Reverend\nDr. Robert Russell and the Reverend Dr. James Russell, whose names were\nhousehold words far beyond the bounds of Yarrow, and at whose manse old\nand young, rich and poor, were equally made welcome. And after them\ncame the Reverend Dr. Borland, who died in 1912, and whose \"Raids and\nReivers\" is a Border classic. It is a remarkable record, and a wonderful\ntestimony to the pure air of Yarrow. During his long life Dr. Robert\nRussell never spent a single day in bed, nor until three days before his\ndeath was he ever prescribed for by a doctor.\n\nYarrow Kirk was built in 1640, and the first minister of the {308}Parish\nafter the Revolution was the Reverend John Rutherford, maternal\ngreat-grandfather of Sir Walter Scott. Dr. James Russell gives a quaint\naccount of the church as it was in 1826, in the time of his father. \"The\ninterments,\" he says, \"which had taken place in the course of nearly two\nhundred years, and the wish for proximity to Church walls, had had\nthe effect of raising the ground of the graveyard around the church\nconsiderably above its level. In front, the earth outside was two feet,\nand at the corner of the aisle fully four feet higher. In consequence,\nthe lower walls were covered with a green damp, and the rain water\nflowed into the passages. In winter the water froze, and my father used\nto say that he often got a slide to the pulpit.\" This matter, however,\nwas remedied in 1826, when many improvements were made in and around the\nchurch. One improvement which Dr. Russell mentions had to do with the\nshepherds' dogs, which then invariably accompanied their masters to\nchurch--a practice which I think died out but recently. \"There were no\ndoors on the seats,\" says Dr. Russell, \"and nothing but a narrow deal in\neach as a footboard, and no separation below between them. The planking\non the passages was very deficient, and a great deal of the earthen\nfloor was thus exposed, and it can easily be imagined that when the\nshepherds from Ettrick, as well as from Yarrow, came to church, each\nshepherd as regularly accompanied by his dog as encased in his plaid--no\nmatter what the weather or the season--what frequent rows there were. On\nthe slightest growl they all pricked up their ears. If a couple of them\nfell out and showed fight, it was the signal for a general _m\u00eal\u00e9e_. The\nrest that were prowling about, or half asleep at their masters' feet,\nrushed from their lairs, found a way through below the pews, and among\nthe feet of the occupants, and raised literally such a _dust_ as fairly\nenveloped them. Then the strife waxed fierce and furious, the noise\nbecame deafening, the voice of the minister was literally drowned, and\nhe was fain to pause, whether in preaching or in {309}prayer. Two\nor three shepherds had to leave their places and use their _nibbies_\nunmercifully before the rout was quelled, and the service of the\nsanctuary resumed.\" Such a scene as the above was quite an ordinary\noccurrence in a country church in Scotland, early in the nineteenth\ncentury--and in remote districts even later than that; minister and\ncongregation were accustomed to it, and took it as a matter of course.\nThe shepherd's dogs could not be left behind to their own devices; and\nit was a matter of necessity that their master should go to church.\nThere was no more to be said, not even when the dogs (as they often did)\nwith long-drawn howls joined in the singing of the psalms. And when the\nbenediction was pronounced, (which \"to cheat the dowgs,\" was always done\nwith the congregation seated,) then, at the first movement after it,\na perfect storm of barking broke out as the dogs poured out of the\nbuilding ahead of the people.\n\nJust below Yarrow Church are the ruins--I think not much more than the\nfoundations--of Deuchar tower, a Scott stronghold, perhaps, like so many\nothers, or maybe a holding of some descendent of the Outlaw Murray. And\nhard by Deuchar Mill is the picturesque old bridge with its broken arch\nstretched, like the stump of a maimed arm, towards the farther shore of\nYarrow. It is a bridge that dates from about the year 1653. The burgh\nrecords of Peebles for that year show that the magistrates then ordained\n\"that all in the town who have horses shall send the same for a. day, to\ncarry lime for the said brig, under a penalty of forty shillings.\"\nThat bridge stood till 1734, when the south arch was wrecked by a great\nflood. To restore the arch was a task at that time beyond the means of\nthe district, and for some years those who lived on the south side of\nYarrow and who wished to attend Yarrow Church, could do so only at the\ncost of wading the water, a feat in flood time impossible, and in the\nwinter season a trial to be endured with difficulty even by the most\nhardy. The dead, in many instances, could not be buried beside their\nfriends in the {310}old churchyard; children born in parts of the parish\nsouth of Yarrow could be baptised only at uncertain times and after\nindefinite delay; and marriages frequently had to be postponed.\n\n[Illustration: 0330]\n\nFinally, of the money required for repair of the bridge, owing to\nvarious circumstances only the half could be raised, and the arch put in\nafter a delay of several years was of such peculiar construction, and\nso steep and causeway-like on the south side that it was not without\ndifficulty that even an empty cart could cross. \"Besides,\" says Dr.\nRussell, \"there was little earth on the stones that formed the arch to\nsteady and protect it.\" Nevertheless, it held together for the best part\nof a century, and then, suddenly, it collapsed one winter's afternoon,\njust after the roadman's cart had crossed. A new bridge had been erected\njust opposite the church, and no farther attempt was {311}made to repair\nthe old one. There it stands, a pathetic and picturesque memorial of old\ndays.\n\n[Illustration: 331]\n\nIt seems always to me that these old broken bridges--there are two in\nYarrow--strike a note fittingly attuned to the dirge murmured by the\nwater as it wanders through the vale, strikingly in keeping with its\nmournful traditions and with the inexplicable sadness that for ever\nbroods here. This is the very heart of the Dowie Dens of Yarrow. Here\nis the scene of the so-called \"duel\" between John Scott of Tushielaw\nand his brother-in-law, Walter Scott, third son of Robert Scott of\nThirlestane.\n\n               \"Late at e'en, drinking the wine,\n\n                   And ere they paid the lawing\n\n               They set a combat them between,\n\n                   To fecht it in the dawing.\"\n\nAssassination, however, rather than duel, seems to have been the word\napplicable to the combat.\n\n               \"As he gaed up the Tinnies Bank,\n\n                   I wot he gaed wi' sorrow,\n\n               Till, down in a den he spied nine armed men,\n\n                   On the dowie houms of Yarrow.\n\n               \"'Oh, come ye here to part your land.\n\n                   The bonnie Forest thorough?\n\n               Or come ye here to wield your brand\n\n                   On the dowie houms of Yarrow?'\n\n               'I come not here to part my land,\n\n                   And neither to beg nor borrow;\n\n               I come to wield my noble brand\n\n                   On the bonnie banks of Yarrow.'\n\n               'If I see all, ye're nine to ane,\n\n                   And that's an unequal marrow;\n\n               Yet will I fight while lasts my brand,\n\n                   On the bonnie banks of Yarrow.'\n\n               Four has he hurt, and five has slain,\n\n                   On the bludie braes of Yarrow;\n\n               Till that stubborn knight came him behind\n\n                   And ran his body thorough.\n\n               'Yestreen I dreamed a doleful dream;\n\n                   I fear there will be sorrow!\n\n               I dreamed I pu'd the heather green,\n\n                   Wi my true love on Yarrow.\n\n               'O gentle wind that bloweth south,\n\n                   From where my Love repaireth,\n\n               Convey a kiss frae his dear mouth,\n\n                   And tell me how he faireth!'\n\n               * But in the glen strove armed men;\n\n                   They've wrought me dule and sorrow;\n\n               They've slain--the comeliest knight they've slain--\n\n                   He bleeding lies on Yarrow.'\n\n               As she sped down yon high, high hill,\n\n                   She gaed wi' dule and sorrow,\n\n               And in the glen spied ten slain men\n\n                   On the dowie banks of Yarrow.\n\n               She kissed his cheek, she kaimed his hair,\n\n                   She searched his wounds all thorough;\n\n               She kissed them till her lips grew red,\n\n                   On the dowie houms of Yarrow.\"\n\n{313}Here too, a little above Deucbar Bridge, and beyond the church, it,\nthe famous \"inscribed stone\" of Yarrow, on the merits of which, as on\nthe question of its age, I am not qualified to express an opinion. The\nplace where, it stands was waste moorland about the beginning of last\ncentury, and the stone was uncovered when the first attempts were being\nmade to reclaim it. In his \"Reminiscences of Yarrow,\" Dr. James Russell\nsays on this subject: \"On more than twenty different spots of this moor\nwere large cairns, in many of which fine yellow dust, and in one of\nwhich an old spear-head, was found. Two unhewn massive stones still\nstand, about a hundred yards distant from each other, which doubtless\nare the monuments of the dead. The real tradition simply bears that here\na deadly feud was settled by dint of arms: the upright stones mark the\nplace where the two lords or leaders fell, and the bodies of followers\nwere thrown into a marshy pool called the Dead Lake, in the adjoining\nhaugh. It is probable that this is the locality of \"the Dowie Dens of\nYarrow.\" About three hundred yards westward, when the cultivation of\nthis moor began, the plough struck upon a large flat stone of unhewn\ngreywacke bearing a Latin inscription. Bones and ashes lay beneath it,\nand on every side the surface presented verdant patches of grass.\" The\ninscription is difficult to decipher, and readings differ; all, however,\nseem to agree as to the termination: \"_Hic jacent in tumulo duo filli\nLiberalis_;\" and it is supposed to date from about the fifth century.\n\nStill following the stream downwards we come to Hangingshaw, in ancient\ndays home of the Murrays. In Hangingshaw tower--long demolished--dwelt\nthe Outlaw Murray, who owned \"nae King in Christentie.\"\n\n               \"Fair Philiphaugh is mine by right,\n\n                   And Lewinshope still mine shall be;\n\n               Newark, Foulshiells, and Tinnies baith,\n\n                   My bow and arrow purchased me.\n\n               \"And I have native steads to me,\n\n                   The Newark Lee and Hanginshaw.\"\n\n{314}Of the bold Outlaw's stock there remains now in the Border not one\nrepresentative, and the last of their lands has passed from them.\n\nAt Foulshiels, a couple of miles farther down, by the roadside stand the\nwalls of the modest dwelling in which was born Mungo Park, the famous\nAfrican explorer of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries,\na man of whom another traveller of our own day, himself among the\ngreatest, has said: \"For actual hardship undergone, for dangers faced,\nand difficulties overcome, together with an exhibition of the virtues\nwhich make a man great in the rude battle of life, Mungo Park stands\nwithout a rival.\" His dauntless spirit stands out conspicuous in the\nlast words he ever sent home: \"Though the Europeans who were with me\nwere dead, and though I myself were half dead, I would still persevere,\nand if I could not succeed in the object of my journey, I would at last\ndie on the Niger.\" That, I think, is the same fearless spirit that has\nso recently touched to the core the inmost heart of the Nation, the\nspirit displayed in the last message home of another dauntless explorer\nand his comrades, who have perished also for duty's sake.\n\nBut Park was less heard of then--more than a century back; news filtered\nslowly in those days; he did not at the moment become a national hero.\nAnd if a man is seldom a prophet in his own country, it is surely from\nmembers of his own family that he is apt last of all to receive the\nhonour which is his due. When Mungo came home in 1797 from his first\nAfrican expedition, his elder brother, then tenant of Foulshiels, (\"a\nman,\" says Lockhart, \"remarkable for strength both of mind and body,\")\nchanced to be in Selkirk when the explorer arrived there. That night, as\nthe worthy farmer lay asleep in bed, he was awakened by his mother, who\ntold him to get up; there was \"a man chappin' (knocking) at the door.\"\n\n\"Oh, ay!\" drowsily muttered the disturbed sleeper, weary from a long\nday passed at the market, turning himself over in {315}bed, \"I daursay\nthat'll be oor Munga. I saw him gettin' aff the coach in Selkirk the\nday.\"\n\n[Illustration: 0335]\n\nIt was this Archibald Park who was riding one day with Sir Walter\nScott--\"the Shirra\"--. when, in a desolate part of the country, they\ncame unexpectedly on a desperate gang of gipsies, one of whom was\n\"wanted\" for murder. Park did not hesitate an instant, but seized the\nman and dragged him away from under the very noses of his lawless,\nthreatening comrades.\n\nOpposite to Foulshiels, on the farther bank of Yarrow, stands \"Newark's\nstately tower,\" the most famous, and I think, from its situation, the\nmost beautiful of all the Border strongholds. Situation and surroundings\nare perfect; I know of no scene more captivating, whether you view it\nfrom Foulshiels, or stand by the castle itself, or, climbing high up\non its ramparts, gaze around where wood and hill and stream blend in a\nbeauty that is matchless. And from far below comes the voice of Yarrow,\nchafing among its rocks and boulders, moaning perhaps as it moaned that\ncruel day after the battle of Philiphaugh, when, on Slain Man's Lea,\nhard by the castle, Lesly's prisoners were butchered in cold blood.\n\nNewark is the best preserved of all the famous Border {316}towers. And\nthis we owe to the House of Buccleuch. Writing of the ancient towers of\nEttrick and Yarrow, the Reverend Dr. James Russell says: \"Some of them\nwere burned down when clans were in conflict with each other; but what\nwas allowable in the period of Border warfare was without excuse in our\ntimes of peace. Even the grim grey ruins were interesting features\nof the landscape, and worthy of being spared. But, worse than 'time's\ndestroying sway,' the ruthless hand of vandalism has swept the greater\npart of them away, as standing in the way of some fancied improvement,\nor to employ the material for building some modern dyke or dwelling.\nEven Newark Castle, the stateliest of them all, was thus desecrated\nthrough the bad taste of the factor of the day, so recently as the\nbeginning of this [the nineteenth] century, and the best of the stones\nfrom the walls and enclosing fence pulled down for the building of a\nfarmhouse immediately in front on the Slain Man's Lea. The present\nnoble proprietor [the fifth Duke of Buccleuch, who died in 1884], was\nso displeased and disgusted with the proceedings, that when he came into\npower he swept the modern houses away, and restored stones that in an\nevil hour had been abstracted, and put the ancient pile into a state of\nperfect preservation.\"\n\nBuilt sometime before 1423--it is referred to as the \"new werke\" in a\ncharter of that date to Archibald, Earl of Douglas,--Newark Castle was a\nroyal hunting seat; the royal arms are carved on a stone high up on its\nwestern wall. But in its time it has seen war as well as sport; in 1548\nLord Grey captured it for Edward VI, and in 1650 it was garrisoned for\na while by Cromwell's men after Dunbar. It is of peace, however, rather\nthan of war that one thinks when wandering here; and one recalls how\nAnne, Duchess of Monmouth and Buccleuch, quilting the throng of men and\nthe hideous later turmoil of her life, retired here with her children\nafter the execution of her unhappy husband in 1685. To what more\nbeautiful and restful scene could she have carried the burden of her\nsorrows? {317}It is she to whom, in Newark, the \"Last Minstrel\" recites\nhis Lay.\n\n[Illustration: 0337]\n\n\n\n                   \"The Duchess mark'd his weary pace,\n\n                   His timid mien, and reverend face,\n\n                   And bade her page the menials tell,\n\n                   That they should tend the old man well:\n\n                   For she had known adversity,\n\n                   Though born in such a high degree;\n\n                   In pride of power, in beauty's bloom,\n\n                   Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb!\"\n\nTurning away now from sight of Newark, and from Foulshiels, the road\nsweeps winding down the Yarrow, high over wooded banks, and\n\n                   \"... sweet in Harewood sing the birds,\n\n                   The sound of summer in their chords;\"\n\npast Harewood, its braes shimmering in the summer sun, Yarrow far below,\nplunging through deep black pools that seem fathomless, and boiling\nangrily where hindering rocks essay to check its course. This, I think,\nis the most beautiful part of all Yarrow, as beautiful as the\nstream's higher reaches, but {318}wilder, with higher,--almost\nprecipitous--banks, rich draped in woods. Away far over to the right\nacross the river, among the trees lies Bowhill; and down past the\n\"General's Brig\" we leave Philiphaugh House on the left, and the cairn\nthat commemorates the battle, pass near the junction pool of Yarrow\nand Ettrick; then quitting Yarrow, we rejoin the 'Tweed road opposite\nSelkirk, and once more come to Yair Bridge.\n\n               \"Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass,\n\n                   Yellow on Yarrow's braes the gowan,\n\n               Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,\n\n                   Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.\"\n\n               \"Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed,\n\n                   As green its grass, its gowan yellow,\n\n               As sweet smells on its braes the birk,\n\n                   The apple frae the rock as mellow.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII UPPER TWEED, YAIR, FAIRNILEE, ASHIESTEEL, EUBANK,\nINNERLEITHEN, TRAQUAIR\n\n|Sweet{319} in truth flows Tweed here, as all will own who leisurely\nwend their way--it is too beautiful to justify hurried progress--under\nleafy boughs where the sun slants down in fairy pattern on a road\ndivorced by but a narrow edge of greenest grass from the clear, hurrying\nriver. Here, at your very hand, you may see countless I! ripples of the\nrising trout, that feed beneath the elms of Yair.\" There over against\nyou on the far bank of Tweed is Yair itself; and on the hither side,\nnestling above a lofty bank among its grand old trees, the beautiful\nruin of Fairnilee, with its hospitable modern mansion hard by. It was\nin this line old seventeenth-century Scottish mansion that Alison\nRutherfurd wrote her exquisite version of the \"Flowers of the Forest.\"\nIn the old ruined house the little room in which she wrote is still\nintact, and now is carefully preserved from farther possibility of\ndecay. But why, one wonders vainly, why was a place so fair ever\nabandoned, and allowed so long to crumble away as if it had been a thing\naccursed?\n\n                   \"Gin ye wad meet wi' me again,\n\n                   Gang to the bonny banks o' Fairnilee;\"\n\nsaid the Queen of Faery to True Thomas. And were she here now in the\nBorder land, to no more enchanting spot could she tryst in the sunny\nslope above the river, the giant limbs of {320}mighty trees green with\nthe leafy crown of June, or flushed with the blood red and orange of\nautumn;\n\n[Illustration: 0340]\n\nthe ceaseless song of water gushing over the cauld and dashing among the\nboulders below; the wide expanse that carries the eye through the\nwaving boughs over the gleaming belt of water, and away far up the hill\npurpling with the bloom of heather,--or late in the season, \"grymed\"\nwith the new fallen snow,--up and over to the broad summit of the Three\nBrethren Cairn. In very truth it is itself a fairyland, and, standing\nhere, to the mind comes, {321}\n\n[Illustration: 0341]\n\n{322}irresistibly, thought of the hidden Gold of Fairnilee that in\nboyhood one sought for so diligently.\n\n[0342]\n\nThen, higher up the river a mile or thereby, at the foot of Neidpath\nHill, the long deep, swift hurrying stream in which, when autumn floods\nhave done their work, there is not a yard where a lordly salmon may not\nbe hooked. And higher still, there is Caddonfoot, and Clovenfords, in\nwhose little inn Sir Walter used to stay before he lived at Ashiesteel;\nand the Nest, snug quarters of a famous Edinburgh Fishing Club, among\nwhose members in old days was included the name of many an eminent Scot.\nThen opposite the Nest, across the river, Ashiesteel, which, almost more\neloquently than even Abbotsford itself, speaks of Sir Walter. Here were\nspent the seven happiest years of his life; here he wrote the \"Lay of\nthe Last Minstrel,\" \"Marnuon,\" and \"The Lady of the Lake\"; here came\ninto his service those most faithful of followers, Mathieson (his\ncoachman) and Tom Purdie, the latter, before the good fortune that\nbrought him to the notice of \"the Shirra,\" a most accomplished poacher\nof {323}salmon. Who has not read, and smiled over, the tales that Scrope\ntells of him in his \"Days and Nights of Salmon Fishing in Tweed?\"\n\nPurdie's eccentricities were many, his tongue free and outspoken to an\nextent that one would suppose might at times have ruffled the temper\neven of a man so tolerant and sweet-tempered as Scott. Yet the\nattachment that sprang up between the three, Sir Walter, Mathieson,\nand Purdie, was of the deepest and most abiding, ending only with their\nlives. All men--all living things, one might say--loved Scott; these\ntwo adored him, and their master's affection for them, and his trust in\nthem, were profound. Mathieson outlived the others; Purdie was the first\nto go. The end was very sudden, and the blow affected Sir Walter as if\nthe death had been that of a near and dear relative. A niece of Mungo\nPark used to tell afterwards of Sir Walter's visit to the widow, as\nrelated by Mrs. Purdie herself. There came a tap at the door, she said,\nand he came silently in, sitting down without a word in the chair that\nMrs. Purdie handed to him. And, \"he juist grat, an' better grat, the\ntears rinnin' doon his cheeks.\" At last the poor woman said brokenly;\n\"Ye mauna tak' on that way, Sir Walter. Ye mauna tak' on. Ye'll maybes\nget some other body juist as guid as Tam.\"\n\n\"_No_, my dear old friend,\" he said, at length mastering his emotion.\n\"No. There can never be but one Tom Purdie.\"\n\nIn truth no one could, and no one ever did, replace him. A very few\nyears, and Mathieson drove his master for the last time, that memorable\ndrive in September, 1832, when the horses of their own accord stopped at\nhis favourite view above Bemersyde; that September when the whole world\nmourned for him who was gone, who yet lives for ever, not alone in\nBorder hearts, but in the affection of all humanity.\n\nIn Sir Walter's day, no bridge spanned the river at Ashiesteel, and the\nford was not always a safe one; Sir Walter and his horse on at least one\noccasion, when the water was heavy, had to swim when crossing. But \"the\nShirra\" was always the most reckless of riders, and would plunge in\nwhere none dared follow. \"The deil's in ye, Shirra,\" said Mungo Park's\nbrother to him--not on one occasion only--\"the deil's in ye. Ye'll never\nhalt till they bring ye hame with your feet foremost.\" It was at this\nAshiesteel ford that Leyden, when Sir Walter's guest, came to grief. He\nand \"the Shirra,\" and Mr. Laidlaw of Peel were riding one day. Leyden\nwas talking, as one having authority, of the paces and good manners of\nArab horses, and telling tales of the marvellous skill with which their\nowners managed them. \"Here,\" said he, gathering up his reins, \"is one\nof their feats\"----; but just at that moment the pony on which he rode\n(_not_ a docile Arab steed) took it into its head to bolt down the steep\nbank into Tweed, and Leyden disappeared over its head into the stream.\n\"Ay, ay, Dr. Leyden, is _that_ the way the Arabs ride?\" said Laidlaw\n{325}gravely, when the rider reappeared, dripping like a river-god.\n\n[Illustration: 0345]\n\nUp the Glenkinnon Burn from Ashiesteel, at Williamhope Ridge, is the\nspot where Scott said his last farewell to Mungo Park. At the open drain\nwhich then separated moor from road, Park's horse stumbled badly. \"A bad\nomen, Mungo, I'm afraid,\" said Sir Walter. \"Freits (omens) follow them\nthat fear them,\" cried Park, gaily, setting off at a brisk canter.\n\n[Illustration: 0346]\n\n\"I stood and looked after him; but he never looked back,\" Scott used to\ntell, afterwards. And they met no more. Ere very many months had passed,\nPark lay dead, somewhere by that great African river with whose name\nhis own will be for ever linked. But Williamhope has older memories than\nthis; \"William's Cross\" was the name given to a great stone on the hill\nhere, which marked the spot where the Knight of Liddes-dale fell,\nslain by his kinsman's sword one August day in 1353. {327}Quilting the\nneighbourhood of Ashiesteel, the road, in close company now with the\nrailway from Galashiels to Peebles, still winds up the beautiful banks\nof Tweed, past Thornilee and Holylee, past boulder-strewn reaches and\npleasant streams where big trout lie,--\"a chancier bit ye canna hae,\"\nI think Stoddart says,--on past where, high on the farther side,\noverhanging the river, stand the crumbling ruins of Elibank Castle. This\nwas a stronghold built--or possibly only enlarged--in 1595 by Sir Gideon\nMurray, father of Muckle Mouthed Meg, heroine of the story which tells\nhow young Scott of Harden, caught reiving the Murrays' cattle, was given\nhis choice between matrimony and the rope and \"dule-tree.\" Harden, it\nis said, at first chose the latter, but at the last moment, as a mate\nscarcely to be preferred to death, took the lady. There was probably a\ngood deal of bravado and \"bluff\" about Harden's wavering--if indeed\nthe story is a true one. But in any case it was a wedding in which\nthe proverb: \"Happy the Wooing that's not long adoing,\" was well\nexemplified. All went well with bride and with reluctant bridegroom;\nthey \"lived happy ever after,\" as in the most orthodox fairy tale. And\nof their descendants, one was our own Sir Walter.\n\nAnd now we come to Walkerbum and Innerleithen, manufacturing townships.\nThe latter, with its famed medicinal well, has been identified, or\nidentifies itself, with St. Ronan's of the Waverley Novels. It is\nprettily situated on the Leithen, by wide spreading haughs, and the\nsurroundings, like all in Tweedale, cannot fail to attract. But what may\nbe said of Innerleithen, on top of that terrible Report issued in 1906\nby H. M. Stationery Office? It will take some living down, if all that\nwas then said by the Tweed Pollution Commission is without exaggeration,\nand if--as one is informed--nothing has yet been done to sweep away, or\nat least greatly to improve, the conditions revealed. Here is what the\nReport says of the river Leithen, a stream in former days called by Sir\nThomas Dick Lauder \"a fine trouting river.\"\n\n\"Occasionally, in time of\n\n{328}\n\n[Illustration: 0348]\n\n{329}heavy rainfall, severe floods occur on the Leithen; when these\noccur, a large amount of water flows down the bed of the stream, which\nis usually dry, carrying with it all the rubbish and filth to the Tweed.\n\n[Illustration: 0349]\n\nThe mills are supplied with water from the mill-lade, and one of them\nobtains water from the Tweed when necessary. The people of the town are\nentirely engaged in the woollen industry; wool scouring, weaving, and\ndyeing are all carried on here. The town is sewered. All the sewage is\ncollected in an outfall sewer, which discharges into the mill-lade below\nthe lowermost mill, and about three hundred yards from the Tweed; there\nis no attempt at purification of {330}the sewage. The liquid refuse from\nthe mills is discharged into the lade. The water of the lade where it\ndischarges to the Tweed is very foul with sewage and dye water... Below\nthe point at which the lade discharges to the Tweed the water of this\nriver is greatly fouled, the bottom of the river is covered with\nsewage deposit and the stones coated with sewage fungus. The river here\ncontains also a large amount of refuse of all kinds, such as pots and\npans, old linoleum, old iron-work, and such like. Although there is a\ndaily collection of rubbish in the town, a great deal of large sized\nrubbish is thrown into the bed of the Lei then, and the tip to which\nall refuse is taken, together with offal from the slaughter houses, is\nsituate just where the Lei then falls into the Tweed. In times of flood\nthe water of the Leithen excavates this refuse tip, and carries the\nrefuse into the Tweed. Some of the mill-owners here have tanks for\nsettling the spent liquids after dyeing, and in this way some of the\nsolid refuse is retained, but the coloured liquid is allowed to enter\nthe river. One is thankful for small mercies; \"_some_ of the solid\nrefuse is retained.\" But the \"offal from the slaughter houses,\" and the\n\"tip\" to which all refuse is taken! And the sewage which there is \"no\nattempt to purify\"! What grizzly nightmare could be more grizzly than\nthis?\n\nHowever, we get soon now above the range of pollution by mill or town.\nPeebles only remains; thereafter we have really a river as it used in\nits entirety to be, and, above Peebles, as it may still be called, \"the\nsilver Tweed.\" Before reaching Peebles, however, there is, over against\nInnerleithen, on the angle between Quair Burn and Tweed, Traquair House\nto notice; and, nearer to Peebles, on its green knoll the old riven\ntower of Horsburgh, ancient seat of an ancient family.\n\nOf old, Traquair was a royal residence. In the twelfth century. William\nthe Lion hunted from its tower; and other of the Scottish monarchs\nvisited it in later days, the last, I suppose, being Mary and Darnley\nin August, 1566. The original tower, {331}or some part of it, I believe\nstands now in the north-east corner of the building, but the house has,\nof course, been greatly added to at different periods, mostly, however,\nduring the reign of Charles I.\n\n[Illustration: 0351]\n\nIt is a very fine specimen of the old Scottish ch\u00e2teau, with walls of\nimmense thickness. Probably it is the oldest inhabited mansion house\nin Scotland; a place full of interest. And not least interesting, the\npicturesque old gates at the end of the avenue, that have remained so\nlong unopened. The tale used to run that they had been closed after\nthe '45, by an Earl loyal to the Stuart cause, who swore that they should\nnever be opened till the rightful king came back to his own again. As\na matter of fact, however, the misfortunes of Prince Charlie and his\nfamily had nothing to do with it. The gates were not closed till 1796,\nwhen the seventh Earl of Traquair, after the death of his countess,\ndeclared that they should remain shut till they opened to admit one\nworthy to take the dead lady's place. That, at least, is the story.\n\nThe Earl who lived in the latter part of the seventeenth century\nbelonged to the Church of Rome. \"A quiet, inoffensive {332}man,\" he is\nsaid to have been.\n\n[Illustration: 0352]\n\nBut that in no way protected him from the unwelcome attentions of those\nzealous Presbyterians who at that time \"thought it someway belonged\nto us' to go to all the popish houses and destroy their monuments of\nidolatry, with their priests' robes, and put in prison the {333}priests\nthemselves.\"\n\n[Illustration: 0353]\n\nSo a pious mob set out from Edinburgh one grim December day in 1688, and\ntrudged through the snow to Traquair House. Earl and priest, having got\nword of their coming, had fled before the arrival of this gentle band\nof Reformers, and though they ransacked all Traquair for \"Romish wares,\"\nthey did not find all they expected. Much had been hidden away. The\nvestments of the priest this, that, and the other popish emblem could\nnot be found. However, they did get a good deal--an altar, a large\nbrazen crucifix, and several small crucifixes, \"a large brodd opening\nwith two leaves, covered within with cloth ot gold of Arras work, having\na veil covering the middle part, wherin were sewed several superstitious\npictures,\" a eucharist cup of silver, boxes of relics, \"wherin were\nlying, amongst silk-cotton, several {334}pieces of bone, tied with a red\nthread, Having written on them the Saint they belonged to,\" \"a harden\nbag, near full of beads,\" \"Mary and the Babe in a case most curiously\nwrought in a kind of pearl,\" a hundred and thirty books--silver-clasped\nmany of them. No doubt the books, Popish or otherwise, excited to frenzy\nthose pious but illiterate persons, almost as effectually as \"the pot of\nholy oil,\" and the \"twelve dozen of wax candles\" that they seized.\n\nNot content with all this, however, a detachment of the mob invaded the\nhouse of a neighbouring clergyman \"who had the name of a Presbyterian\nminister.\" The orders given by their ringleaders were that this house\nshould be narrowly searched, but that they themselves were to \"behave\ndiscreetly,\" advice the latter part of which one might give with\nequal propriety and effect to the proverbial bull in a china shop.\nThe Reverend Thomas Louis and his wife apparently did not treat the\ninquisitors with the kindness and consideration to which they thought\nthemselves entitled; they \"mocked them,\" it is complained; and indeed\nthe minister and his wife carried their resentment so far as to offer\nthem \"neither food nor drink, though\"--it is naively added--\"they had\nmuch need of it.\" Undaunted, however, by this shabby conduct on the part\nof the reverend gentleman, the mob hunted about till they came on two\nlocked trunks, which they demanded should at once be opened. This modest\nrequest not being complied with, they \"broke up\" the trunks--to\n\"behave discreetly,\" is no doubt when desired, capable of liberal\ninterpretation--and therein \"they found a golden cradle, with Mary and\nthe Babe in her bosom; in the other trunk, the priest's robes.\" So they\nmade a pile of the articles found here and in Traquair House, carried\nthem a distance of seven miles to Peebles, and had them \"all solemnly\nburned at the cross.\" Such were the enlightened methods of our\nseventeenth century progenitors. But, one sometimes wonders, is the\ntoleration of the mob now-a-days {353}greatly in advance of what was in\n1688? However, they did not also \"solemnly burn\" Traquair House, though\nit _was_ a \"nest o'paipery.\"\n\n[Illustration: 0355]\n\nBut the last Countess of Traquair has gone through the old gates; and\nher son, the eighth Earl, was the last of his line. He died, unmarried,\nin 1861; and the last of her race, the venerable Lady Louisa Stuart,\ndied in 1875, in her hundredth year. Yet still, a pathetic link with\ndays long dead, the old house stands brooding over the past; and still\nthere sounds the music of the waters, and the sough of the wind in the\ntrees of \"the bush aboon Traquair.\" And perhaps he who has\n\n                   \"... heard the cushies croon\n\n                   Thro' the gowden afternoon,\n\n               And the Quair burn singing down to the vale o' Tweed,\"\n\nmay come away steeped in sadness, yet it is a sadness without sting, not\nwholly unpleasing.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV PEEBLES, NEIDPATH, MANOR, LYNE, DRUMMELZIER, DAWYCK\n\n|Writing{336} of Peebles in the year 1847 or 1848, Sir Thomas Dick\nLauder speaks of \"the singular air of decayed royalty that hangs over\nit, and which so strangely blends with its perfect simplicity and\nrurality.\"\n\n[Illustration: 0356]\n\nMore than any other of the Scottish border towns, Peebles has a right\nto talk of \"royalty.\" A royal poet has sung of her Beltane Feast\nthe evidence is at least as much for, as against, acceptance of the\ntime-honoured {337}belief that King James I was author of \"Peblis to the\nPlay.\" Professor Veitch strongly favours that conclusion. And unbroken\ntradition points to the King as the author.\n\nFrom earliest times the town was a favourite residence of the Scottish\nmonarchs, and to this day its place-names, such as King's Meadows,\nKing's House, King's Orchards, for example, suggest royal traditions.\nThe Burgh Records of Peebles, go back very far--to October 1456, in the\nreign of James II. It is a town of much interest and of much beauty,\nbeautiful especially as regards its situation and surroundings, and\nthere are still in it many remains that speak eloquently of the past.\nThere is the old five-arched stone bridge, dating from about 1467,\naltered, of course, and widened since that date, but still the same\nold bridge. Until the erection of the bridge at Berwick early in the\nseventeenth century, I suppose that this was the only one spinning Tweed\nin all its course. Then there Is the ancient Cross of Peebles, which,\nafter various vicissitudes and excursions, at length stands once more on\nthe spot where it was originally placed. It is said by the writer of the\nStatistical Account of the Parish to have been \"erected by one of the\nFrasers of Neidpath Castle, before the time of Robert the Bruce, and\nbears the arms of the Frasers.\"\n\nThere are still to be seen within the burgh the ruins of the Cross\nChurch, and of the Church of St. Andrew. The former got its name from\nthe fact that in May, 1261, \"a magnificent and venerable cross was found\nat Peblis,\" which was supposed to have been buried close on a thousand\nyears before that date. Shortly after the unearthing of this cross,\nthere was found near the same spot a stone urn, containing ashes and\nhuman bones, and on a stone the words carved: \"The place of St. Nicholas\nthe Bishop.\" On account of the miracles which were reputed to have been\nwrought where the cross was discovered, Alexander III caused a church to\nbe erected on the spot, \"in honour of God, and of the Holy Rood.\" This\nCross Church in some unexplained way escaped practically unscathed\nduring {338}the English invasion of 1548-49, and from 1560 till 1784 it\nserved as the Parish Church--deprived, no doubt, of many an interesting\nrelic of the past. At the last-named date, our zealous forefathers,\n_more majorum_, pulled it down--all but a fragment--in order, out of the\nmaterial so obtained, to build a new Parish Church. (They had in those\ntimes a perfect genius for wrecking the beautiful and interesting, and\nfor erecting the ugly and the dull.)\n\nThe other old church, that of St. Andrew, was founded about the year\n1195. It, however, unlike its neighbour, suffered badly at the hands of\nthe English in 1548, after which it gradually fell into ruin, and\nmet the fate that was wont to wait on most of our venerable Scottish\nbuildings. The tower alone remained, impervious to wind and weather,\ndefiant of man's destroying hand. Thirty years ago, it was restored by\nthe late Dr. William Chambers,--\"more honour to him had he been less\nsuccessful in concealing the old work,\" says Sir Herbert Maxwell, in\nhis \"Story of the Tweed.\" It was in the Church of St. Andrew, tradition\nsays, that Cromwell's troopers stabled their horses in 1650 when siege\nwas being laid to Neidpath Castle.\n\nPeebles at one time was a walled town, and I believe that some fragments\nof fortification remain. But the names: \"Northgate,\" \"Eastgate,\"\n\"Portbrae,\" still recall former days. There was a castle also, a\nroyal residence; but though it yet stood in the end of the seventeenth\ncentury, or even a little later, there is now not a vestige of it to\nbe found. Again, no doubt, the ruthless hand of our not very remote\nancestors!\n\nAn interesting and very ancient custom continues to be observed in the\ntown. Annually, on the second day of May, there is chosen from among the\nyouthful beauties of Peebles one who is styled the \"Beltane Queen\"; and\nBeltane Sports and Festivities are held. Chambers says: \"The festivities\nof Beltane originated in the ceremonial observances of the original\nBritish people, who lighted fires on the tops of hills and other\n{339}places in honour of their deity Baal; hence Beltane or Beltien,\nsignifying the fire of Baal. The superstitious usage disappeared... but\ncertain festive customs on the occasion were confirmed and amplified,\nand the rural sports of Beltane at Peebles, including archery and\nhorse-racing... drew crowds not only from the immediate neighbourhood,\nbut from Edinburgh and other places at a distance.\"\n\n\"Peblis to the Play\" is a description of the Festival as it was held in\nthe day of the author; \"a picture of rustic life and festivities, of\nthe humorous and grotesque incidents of a mediaeval Feast Day in an\nold provincial town, the centre of a rural district,\" says Professor\nVeitch.\n\n               \"At Beltane, when ilk bodie bownis 1\n\n               To Peblis to the Play,\n\n               To heir the singin and the soundis,\n\n               The solace, suth to say;\n\n               Be firth 2 and forest furth they found, 3\n\n               They graythit 4 them full gay;\n\n               God wot, that wald they do, that stound,5\n\n               For it was their Feist Day,\n\n                        They said,\n\n               Of Peblis to the Play.\"\n\nSpace does not permit me to quote more than the opening verse.\n\n     1 Makes ready to go.\n\n     2 Enclosed wood, or place.\n\n     3 Issue, or go forth.\n\n     4 Dressed.\n\n     5 Time: German stunde.\n\nBefore moving on up the valley, one may recall the fact that at the Old\nCross Keys Inn at Peebles Sir Walter found, in its then landlady,\nthe original of his \"Meg Dods\" of \"St. Ronan's Well.\" Guests arriving\nnow-a-days at this Inn--which is as often called \"the Cleikum\" as the\nCross Keys--still drive into the yard under the \"old-fashioned archway\"\nof the novel; still there is shown \"Sir Walter's room,\" overlooking the\nyard; and still, it may perhaps be noted, there is to be found at the\nhead of affairs one who, while leaving out Meg's \"detestable\n{340}bad humour\" and asperity of tongue, in all essentials is worthy to\nrank as her successor. \"Her kitchen was her pride and glory; she looked\nto the dressing of every dish herself, and there were some with which\nshe suffered no one to interfere.... Meg's table-linen, bed-linen, and\nso forth, were always home-made, of the best quality, and in the best\norder; and a weary day was that to the chambermaid in which her lynx eye\ndiscovered any neglect of the strict cleanliness which she constantly\nenforced.\" The most fervent patriotism cannot, I fear, blind one to the\nsad fact that a majority of Scottish country inns do not strive very\nsuccessfully to vie with Meg in those qualities which made her so\nshining an ornament of her sex. Too often one is left to the greasy\nattentions of a waiter of foreign tongue, whose mercies it might be\ndesired were more tender than the scrag-end of the cold beef to\nwhich, in a parlour of the lethal-chamber variety, he somewhat tardily\nintroduces tired wayfarers. And the beef itself might in many cases\ntaste none the less of beef, if it were served on table-linen not quite\nso elaborately decorated with outlines of mustard pots and Worcester\nSauce bottles, left by the day-beforeyesterday's commercial traveller.\n\nThis Cleikum, or Cross Keys Inn, is a building of more than respectable\nage; it dates from the year 1653, when it was the town house of the\nWilliamsons of Cardrona, a tower a few miles down Tweed, nearly opposite\nto Horsburgh. Probably both the Cross Keys and its neighbour the\nTontine Hotel--. Meg's \"Tomteen,\" the \"hottle\" of which she spoke so\nwrathfully--were in Sir Walter's mind when he wrote the novel.\n\nAnd now we may set out once again up Tweed--not forgetting, however,\nthat Peebles with its mills also contributes no small share to the\npollution of that much-injured river. A mile or so out of the town,\nthere is the old castle of Neidpath, in very remote days a stronghold of\nthe Frasers of Fruid and Oliver Castle, in Tweedsmuir. A Hay of Yester,\nancestor of {341}Lord Tweeddale, succeeded the Frasers in 1312, by\nmarriage with the daughter of Sir Simon Fraser;\n\n[Illustration: 0361]\n\nand after the Hays, by purchase came the Queensberry family, of\nwhom, the fourth Duke, \"Old Q.,\" Wordsworth's \"Degenerate Douglas,\"\n{342}\"unworthy lord,\" did his best to wreck the estate in 1795. What\nhe could spoil and disfigure, he did spoil and disfigure. And here at\nNeidpath he swept off the face of nature every stick of timber, old and\nyoung, that could be felled or destroyed, leaving, as far as lay in his\npower, the landscape bare almost as it was when primeval chaos ended.\nReplanting could not be set about as long as \"Old Q.\" lived, and a\nhundred years scarce repaired the damage he did. It is curious to note\nhow one who in all respects during his life was so very far removed from\ngrace, at the end wished to lie (where I believe his body does lie),\nunder the Communion Table of St. James's Church, Piccadilly--in his\nestimation perhaps a sort of side-gate or private entrance to Heaven.\nThe path is steep and the way thorny to most of us. And how fares \"Old\nQ.\"? I hardly think that the inhabitants of Peebles, had they been Roman\nCatholics at the time of his death, would have paid for Masses for the\nsoul of the dead \"Old Q.,\" as they did lang syne for the soul of the\ndead King James the First.\n\nNeidpath Castle is said by old Dr. Pennecuick to have been in reality\nthe stronghold which was anciently called the Castle of Peebles.\nBut there are allusions to the \"Castel of Peebles\" in the Earl of\nTweeddale's Rental book for 1685, and Neidpath was Neidpath centuries\nbefore that date. On this subject, Professor Veitch, writing about 1877,\nsays: \"The Castle of Peebles was standing and inhabited in the early\npart of last century. It was afterwards pulled down, and the materials\nconverted, according to the morality and taste of the time, into one of\nthe least architecturally attractive palish edifices in Christendom.\" As\nto Neidpath's age, there is no sure record, but as it was a seat of\nthat Sir Simon Fraser who defeated the English three times in one day at\nRoslin Muir in 1303, its antiquity must be very great. And what a place\nof immense strength it must originally have been, before the days\nof artillery. Its walls are ten feet thick, put together with that\n{343}ancient form of cement which, when dry, became hard as the stones\nit bound together; and it stands on a high rock overhanging an elbow\nof Tweed where the water is deep, and was therefore on the river face\nunassailable.\n\n[Illustration: 0363]\n\nBut the day of artillery came too soon for Neidpath. It fell before\nthe guns of Cromwell in 1650. after a most gallant resistance under the\nyoung Lord Yester,--father, I suppose, of the Lord Yester who wrote the\nfine old ballad \"Tweedside.\"\n\nLike every other part of the Yale of Tweed, here also it is beautiful.\nLooking back towards Peebles from above Neidpath the view is very fine,\nthough perhaps an eyesore may be found in the unwholesome speckled\nappearance given to the castle by the way in which the \"facing\" of its\nwalls has been done.\n\nLittle more than a mile from here, Tweed is joined by Manor Water, a\nstream now probably best known as that beside which stands the cottage\nof \"Bowed Davie,\" the original of Scott's \"Black Dwarf\" of Mucklestane\nMuir. Sir Walter was staying at Hallyards, on Manor Water, in 1797, with\nhis friend Adam Ferguson, and it was on that occasion that he first saw\n{344}David Ritchie, a poor mis-shapen dwarf, embittered by the derision\nwhich his extraordinary personal appearance everywhere brought on him,\nand who had retired to this unfrequented valley, where he built himself\na cottage of dimensions in keeping with his own stature.\n\n[Illustration: 0364]\n\nThe cottage still stands, \"where from his bole the awsome form peer'd\ngrim on passer-bye,\" but at least the exterior has been modernised, and\nan addition has been made; his garden wall, with its ponderous stones,\nis much as Bowed Davie left it. The \"Black Dwarf\" was not written till\na good many years after Ritchie's death. His grave is in Manor Kirkyard,\nnot, as he himself originally meant it to be, in a secluded spot of his\nown choice, surrounded by the rowan-trees that it comforted him to think\ncould be relied on to keep witches, and evil spirits generally, at a\nrespectable distance. Poor Davie! There were worse things than witches\nto be taken {345}into account. It is said--Dr. John Brown mentions\nit--that his body proved a temptation too great to be resisted by\nresurrectionists. They dug him up, and carried the poor \"thrawn\" frame\nto where it could be sold. Perhaps in death he still excites that\nderision or pity which in life so angered him; his bones may now lie in\nsome city anatomical museum.\n\nWithin the Vestry of Manor Parish Kirk, there is, accord ing to the\nOrdnance Gazetteer of Scotland edited by Mr. F. H. Groome, \"a table\nmade of oak that had been used for church building not later than\nthe thirteenth century; and a bell in the belfry bears the Latin\ninscription: 'In honore Sanct. Gordiani MCCCCLXXVIII.'\" And far up the\nvale, near Kirkhope, is the site of this St. Gordian's Kirk, \"marked by\na granite runic cross, with the old font stone at its base.\"\n\nManor Valley in days of old must have been a \"mischancey\" spot for any\nstranger whose intentions were, so to speak, not \"strictly honourable.\"\nThere were, in and about it, not fewer than nine or ten peel towers, two\nat least of which--Barns and Castlehill--belonged to the Burnets, than\nwhom none bore higher reputation as reivers and men of action. In 1591\nno Borderer was more renowned for his exploits and for his conduct of\nmidnight forays, than William Burnet, the \"Hoolet of Barns.\" His tower,\nBarns, is rather nearer Tweed than Manor, but it is included in the\nstrongholds of Manor Valley. It is still in excellent preservation, but\nthe roof is modern, and the upper part of the tower has been greatly\naltered from what it was originally. The accommodation in such towers\nmust have been something of the most cramped; in this instance the\noutside dimensions of the tower (three stories) are only twenty-eight\nby twenty feet. On the lintel of the door is the date 1498, but there\nappears to be some uncertainty as to whether the figures were not added\nat a later time. Castlehill, now a ruin, \"hollow-eyed, owl-haunted,\" was\nsomewhat larger and stronger than Barns. Higher up the valley is Posso,\nnow mere fragments of walls. It was of old a {346}seat of the Bairds,\nwho were succeeded in the sixteenth century by the Naesmiths.\n\n[Illustration: 0366]\n\nAt Posso Craigs was the eyry whence Henry Ashton in the \"Bride of\nLammermuir\" got his hawks. And here under the craigs is the Ship Stone.\nThe whole valley teems with objects of antiquarian interest--the tumulus\ncalled the Giants' Grave, up Glenrath Burn; the \"cup-marked fallen\nmonolith,\" that was once an old woman whom the devil turned into stone;\nthe old Thiefs Road, trodden of old by many a mob of \"lifted\" cattle;\nnumerous hill forts. And from the bosom of the wild hills springs Manor;\na tiny rivulet from Dollar Law--(is \"Dollar\" a corruption of \"Dolour,\"\nthe Hill of Sorrow?)--from Notman Law another; infantile rills from\nShielhope Head, Black Law, Blackhouse Heights, grim round-shouldered\nhills that rise all of them to a greater altitude than two thousand\nfeet. And everywhere is the music of running water.\n\n               \"In its far glen, Manor outspreads its arms\n\n               To all the hills, and gathers to itself\n\n               The burnies breaking from high mossy springs,\n\n               And white streaks that fall through cleavings of the crags\n\n               From lonely lochans where the curlews cry.\"\n\n{347}Cademuir, by the way, the hill on Manor's right at its junction\nwith Tweed, is the supposed scene of Arthur's seventh battle against the\nPagans. _Cad_ is Welsh for battle,--Gaelic, _cata_, hence _Cad-more_,\nthe \"great battle.\" Professor Veitch hesitates between this site and\nthat of the neighbouring pre-historic hill fort, the Lour, near Dawyck,\nbut thinks the former the more probable. Just below the height of the\nLour, till the beginning of the nineteenth century there stood, he says,\nan almost perfect _cromlech_, consisting of \"two or more upright stones,\nand one flat stone laid across as a roof, all of remarkable size.\" This\n_cromlech_ was known in the district as Arthur's Oven. It is humiliating\nto have to confess that it, the neighbouring old peel tower of Easter\nDawyck, the Tower of Posso, and the ancient Kirk of St. Gordian, were\nall made into road metal, or used as material for building walls or farm\nbuildings, by Sir Walter Scott's father, of all people in the world. One\nmay wonder what were Sir Walter's thoughts when he came to know.\n\nA little way up from Manor Valley, and joining Tweed from the\nnorthern side, is Lyne Water. It is not possible to pursue all Tweed's\ntributaries to their source, however full of interest each may be, for\ntheir name is legion. But Lyne cannot be passed without note being taken\nof its little--very little--early seventeenth century Parish Church. And\nadjoining it are remains of a great Roman camp--Randall's Wa's, i: has\nbeen called locally from times long past. Perhaps it was here--at least\nit was on Lyne Water--that Sir James Douglas captured Randolph before\nthe time came when the latter finally cast in his lot with the Bruce.\nFarther up, on an eminence at the junction of Lyne and Tartli Waters,\nstands the massive ivy-clad ruin of Drochil Castle. Built by the Regent\nMorton in the sixteenth century, Drochil was never completed, and never\noccupied. Just before the building approached completion, Morton, judged\nguilty of complicity in the murder of Darnley, was executed, beheaded by\n\"the Maiden\"--a sort of Scottish {348}guillotine--on 2nd June, 1581;\nand the home of a Regent of Scotland, \"designed more for a palace than a\ncastle of defence,\" is now a rum, of use only as a shelter for cattle!\n\n[Illustration: 0368]\n\nHapprew, on Lyne, is the scene of the defeat \"wrought by the lords\nWilliam de Lalymer, John de Segrave, and Robert de Clifford, upon\nSimone Fraser and William le Walleys at Hopperowe,\" in 1304. And on the\nelevated heathy flat below which Tweed and Lyne meet, there is what is\ncalled the Sheriff's Muir, of old a mustering place for Scottish forces\nduring the wars with England.\n\nAnd now, as we run up Tweed's left bank, we have on the one side Stobo,\nwith its ancient church--of which mention has been made earlier in this\nvolume--and its fine woods; on the other bank, Dawyck, and the castles\nof Tinnies and Drummelzier. From the thirteenth well on into the\nseventeenth century, Dawyck was the home of a distinguished Tweedside\nfamily, the Veitches, once the Le Vaches, of Gascony, of whom one,\nWilliam le Vache, signed the Ragman Roll at the Castle of Peebles in\n1296. At the same time that {349}the Veitches held Dawyck, Drummelzier\nwas the headquarters of another powerful Border family, the Tweedys; and\nfor the delicate questions involved in the origin of this family's name,\nreaders may consult Sir Walter's introduction to \"The Betrothed.\" Of\nnecessity, as things went in those days, these two families quarrelled,\nand from the quarrel emerged a feud long and bloody, in which, ere it\nended, half the countryside was involved. Wherever a Veitch and a Tweedy\nmet, they fought, and fought to kill. On the haughs of the river one\nsummer's day, young Veitch and young Tweedy, each, perhaps, looking for\ntrouble, came together face to face. The grey of next morning saw of the\nlatter but\n\n               \"A face upturned to the breaking dawn,\n\n               Dead by the Tweed, but honour sav'd.\"\n\nHe lay beside the quiet water, and over him, it is said, like a snowy\npall drooped the clustering May-blossom.\n\n               \"His mother sought him on the haugh,\n\n                   She found him near the white flower'd thorn;\n\n               The grass red wet; the heedless birds\n\n                   Pip'd sweet strains to the early morn.\"\n\nIn 1590, the head of the Veitches, \"the Deil o' Dawyck,\" an immensely\npowerful man, had for his ally William Burnet, \"the Hoolet o' Barns,\" a\nman equally powerful. These two daunted the Tweedy of that day; the\nfeud for a space lay-dormant. But, most unhappily for the Veitches, it\nchanced that \"the Deil's\" son rode into Peebles alone one morning. And\nthat was the end of young Veitch. For nine Tweedys, in two parties,\ntrapped him near Neidpath, came on him in front and from the rear as he\nrode towards home; and it was no fight, but bloody murder that reddened\nthe grass that day. Four days later, two Veitches met John Tweedy, Tutor\nof Drummelzier, in the High Street of Edinburgh, and young Veitch's\nbloody death was avenged; \"a tooth for a tooth,\" no matter how many were\nconcerned in its drawing. And so it {350}went on _ad nauseam_, a Veitch\nkilling a Tweedy, a Tweedy a Veitch. The feud was alive even as late as\n1611; and for anything that I know to the contrary, it endured as long\nas the two families were there to neighbour each other on Tweedside.\n\nOf Drummelzier Castle only an angle of the tower and a portion of the\nmain building now stand. It was here that there dwelt that arrogant\nbully, Sir James Tweedy, who of old was wont to exact homage from every\npassing traveller; and the traveller who omitted to, so to speak, \"lower\nhis tops'ls\" as he passed the castle, had cause to rue the day the fates\ntook him that way. It was a pretty enough game from Tweedy's point of\nview. But, as the saying is, one day he \"bit off more than he could\nchew.\" A stranger, attended by a very small retinue, passed up\nthe valley without taking the smallest notice of the castle or its\nformidable owner. Foaming with rage, spluttering dire threats, Tweedy\nand his men went thundering in pursuit; truly, the back of that stranger\nshould smart to some tune. But, just as you may see the birses and\ntail of a vicious, snarling cur drop when he finds he has inadvertently\nrushed out against a bigger dog than himself, so here, Tweedy's mood\nchanged with astonishing celerity when he jumped from his horse beside\nthe man he had been cursing and bawling at to stop, and found that the\nfugitive he was vowing to flog was his king, James V.\n\nTinnies Castle was also a holding of the Tweedys, possibly before\nthe building of Drummelzier. This castle is believed to date from the\nthirteenth century, or perhaps earlier, and it seems to have been\na place of considerable size and of great strength. \"In no part of\nScotland was there any feudal keep so like a robber's castle on the\nRhine, as that of Tinnis,\" says Chambers. The building was destroyed\nunder royal warrant in 1592, at the time when the King issued orders to\nraze Dry hope and Harden. The position of Tinnies is immensely\nstrong. Perched on a lofty eminence, three of whose sides are almost\nperpendicular and the fourth a long steep slope, the {351}castle in its\nday must have been almost unassailable. Any approach to the walls could\nonly be made in force by a narrow winding pathway, within shot of, and\nfully exposed to, the castle bowmen, and the building itself, as may\neven yet be noted, was of a solidity truly formidable. Immense portions\nof the walls and flanking towers, yet bound by the old imperishable\ncement, still lie where they were bodily hurled by the exploding\ngunpowder when James VI's orders were carried out.\n\nOf Dawyck and its magnificent woods one must not forget to take note.\nHere in 1725 were planted the first larches introduced into Scotland,\nanticipating it is said, by a few years those planted at Dunkeld. And\nwhile on the subject of natural history, one may perhaps quote that most\nnotable fact regarding Dawyck which Dr. Pennecuick, writing in the early\neighteenth century, vouches for in his \"Shire of Tweeddale.\"\n\n\"Here,\" says he, \"in an old Orch-yard did the Herons in my time build\ntheir Nests upon some old Pear-trees, whereupon in the Harvest time are\nto be seen much Fruit growing, and Trouts and Iles crauling down the\nBody of these Trees. These fish the Herons take out of the River of\nTweed to their Nests, and as they go in at the Mouth, so they are seen\nsquirt out again at the Draught. And this is the remarkable Riddle they\nso much talk of, to have Flesh, Fish, and Fruit at the same time upon\none tree.\" There is still a heronry at Dawyck, but not, I think, in an\n\"Orch-yard.\"\n\nIn the neighbourhood of Drummelzier there is a spot that takes us back\nin thought to those dim, far off days when the world was in its infancy.\nNear to where Powsayl Burn, the \"burn of the willows,\" joins Tweed, you\nmay see the grave of Merlin the Seer, the Wizard Merlin. Fleeing from\nthe field of Arderydd (Arthuret, near Carlisle), after the terrible\ndefeat of the Pagans by the Christians in 573, Merlin found refuge among\nthe hills of Upper Tweed, and there lived for many years, half-crazed,\na homeless wanderer. Finally, the fear {352}raised by his supposed\npossession of supernatural powers, and the dread of his enchantments,\ncaused a mob of ignorant country-folk to club and stone him to death,\nand he was buried where he fell, by the Powsayl burn. In a poem still\nextant, Merlin tells how he wandered long in the wild wood of Caledon.\n\n               \"Sweet apple tree, growing by the river!\n\n               Whereof the keeper shall not thrive on its fruit;\n\n               Before I lost my wits I used to be around its stem\n\n               With a fair sportive maid, matchless in slender shape.\n\n               Ten years and forty, the sport of the lawless ones,\n\n               Have I been wandering in gloom among sprites,\n\n               After wealth in abundance and entertaining minstrels.\n\n               After suffering from disease and despair in the forest of Caledon.\"\n\nThe place of the \"apple tree\" was Tal Ard--Talla of to-day; and\nsomewhere between Drummelzier and Talla, Merlin and St. Kentigern\nforegathered for a time. High up on the mighty shoulder of broad law,\ntoo, there is a spring that gushes out from the hillside clear and cool,\nthat may be the fountain--_fons in summo vertice montis_--beside which\nGeoffrey of Monmouth in 1150 tells that Merlin was wont to rest. And the\n\"fair sportive maid\"--that is Nimiane, Tennyson's \"Vivien.\" A Romance\nof the fifteenth century tells how \"Thei sojourned together longe time,\ntill it fell on a day that thei went thourgh the foreste hande in hande\ndevysing and disportynge, and this was in the foreste of Brochelonde,\nand fonde a bussh that was feire and high of white hawthorne, full of\nfloures, and ther thei sat in the shadowe; and Merlin leide hys heed in\nthe damesels lappe, and she began to taste softly till he fill on slepe;\nand when she felt that he was on slepe she aroos softly, and made a\ncerne (circle) with hys wymple all aboute the bussh and all aboute\nMerlin, and began hir enchantementes soche as Merlin hadde hir taught,\nand made the cerne ix tymes, and ix tymes her enchantementes; and after\nthat she wente and satte down by hym and leide hys heed {353}in hir\nlappe, and hilde hym ther till he dide awake; and then he looked aboute\nhym, and hym semed he was in the feirest tour of the worlde, and the\nmost stronge, and fonde hym leide in the feirest place that ever he\nlay beforn.... Ne never after com Merlin out of that fortresse that she\nhadde hym in sette; but she wente in and oute whan she wolde.\" Not far\nfrom the churchyard of Drummelzier to this day they point out the grave\nwhere Merlin lies beneath a thorn tree. And to everyone is known Thomas\nthe Rhymer's prediction:\n\n               \"When Tweed and Powsayl meet at Merlin's grave\n\n               Scotland and England shall one monarch have,\"\n\nand how the prophecy was fulfilled that same day on which James of\nScotland was crowned King of England. For Tweed then so overflowed its\nbanks that burn and river joined beside the spot where Merlin lies,\nwhich, as Dr. Pennecuick says, \"was never before observed to fall out,\nnor since that time.\"\n\nOver against Drummelzier, Biggar Water falls into Tweed, and a curious\ncircumstance about this stream is this, that \"on the occasion of a large\nflood... the Clyde actually pours a portion of its water mto one of the\ntributaries of Tweed.\" The whole volume of Clyde at Biggar, says Sir\nArchibald Geikie, could without any difficulty be made to flow into\nTweed by way of the Biggar Water. The latter at one point is separated\nfrom Clyde by but one and a half miles of almost level ground.\n\nAll this region of Biggar Water is rich in remains of old towers and\ncamps; but of the most important, that of Boghall Castle at Biggai,\nseat of the great Fleming family, Lords Fleming in 1460, there is now\npractically nothing left standing; the customary fate, the fate that so\nlong dogged most Scottish historical buildings overtook in about\nsixty or seventy years ago. It was a place of strength in 1650, when\nCromwell's men held it; a sketch done in 1779 by John Clerk of Eldin,\nshows that it was then entire, or almost entire, and it stood, a fine\nruin, as lately as 1831, when Sir Walter and Lockhart were at Biggar.\n{354}With what devilish energy since then must the wreckers have\nlaboured to destroy! Of Biggar Moss, Blind Harry tells the wondrous tale\nof how Wallace, with a diminutive Scottish force, smote here in 1279\na large English army led by Edward I; eleven thousand Englishmen were\nslain, says the veracious poet. And if corroboration of Blind Harry be\nneeded, why is there not standing here, as witness to this very day,\nthe Cadger's Brig, over which, as local tradition vouches, Wallace,\ndisguised as a hawker, crossed on his way to spy out the weak points in\nEdward's camp! As with most Border places, there is no lack of interest\nabout Biggar, but considerations of space forbid any attempt to treat of\nits history. Yet it must not be omitted that here was born a man greatly\nloved in Scotland, Dr. John Brown, best known to the outside world,\nperhaps, as the author of \"Rab and his Friends.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV BROUGHTON, TWEEDSMUIR, TALLA, GAMESHOPE, TWEED'S WELL\n\n|Returning{355} to the neighbourhood of Tweed, on the bank of a\nlittle burn tributary to Biggar Water stands the village of Broughton,\nreminiscent of Mr. \"Evidence\" Murray, the Prince's Secretary, who saved\nhis own life after the '45 by turning King's Evidence. Broughton House,\nhis old home, was burned to the ground about 1775, (a couple of years\nprior to Murray's death on the Continent,) and the estate was afterwards\nsold to the famous Lord Braxfield, the original of Stevenson's \"Weir of\nHermiston.\" Higher up Tweed, on the farther bank, is Stanhope, in the\neighteenth century the property of Murray of Broughton's nephew, Sir\nDavid Murray, who lost his all in the '45; and not many miles farther\nup the river is Polmood, where the dishonoured uncle lay hid, and\nwas taken, in June 1746, losing thereafter more than the life he\nsaved--honour and the respect of his fellow men. \"Neither lip of me nor\nof mine comes after Mr. Murray of Broughton's!\" cried Sir Walter Scott's\nfather as he threw out of window the cup from which the apostate had but\nthen drunk tea. And:--\"Do you know this witness?\" was asked of Sir John\nDouglas of Kelhead, a prisoner after the '45, before the Privy Council\nat St. James's, when Murray was giving evidence. \"Not I,\" said\nDouglas, \"I once knew a person who bore the designation of Murray of\nBroughton,--but that was a gentleman and a man of honour, and one that\ncould hold up his head!\" {356}Of old, Polmood--the name, I believe,\nmeans the \"wolf's burn,\" or stream--was a hunting seat of Scottish\nkings; In times more modern it was chiefly remarkable for an\ninterminable law plea which dragged its weary length along for forty\nyears and more, probably in the end with ruin to both parties to the\nsuit. Before coming to Polmood, however, we pass Mossfennan, sung of in\ntwo ballads, one of the seventeenth century, the other (of which but a\nfragment remains) of much more ancient date. On the roadside a\nlittle further up is a sign-post that points dejectedly towards a\ndilapidated-looking tree which stands solitary on the haugh below. Here,\nsays the legend on the post, was the site of Linkumdoddie, whereof Burns\nwrote a song. But to find any point of interest in the scene, or in the\nidentity of Linkumdoddie or of the lady celebrated, t requires, I think,\nthat the gazer should be possessed of a most perfervid admiration of the\npoet.\n\nAnd now we begin to open up the wilder part of Tweed's valley, where not\nso many years ago you might go a long way, and for miles see no human\nbeing but a passing shepherd. It is different now, in these days when\nmotor-cars, leaving behind them a trail of dust as ugly as the smudge\nof a steamer's smoke low down on the horizon, rush along what used to\nbe the finest of old grass-grown coach-roads, smooth as a billiard-table\nand free from any loose metal--swept bare now to the very roots of the\nstones by the constant air-suction of passing cars. But even now, in\nthe winter-time, when the rush of the tourist troubles no more, if one\ntrusts oneself in these wilds, there is a reward to be gleaned in the\nfresh, inexpressibly _clean_ air, and in the sense of absolute freedom\nthat one gains. You have-left civilisation and its cares behind; here is\npeace. And in the great hills lying there so solemn and still, black as\nblackest ink where the heather stands out against the wintry grey sky,\nor deep-slashed on their sides with heavy drifts of snow from the latest\nstorm, there is rest to the wearied soul and the tired {357}mind. And if\nthe day be windless, what sweeter sound can anywhere be heard than the\ntinkling melody of innumerable burns blending with the deeper note of\nTweed? Nowhere in the world, as it seems to me, is there any scene where\nNature lays on man a hand so gentle as here in Tweedsmuir. It is all\none, the season; no matter if the air is still, or the west wind bellows\ndown the valley, life is better worth living for the being here. And\nthe glory of it, when snow lies deep over the wide expanse, and the sun\nshines frostily, and Tweed, black by contrast with the stainless snow,\ngoes roaring his hoarse song seaward!\n\nAll burns up this part of the valley used to teem with nice, fat, lusty\nyellow trout--Stanhope Burn, Polmood, Hearthstane, Talla and Gameshope,\nMenzion, Fruid, Kingledores (with its memories of St. Cuthbert), and the\nrest. Doubtless the trout are there still, but most of the burns are now\nin the hands of shooting tenants, and the fishing, probably, is not open\nto all as of old. Talla and Gameshope (of which more anon) are now the\nproperty of the Edinburgh Water Trust Commissioners, and a permit from\nthem is necessary if one would fish in these two streams or in Talla\nReservoir.\n\nBefore reaching Talla, almost equidistant between the Polmood and\nHearthstane burns, but on the opposite side of Tweed, we come to what\nused to be the cheery, clean little Crook Inn, standing in its clump of\ntrees. But its history of two hundred years and more as an inn is ended;\nmodern legislation has seen to that. And there is now on this highroad\nbetween Peebles and Moffat--a distance of something like thirty\nmiles--not a single house where man and beast may find accommodation and\nreasonable refreshment. It is not the so-called \"idle rich\" who are thus\nhandicapped; fifteen or sixteen miles are of small account to the man\nwho owns a motor-car. It is they who cannot afford the luxury of a car,\nbut who yet desire to be alone here with nature, or to fish in Tweed and\nin such burns as may yet be fished, it is they who find themselves thus\nleft out in the cold. *\n\n     * Since this was written, the Crook has reopened its doors\n     as an inn. But they are not any longer content with the\n     homely word \"inn\"; the place asserts itself now in large\n     letters as the Crook \"Hotel.\"\n\nOf old, when the mail-coaches running between Dumfries and Edinburgh\ncame jingling cheerily along this smooth Tweed-side road, it was at the\nCrook Inn that they changed horses. But I doubt it was not then a spot\nso inviting as it certainly became in the 'seventies of last century.\nSir Thomas Dick Lauder speaks of it as it was in 1807 as \"one of the\ncoldest-looking, cheerless places of reception for travellers that we\nhad ever chanced to behold.... It stood isolated and staring in the\nmidst of the great glen of the Tweed, closed in by high green sloping\nhills on all sides.... No one could look at it without thinking of\nwinter, snow-storms, and associations filled with pity for those whose\nhard fate it might be to be storm-stayed there.\" But Sir Thomas Dick\nLauder's visit in 1807 was paid in the month of November, when snow\nhung heavy in the air, threatening the traveller with wearisome and\nindefinite delay. And the hind wheels of his chaise collapsed like the\nwalls of Jericho as the postillion, having changed horses here, started\nwith too sudden a dash from the door of the inn; and Sir Thomas was\nbumped most grievously along the road for some hundreds of yards ere\nthe post-boy (who perhaps had made use at the Crook of some far-seeing\ndevice to keep out the cold) discovered that anything was amiss. Not\nunnaturally the nerves of the occupants of the chaise were a trifle\nrallied; no doubt the place then looked less cheerful than it might\notherwise have appeared. Forty years later, he writes that it had,\n\"comparatively speaking, an inviting air of comfort about it.... The\nroad, as you go along, now wears altogether an inhabited look, and\nlittle portions of plantations here and there give an air of shelter and\ncivilisation to it.\" It was a cheerless place enough, no doubt, in the\nCovenanting {359}days of the seventeenth century, when the dour hill-men\nwere flying from Claverhouse's dragoons, lurking in the black, oozing\n\"peat-hags,\" hiding by the foaming burns, sheltering on the wild moors,\namongst the heather and the wet moss. It was the landlady of this same\nCrook Inn who found for one fugitive a novel hiding hole; she built him\nsafely into her stack of peats. There has been many a less comfortable\nand less secure hitting place than that; and where could one drier be\nfound?\n\nIt was at the Crook that William Black makes his travellers in the\n\"Strange Adventures of a Phaeton\" spend a night, and the fare to which\nin the evening he sets his party down was certainly of the frugalest.\nBut when this present writer knew the inn in the 'seventies, it was\nfar from being only on \"whisky and ham and eggs\" that he was obliged to\nsubsist. It was then an ideal angler's haunt; and no more gentle lullaby\ncan be imagined than the low murmur of Tweed, and the quiet _hus-s-s sh_\nof many waters breathing down the valley on the still night air.\n\nA mile or more beyond the Crook, there is the Bield, also once an\ninn \"From Berwick to the Bield,\" is the Tweedside equivalent of the\nScriptural \"From Dan even to Beer-sheba.\" It was here at the Bield\nthat the Covenanters thought once to trap Claverhouse; but that \"proud\nAssyrian\" rode not easily into snares. On the hill above is the site of\nOliver Castle, home of the Fraser family, once so powerful in this part\nof the Border--the site, I think, but nothing more.\n\nAnd now, to reach that part of Tweedsmuir which more than any other\ncasts over one a spell, it is necessary to branch off here to the left\nand follow the road shown in Mr. Thomson's charming sketch. Straight\nahead of you, as you stand by the little Tweedsmuir post-office, you\nlook up the beautiful valley of the Talla, where the steep hills lie at\nfirst open and green and smiling on either hand, but gradually changing\ntheir character, close in, gloomy and scarred, and {360}frowning, as the\ndistant Talla Linn is neared.\n\n[Illustration: 0380]\n\nBut before you leave the little hamlet of Tweedsmuir--it can scarcely\nbe called a village--by the old single-arched bridge that is thrown\nhere across Tweed, where he roars and chafes among his rocks {361}ere\nplunging down into the deep, black pool below, you will see on your left\na spire peering out over the tree-tops.\n\n[Illustration: 0381]\n\nThat is the church of Tweedsmuir, on its strange, tumulus-like mound by\nthe river's brink. And here you will find:n the green grass, under the\nclustering trees, the graves of some who fell for \"The Covenant,\" one\nheadstone, at least, relettered by \"Old {362}Mortality\" himself. This\nis the grave of one John Hunter; but doubless there are others, less\nnoticeable, who rest with him in this quiet spot, far from the world's\nclash and turmoil, where no sound harsher than the Sabbath bell that\ncalls to prayer or the sighing of the wind in the trees, can ever break\nthe silence. Here is Hunter's epitaph:\n\n[Illustration: 0382]\n\n\n\n               \"When Zion's King was Robbed\n\n                        of his right\n\n               His witnesses in Scotland put to\n\n                        flight\n\n               When popish prelats and Indul-\n\n                        gancie\n\n               Combin'd 'gainst Christ to Ruine\n\n                        Presbytrie\n\n               All who would not unto their\n\n                        idols bow\n\n               They socht them out and whom\n\n                        they found they slew\n\n               For owning of Christ's cause I\n\n                        then did die\n\n               My blood for vengeance on his\n\n                        en'mies did cry.\"\n\nAnd on a stone in another part of the churchyard--perhaps the grave of a\ngrandfather and grandchild--are the quaint words:\n\n               \"Death pities not the aged head,\n\n                        Nor manhood fresh and green,\n\n               But blends the locks of eighty-five\n\n                        With ringlets of sixteen.\"\n\nThe old Session Records of this church are full of references to the\ntrembled times of the Covenant. Here are one or two entries, which I\nquote from the Rev. W. S. Crockett's \"Scott Country.\"' Mr. Crockett is\nMinister of the Parish.--\"No session kept by reason of the elders being\nall at conventicles.\"\n\n\"No public sermon, soldiers being sent to apprehend the minister, but\nhe, receiving notification of their design, went away and retired.\"\n\n\"No meeting this day for fear of the{363} enemy.\"\n\nHERE LYES JOHN HUNTER MARTYR WHO WAS CRUELY MURDERED AT COREHEAD BY COL.\nJAMES DOUGLAS AND HIS PARTY FOR HIS ADHERANCE TO THE WORD OF GOD AND\nSCOTLAND'S COVENANTED WORK OF REFORMATION 1688 Erected in the year 1726.\n\n\"The collection this day to be given to a man for acting as watch during\nthe time of sermon.\" And so on.--\n\n[Illustration: 0383]\n\nSometimes it strikes one as strange, that passion for listening to\na sermon which is inherent in one's countrymen. It is but a sombre\npleasure, as a rule.\n\nTalla, up to a recent period, flowed through a deep valley, whose bottom\nfor some distance was of a treacherous and swampy nature; its trout,\ntherefore, (in marked contrast to those of the tributary Gameshope,)\nwere dark-coloured and \"ill-faured.\" I do not know that they are\nanything else now, but there is not much of Talla left. A mile above the\nchurch you come to a great barrier thrown across the valley, and beyond\nthat for three miles stretches a Reservoir which supplies distant\nEdinburgh with water. Picturesque enough in its way is this Reservoir,\nespecially when all trace of man and his work is left behind, and\nnothing meets the eye but the brown, foam-flecked water, and the hills\nplunging headlong deep into its bosom. Even more picturesque is the\nscene when storms gather on the far heights, and come raging down the\nwild glen of Gameshope, swathing in mist and scourging rain-squall the\n{364}deep-scarred brows of those eerie hills by Talla Linn-foot. What a\nspot it must be on a wild December day, when blind ing snow drives down\nthe gullies before the icy blast!\n\nThis Reservoir has been stocked with Loch Leven trout. But the fishing\nis not, and never will be, good. There is insufficient food; the water\nis too deep, and except at the extreme head of the loch there are no\nshallows where insect life might hatch out. The trout are long and lank,\nand seldom fight well. Nor are they even very eager to rise to the\nfly. Yet, it is true, some large fish have been taken. But they have a\nsuspiciously cannibal look, and I think an insurance company would\nbe apt to charge a very high premium on the chances of long life of\ntroutlings now put in.\n\nI do not know where Young Hay of Talla lived. If his peel tower was\nhere, no doubt the site is now sixty or seventy feet under water, but\nI cannot remember any traces of a building, or site of a building, in\npre-Reservoir days. Men born and brought up lang syne on the gloomy\nslopes of Talla, might well be such as he, fierce and cruel, ready for\ntreason and murder, or any crime of violence.\n\n                   \"Wild your cradle glen,\n\n                        Young Hay of Talla,\n\n                   Stern the wind's wild roar\n\n                   Round the old peel tower,\n\n                        Young Hay of Talla.\n\n                   \"Winter night raving,\n\n                        Young Hay of Talla,\n\n                   Snowy drift smooring,\n\n                   Loud the Linn roaring,\n\n                        Young Hay of Talla.\n\n                   \"Winterhope's wild hags,\n\n                        Young Hay of Talla,\n\n                   Gameshope dark foaming,\n\n                   There ever roaming,\n\n                        Young Hay of Talla.\n\n                   Night round Kirk o' Field,\n\n                        Young Hay of Talla,\n\n                   Light faint in the room,\n\n                   Darnley sleeps in gloom,\n\n                        Young Hay of Talla.\n\n                   \"Shadow by bedside,\n\n                        Young Hay of Talla,\n\n                   Noise in the dull dark,\n\n                   Does sleeper now hark,\n\n                        Young Hay of Talla?\n\n                   \"Ah! the young form moves,\n\n                        Young Hay of Talla,\n\n                   Hold him grim,--hold grim,\n\n                   Till quivers not a limb,\n\n                        Young I lay of Talla.\n\n                   \"Now the dread deed's done,\n\n                        Young Hay of Talla,\n\n                   Throw the corpse o'er the wall,\n\n                   Give it dead dog's fall,\n\n                        Young Hay of Talla.\"\n\nHay was one of two executed on 3rd January 1568 for the murder of\nDarnley.\n\nIf you would gain a good idea of this part of Tweedsmuir, climb by the\nsteep, crumbling sheep-path that scales the Linn-side, till you reach\nthe spot where Mr. Thomson has made his sketch of the Reservoir. There,\nlying on the heather by the sounding waters, or beneath the rowan trees\nwhere blaeberries cluster thick among the rocks, you may picture to\nyourself a meeting that took place by this very spot two hundred and\nthirty-one years ago. On commanding heights, solitary men keeping\njealous watch lest Claver'se's hated dragoons should have smelled out\nthe place of meeting; below, where the Linn's roar muffles the volume\nof other sounds, a company of blue-bonneted, stern-faced men, singing\nwith intense fervour some militant old Scottish Psalm, followed by long\nand earnest {366}extempore prayer, and renewed Psalms; and presently\nthen falling into dispute as vehement as before had been their prayer\nand praise.\n\n[Illustration: 0386]\n\nThis was that celebrated meeting of Covenanters in 1682, of which Sir\nWalter Scott, writing in {367}\"The Heart of Midlothian,\" says: \"Here [at\nTalla] the leaders among the scattered adherents, to the Covenant, men\nwho, in their banishment from human society, and in the recollection of\nthe severities to which they had been exposed, had become at once sullen\nin their tempers, and fantastic in their religious opinions, met with\narms in their hands, and by the side of the torrent discussed, with\na turbulence which the noise of the stream could not drown, points of\ncontroversy as empty and unsubstantial as its foam.\" Dour men they were,\nand intolerant, our old Covenanting forebears, ready at any moment to\n\n                   \"prove their doctrine orthodox\n\n                   By apostolic blows and knocks.\"\n\nYet who can withhold from them his respect, or, in many points, deny\nthem his admiration?\n\nIf, as Sydney Smith has said, \"it is good for any man to be alone with\nnature and himself\"; if \"it is well to be in places where man is little\nand God is great\"; then assuredly it is well to be alone, or with a\nfriend \"who knows when silence is more sociable than talk,\" up in the\ngreat solitude by Gameshope Burn. Nowhere in Scotland can one find a\nglen wilder or more impressive, nowhere chance on a scene which more\nreadily helps the harassed mind to slip from under the burden of worldly\ncares. For half a mile or more from its mouth hut a commonplace, open,\nboulder-strewn mountain burn, above that point the broken, craggy hills\nfall swiftly to the lip of a brawling torrent, which drops foaming by\nlinn after linn deep into the seething black cauldrons below, lingers\nthere a minute, then hurries swiftly onward by cliff and fern-clad mossy\nbank. Above each pool cling rowan trees, rock rooted, a blaze of scarlet\nand orange if the month be September, but beautiful always at whatever\nseason you may visit them. Everywhere the air is filled with the deep\nmurmur and crash of falling waters; yet, clamber to that lonely old\ntrack which leads to the solitary cottage of a shepherd, and around you\nis a silence {368}almost oppressive, emphasised rather than broken by\nthe ill-omened croak of a raven, or by the thin anxious bleat of a ewe\ncalling to its lamb from far up the mountain side.\n\n[Illustration: 0388]\n\nA mile past the shepherd's substantially built little house--it had need\nbe strong of frame to stand intact up here against the winter storms--on\nyour left is Donald's Cleuch, reminiscent of the Reverend Donald\nCargill, a hero of the Covenant, Minister of the Barony Church in\nGlasgow in 1655, who was {369}afterwards deprived of his benefice for\ndenouncing the Restoration. The legend is, I presume, that Cargill hid\nsomewhere in the wild moorland hereabout, up the Donald's Cleuch burn\nperhaps, or a long mile further on, by Gameshope Loch. A man might have\nlain long, in the summer time, amongst these rugged hills, safe hidden\nfrom any number of prying dragoons; but Heaven help him if he lay out\nthere in the winter season. All is wild, broken country, peat-hags,\nmosses, and deep cleuchs, over which one goes best a-foot--and, of\nnecessity, best with youth on one's side if the journey be of any great\nlength.\n\nFrom the height at the head of Donald's Cleuch burn, one looks down on\nthat gloomy tarn, Loch Skene, lying but a few short miles on the Yarrow\nside of the watershed. Mr. Skene of Rubislaw tells--it is in Lockhart's\nlife--how when Sir Walter Scott and he visited this loch, a thick fog\ncame down over the hills, completely bewildering them, and \"as we were\ngroping through the maze of bogs, the ground gave way, and down went\nhorse and horsemen pell-mell into a slough of peaty mud and black water,\nout of which, entangled as we were with our plaids and floundering\nnags, it was no easy matter to get extricated.\" Savage and desolate are\nperhaps the words that best describe Loch Skene; yet, in fine summer\nweather, how beautiful it may be! How beautiful, indeed, all this wild\nwaste of hills where those dour old Covenanters were wont to lurk, never\nquite free from dread of the dragoons quartered but a few miles away\nover the hills at Moffat. Tales of the Covenanting times, such, for\ninstance, as \"The Brownie of Bodesbeck,\" used to possess an intense\nfascination for Scottish boys; every Covenanter was then an immaculate\nhero, and, I suppose, few boys took any but the worst view of\nClaverhouse, or refused credence to any of the countless legends of him.\nand of his diabolical black charger, of which we firmly believed the\nstory that it could course a hare along the side of a precipice. A point\nin some of those tales that used to interest and puzzle at {370}least\none boy, was the mysterious fashion in which a fugitive would at\ntimes disappear from ken when hard pressed on the open moor, and when\napparently cut off from all chance of escape. A possible explanation\npresented itself to me one day, a summer or two back, when making my way\nacross the bleak upland that lies between Gameshope Loch and Gameshope\nBurn. As I walked over the broken peaty surface of the plateau, but not\nyet arrived where the land begins to drop abruptly into the Gameshope\nGlen, a covey of grouse got up almost at my feet. The day was windless\nand very still, and as I stood watching the flight of the birds, the\nfaint melodious tinkle of underground water somewhere very near to me\nfell on my ear. Glancing around, I saw on the flat ground in front of\nme within a yard of my feet, what appeared to be a hole, almost entirely\nconcealed by heather. It was from this direction that the sound of the\ndrip, drip of falling water seemed to come. Kneeling down, I pulled\nthe heather aside, and found a hole two or three feet in diameter, and\nbeneath it a roomy kind of chamber hollowed out of the peaty soil. It\nwas a place perhaps five feet deep, big enough at a pinch to conceal\nhalf a dozen men; a place from which--unless there was a way out from\nbelow--a man might never find exit, if inadvertently he fell in and in\nhis fall chanced to break a limb. In that wild region the prospect of\nhis ever being discovered by searchers would be very small. Unseen of\nman, he might lie in that peaty grave till his bones bleached, rest in\nthat lonely spot till the last dread trump called him forth to judgment.\n\nThe day after I had chanced on this strange cavern, I returned with a\nfriend to whom I wanted to show it, and though we knew that we must be\noften within a few yards of the spot, search as we might we never again\nfound that hole. Was it in some _cache_ such as this--perhaps in this\nvery spot--that Covenanters sometimes lay hid? Here two or three might\nhave lain for days or weeks at a time, sheltered from wind or rain and\nsecure from hostile eyes; it would be warm enough, {371}and the drip of\nwater into it is so slight as to be hardly worth naming. Doubtless\nif one took careful landmarks it would be easy to find again, once\nknowledge of its whereabouts was gained. And so the lurking Covenanters\nwould have had small difficulty; but without such landmarks, to find it\nexcept by chance seems hopeless. None of the shepherds knew of the hole,\nsave one old man who said he had heard there was some such place. But\none might go a hundred times across that moor, passing close to the\nhidden mouth, and unless the faint tinkle of water betrayed it, or\nby remote chance one blundered in, its existence would never even be\nsuspected. It is a place worthy to be the abode of the Brown Man of the\nMuirs; and the district is wild and lonesome enough to breed the most\neerie of superstitions.\n\nHarking back now to the Tweed,--a little way above the bridge at\nTweedsmuir on the right bank there is a huge standing stone, called the\nGiant's Stone, of which various legends are told. Two other stones lie\nclose at hand, but these appear to be mere ordinary boulders. According\nto the Statistical Account of the Parish of 1833, this Giant's Stone is\nthe sole survivor of a Druidical Circle; all its fellows were broken up\nfor various purposes, and carted away; and we may be sure it was from no\nfeeling of compunction that even the one was spared. Residents tell us\nthat it was from behind this stone that a wily little archer in days of\nold sent an arrow into the heart of a giant on the far side of Tweed.\nThe range is considerable; it must have been a glorious fluke. But I\nrather think the place that is credited with this event, and with the\nveritable grave of the slain giant, is higher up Tweed, opposite the\nHawkshaw burn. Somewhere up this burn stood Hawkshaw Castle or Tower,\nhome of that Porteous who gained unenviable notoriety for his feat of\ncapturing at I alia Moss, with the aid of some of the moss-trooping\nfraternity, one of Cromwell's outposts, sixteen horse in all, and in\ncold blood afterwards executing the unfortunate troopers. A contemporary\n{372}historian relates that: \"The greatest releiff at this tyme was by\nsome gentillmen callit moss-trouperis, quha, haiffing quyetlie convenit\nin threttis and fourties, did cut off numberis of the Englishes, and\nseased on thair pockettis and horssis.\" The \"pockettis and horssis\" were\nall in the ordinary way of business; it is another affair when it comes\nto cutting the throats of defenceless captives.\n\nA few miles further on, the road we follow passes Badlieu, a place famed\nas the home, away back in the eleventh century, of Bonnie Bertha, who\ncaptured the roving heart of one of our early Scottish Kings as he\nhunted here one day in the forest. Unhappily for Bertha, there was\nalready a Scottish Queen, and when news of the King's infatuation came\nto that lady's ears, she--queens have been known to entertain such\nprejudices--disapproved so strongly of the new _menage_, that one\nafternoon when the king (who had been absent on some warlike expedition)\narrived at Bertha's bower, he found the nest harried, and Bertha and her\nmonth-old babe lying dead. And ever after, they say, to the end the King\ncared no more to hunt, nor took pride in war, but wandered disconsolate,\nmourning for this Scottish Fair Rosamond. But how the rightful Queen\nfared thereafter, tradition does not say.\n\nAnd now we come to Tweed Shaws, and Tweed's Well, the latter by popular\nrepute held to be the source of Tweed. But there is a tributary burn\nwhich runs a longer course than this, rising in the hills much nearer to\nthe head-waters of Annan. As is well known,\n\n                   \"Annan, Tweed, and Clyde\n\n                   Rise a' cot o' au hill-side,\"\n\na statement which is sufficiently near the truth to pass muster. Near\nTweed's Well of old stood Tweed's Cross, \"so called,\" says Pennecuick,\n\"from a cross which stood, and was erected there in time of Popery, as\nwas ordinary in all the eminent places of public roads in the kingdom\nbefore our Reformation.\" It is needless to say that no trace of any\ncross now remains. {373}Up here, on this lofty, shelterless plateau, we\nfind one of the few spots now left in Scotland where the old snow-posts\nstill stand by the wayside, mute guides to the traveller when snow lies\ndeep and the road is blotted from existence as effectually as is the\ntrack of a ship when she has passed across the ocean. Heaven's pity on\nthose whom duty or necessity took across that wild moorland during a\nheavy snow storm in the old coaching days! Many a man perished up here,\nwandered from the track, bewildered; stopped to rest and to take\nhis bearings, then slid gently into a sleep from which there was no\nwakening. In 1831, the mail-coach from Dumfries to Edinburgh left Moffat\nlate one winter's afternoon. Snow was falling as for years it had not\nbeen known to fall, and as the day passed the drifts grew deeper and\never more deep. But the guard, MacGeorge, an old soldier, a man of few\nwords, could not be induced to listen to those who spoke of danger\nand counselled caution. He had been \"quarrelled\" once before for being\nbehind rime with the mail, said he; so long as he had power to go\nforward, never should \"they\" have occasion to quarrel him again. A\nmatter of three or four miles up that heart-breaking, endless hill out\nof Moffat the coach toiled slowly, many times stopping to breathe the\nhorses; and then it stuck fast. They took the horses out, loaded\nthem with the mails, and guard and driver in company with a solitary\npassenger started again for Tweedshaws, leading the tired animals. Then\nthe horses stuck, unable to face the deep drifts and the blinding storm.\n\nMacGeorge announced his intention of carrying the mailbags; they _must_\nbe got through. The driver remonstrated. \"Better gang back to Moffat,\"\nhe said. \"Gang ye, or bide ye, _I gang on!_\" cried MacGeorge. So the\nhorses were turned loose to shift for themselves, and the two men\nstarted on their hopeless undertaking, the passenger, on their advice,\nturning to make his way back to Moffat. That was the last ever seen\nalive of the two who went forward. Next {374}day, the mail-bags were\nfound beyond the summit of the hill,--the most shelterless spot of the\nentire road,--hanging to a snow-post, fastened there by numbed hands\nthat too apparently had been bleeding. But of guard and coachman\nno trace till three days later, when searchers found them, dead, on\nMac-George's face \"a kind o' a pleasure,\" said the man who discovered\nthe body in the deep snow. Some such fate as that ever trod here on\nthe heels of foot passengers who wandered from the track during a\nsnow-storm.\n\nIn his \"Strange Adventures of a Ph\u00e6ton,\" William Black writes of these\nhills as \"a wilderness of heather and wet moss,\" even in the summer\ntime; and he speaks of the \"utter loneliness,\" the \"profound and\nmelancholy stillness.\" There is no denying that it is lonely, and often\nprofoundly still. And no doubt to many there is monotony in the low,\nrolling, treeless, benty hills that here are the chief feature in the\nscenery. But I do not think it is melancholy. The sense of absolute\nfreedom and of boundless space is too great to admit of melancholy\ncreeping in. The feeling, to me at least, is more akin to that one\nexperiences when standing on the deck of a full-rigged ship running down\nher Easting in \"the Roaring Forties,\" with the wind drumming hard out of\nthe Sou'West. From the haze, angry grey seas come raging on the weather\nquarter, snarling as they curl over and leap to fling themselves aboard,\nthen, baffled, spew up in seething turmoil from beneath the racing keel,\nand hurry off to leeward. There you have a plethora of monotony; each\nhurrying sea is exactly the mate of his fellow that went before him,\ntwin of that which follows after. Day succeeds day without other variety\nthan what may come from the carrying of less or more sail; hour after\nhour, day after day, the same gigantic albatrosses, with far-stretched\nmotionless wings soar and wheel leisurely over and around the ship,\nnever hasting, never stopping,--unhasting and relentless as Death\nhimself. Monotony absolute and supreme, but a sense of freedom and of\nboundless space, and no touch of {375}melancholy. So it is here\namong these rolling hills where the infant Tweed is born. There is\nno melancholy in the situation, or at worst it can be but of brief\nduration. Who could feel melancholy when, at last on the extreme summit\nand beginning the long descent towards Moffat, he sees spread out on\neither hand that glorious crescent of hills, rich in the purple bloom\nof heather; Annan deep beneath his feet wandering far through her quiet\nvalley, and dim in the distance, the English hills asleep in the golden\nhaze of afternoon. For my part, I would fain linger, perched up here,\nlate into the summer gloaming, watching the panorama change with the\nchanging light when the sun has long set and the glow is dying m the\nwest;\n\n               \"For here the peace of heaven hath fallen, and here\n\n               The earth and sky are mute in sympathy.\"\n\nAnd this ground is classic ground. It was at Errickstane, not far below,\nwhere, more than six hundred years ago, the young Sir James Douglas\nfound Bruce riding on his way to Scone, to be crowned King of Scotland.\n\nAnd to the left of the road shortly after leaving its highest point on\nthe hill, there yawns that tremendous hollow, the Devil's Beef Tub, or,\nas it is sometimes called, the Marquis of Annandale's Beef Stand. It\nwas here in the '45 that a Highland prisoner, suddenly wrapping himself\ntight in his plaid, threw himself over the edge ana rolled like a\nhedgehog to the bottom, escaping, sore bruised indeed, but untouched\nby the bullets that were sent thudding and whining after him by the\noutwitted prisoners' guard. He is a desperate man who would attempt a\nlike feat, even minus the chance of a bullet. It is a wild place and\na terrible. The reason of its being called the Marquis's Beef Stand is\ngiven by Summertrees in \"Redgauntlet.\" It was, said he, \"because\nthe Annandale loons used to put their stolen cattle in there.\" And\nSummer-tree's description of it is so truthful and vivid that it\nbehoves one to quote it in full: \"It looks as if four hills were laying\n{376}their heads together to shut out daylight from the dark hollow\nspace between them.\n\n[Illustration: 0396]\n\nA d----d deep, black, blackguard-looking abyss of a hole it is, and goes\nstraight down from the road-side, as perpendicular as it can do, to be\na heathery brae. At the bottom there is a small bit of a brook, that you\nwould think {377}could hardly find its way out from the hills that are\nso closely jammed round it.\"\n\nAnd so, finally, having overshot the limits of Tweed and her\ntributaries, we cast back to the hills on the immediate border-line of\nthe two kingdoms, and pass into the country of Dandie Dinmont.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI LIDDESDALE, HERMITAGE, CASTLETON\n\n|Coming{378} into Liddesdale by the route followed by Prince Charlie,\nover the hills by Note o' the Gate, one finds, a few miles past that\ncuriously-named spot and no great distance from the road, the scene of\na momentous battle of ancient times. It is claimed that it was here\non Dawstane Rig the mighty struggle took place in the year 603 between\nEdelfrid, King of the Northumbrians, and Aidan, King of the Scots, the\nresult of which, says Bede, writing a century and a quarter later, was\nthat \"from that time no king of the Scots durst come into Britain to\nmake war on the Angles to this day.\" As written by Bede, the name of the\nplace where the battle was fought is Uaegsastan,--a \"famous place,\" he\ncalls it. Dalston, near Carlisle, also claims the honour of being the\ntrue site of this great defeat of the Scots; But Dawstane Rig seems\nthe more probable spot, for, judging from the number of camps in the\nimmediate vicinity, it must assuredly in old days have answered the\ndescription of a \"famous place.\" There are numerous signs, also, that\na great fight did at some remote period take place here; traces\nof escarpments are numerous on the hill side, arrowheads and other\nsuggestive implements have frequently been picked up, and over all the\nhill are low cairns or mounds of stones, probably burial places of the\nslain. So far as I am aware, no excavations have ever been made\nhere, the dead--{379}if these stones do indeed cover the dead--sleep\nundisturbed where they fell. But if the work were judiciously done, it\nwould be interesting and instructive to make a systematic search over\nthe reputed battle ground.\n\nNot far distant from this ancient field of battle, but a little closer\nto the base of Peel Fell, runs a Roman road, the old Wheel Causeway,\nand into, or almost into, this road comes the Catrail, here finally\ndisappearing. I have never heard any suggestion made of a reason why\nthis Picts' Work Dyke should stop abruptly in, or at least on the very\nverge of, a Roman high-way. It is difficult to accept the theory that\nthe Catrail was a road, because, in places where it crosses streams, no\nattempt is made to diverge towards a ford, or even to an easy\nentrance to the river bed; it plunges in where the bank is often most\ninconveniently precipitous, and emerges again where it is equally steep.\nYet if it was not a road, why should it run into and end in a recognised\nroad that must have been in existence when the Catrail was formed?\n\nUp the Wheel Causeway, a little distance beyond the spot where the\nCatrail disappears, and between the Wormscleuch and Peel burns, there\nstood at one time an ancient ecclesiastical building, the Wheel Chapel,\nof whose walls faint traces still remain. It was in this building that\nEdward I of England passed the night of 24th May 1296, during his Bolder\nProgress; in the record of his expedition the chapel is spoken of as\nthe \"Wyel.\" When the Statistical Account of 1798 was written, probably a\nconsiderable part of the ruin yet stood, for the writer of that account\nspeaks of it as being of \"excellent workmanship,\" and \"pretty large.\"\nAnd he remarks on the great number of grave-stones in the churchyard,\nfrom which he con eludes that the surrounding population must at one\nrime have been very considerable. Over all this district, indeed, that\nseems to have been the case. Chapels were numerous among these hills;\nin this part of Liddesdale there were no fewer than five, and the Wheel\nChapel itself is not more than six miles or {380}so, as the crow flies,\nfrom Southdean, where it is certain that about the date of the battle of\nOtterburne the population was much more dense than it is at the present\nday.\n\nWhat changes little more than one hundred years have wrought in this\ncountryside. Six years before the Statistical Account of 1798 was\npenned, there were neither roads nor bridges in Liddesdale; \"through\nthese deep and broken bogs and mosses we must _crawl_, to the great\nfatigue of ourselves but the much greater injury of our horses,\"\npathetically says the reverend writer of the account. Every article of\nmerchandise had to be carried on horseback. Sir Walter Scott himself--in\nAugust 1800--was the first who ever drove a wheeled vehicle among the\nLiddesdale hills, and we know from \"Guy Mannering,\" and from Lockhart's\n\"Life,\" pretty well what a wild country it then was. There was not\nan inn or a public house in the whole valley, says Lockhart; \"the\ntravellers passed from the shepherd's hut to the minister's manse, and\nagain from the cheerful hospitality of the manse to the rough and jolly\nwelcome of the homestead.\" Inns, to be sure, even now are not to be\nfound, and are not needed, by every roadside, but at least there are\nexcellent main roads down both Liddel and Hermitage, and a main line\nof railway runs through the valley; the moors are well drained, and the\nnecessity no longer exists to \"crawl\" through broken bogs and mosses.\nYet still the hills in appearance are as they were in Scott's day, still\nthey retain features which render them distinct from any other of the\nBorder hills; they are \"greener and more abrupt.... sinking their sides\nat once upon the river.\"\n\n\"They had no pretensions to magnificence of height, or to romantic\nshapes, nor did their smooth swelling slopes exhibit either rocks\nor woods. Yet the view was wild, solitary, and pleasingly rural. No\nenclosures, no roads, almost no tillage,--it seemed a land which a\npatriarch would have chosen to feed his flocks and herds. The remains\nof here and there a dismantled and ruined tower showed that it had once\nharboured beings of a very different description {381}from its present\ninhabitants,--those freebooters, namely, to whose exploits the wars\nbetween England and Scotland bear witness.\" The description might almost\nhave been written today. The wild, hard riding, hard living freebooter\nof Johnie Armstrong's day is gone, leaving but a name and a tradition,\nor at most the mouldering walls of some old peel tower. But Dandie\nDinmont himself, I think may still be found here in the flesh, as true\na friend, as generous, as brave and steadfast as ever was his\nprototype,--but no longer as hard drinking. The days of \"run\" brandy\nfrom the Solway Firth are over, and the scene mentioned by Lockhart is\nnow impossible, where Scott's host, a Liddesdale farmer, on a slight\nnoise being heard outside, the evening of the traveller's arrival,\n_banged_ up from his knees during family prayers, shouting \"By----,\nhere's the keg at last!\"\n\nOn hearing the previous day of Scott's proposed visit, he had sent off\ntwo men to some smuggler's haunt to obtain a supply of liquor, that his\nreputation for hospitality might not be shamed. And here it was, to the\ngreat prejudice of that evening's family worship! I do not suppose that\nthe present day \"Dandie\" leisters fish any longer,--though one would not\ntake on oneself rashly to swear that such a thing is even now entirely\nimpossible, but certainly within recent years fox hunts have taken\nplace amongst these hills much after the fashion described in \"Guy\nMannering.\" In such a country, indeed, what other means can there he of\ndealing with the hill foxes?\n\nThere is another road into Liddesdale from the north, that which comes\nfrom Hawick up the Slitrig, past Stohs camp, then through the gap in\nthe hills by Shankend and over the watershed by Limekilnedge, where\nWhitterhope Burn--tributary of Hermitage Water--takes its rise. As you\ndrop down to heights less elevated, you pass on your left the Nine Stane\nRig, a Druidical Circle, but locally more famed as the spot where the\ncruel and detestable Sorcerer, Lord Soulis, came to his grisly end.\n\"Oh, _BOIL_ him, if you like, but let me be plagued no more,\"\ncried (according to tradition) a Scottish {382}Monarch, wearied by\nthe importunities of those who endlessly brought before him their\ngrievances against the wicked lord. So--as Leyden wrote--\n\n               \"On a circle of stones they placed the pot,\n\n                   On a circle of stones but barely nine;\n\n               They heated it red and fiery hot,\n\n                   Till the burnished brass did glimmer and shine.\n\n               \"They rolled him up in a sheet of lead--\n\n                   A sheet of lead for a funeral pall;\n\n               They plunged him in the cauldron red,\n\n                   And melted him, lead, and bones, and all.\n\n               \"At the Skelf-hill, the cauldron still\n\n                   The men of Liddesdale can show; .\n\n               And on the spot, where they boiled the pot,\n\n                   The spreat and the deer-hair ne'er shall grow.\"\n\n(\"Spreat\" is a species of rush, and \"deer-hair\" a coarse kind of grass.)\nNot the least painful part of the operation one would think must\nhave been the getting so large a body into so small a cauldron. Some\nnecromancy stronger than his own must have been employed to get him into\na pot of the dimensions of that long preserved at Skelf-hill and shown\nto the curious as the identical cauldron. Of the stones that still\nremain of the original nine, two used to be pointed out as those between\nwhich the muckle pot was suspended on an iron bar, gipsy-kettle\nfashion. In reality, I believe this last of the de Soulis family died in\nDumbarton Castle, a prisoner accused of conspiracy and treason.\n\nA little way up Hermitage Water from the junction of Whitterhope\nBurn, stands the massive and most striking ruin of Hermitage Castle.\nExternally, the walls of this formidable stronghold are said to be\nmostly of the fifteenth century, but in part, of course, the building\nis very much older. The first castle built here is said to have been\nerected by Nicholas de Soulis in the beginning of the thirteenth\ncentury, and on a map of about the year 1300 Hermitage is shown as one\nof the {383}great frontier fortresses. There were, however, earlier\nproprietors of these lands than the de Soulis's, who may, presumably,\nhave lived here in some stronghold of their own, to which their\nsuccessors may have added. About the year 1180, Walter de Bolbeck\ngranted \"to God and Saint Mary and Brother William of Mercheley\" the\nhermitage in his \"waste\" called Mercheley, beside Hermitage Water--then\ncalled the Merching burn. But from a much earlier date than this,\npossibly as early as the sixth century, the place had been famed as\nthe retreat of a succession of holy men, and probably something in the\nnature of a chapel existed even then. The chapel whose remains still\nstand, close by the bank of the tumbling stream, a few hundred yards\nhigher up than the castle, is, I understand, of thirteenth century\norigin. It measures a little over fifty-one feet in length and\ntwenty-four in width, and the ruins are of much interest, if it were\nonly for the thought of those who in their day must have heard mass\nwithin its walls, and perhaps there confessed their sins.\n\nAnd surely, if sinners ever required absolution, some of those who must\nhave knelt here had need to ask it. On the shoulders of de Soulis and\nBoth well alone--among those who from time to lime held the castle of\nHermitage perhaps the chief of sinners,--there rested a load of iniquity\ntoo heavy to be borne by ordinary mortal; and of the others, some\nperhaps did not lag far behind in cruelty and wickedness. If the tale\nbe all true regarding the last days of Sir Alexander Ramsay in 1342, the\nKnight of Liddesdale had a good deal to answer for during his tenancy\nof the castle. The interior of the building is in so much more ruinous\na state than the outside, that it is not possible to follow with any\ndegree of accuracy incidents that took place within its walls. It is\nsaid that before death ended his pangs, Sir Alexander Ramsay eked out a\nmiserable existence for seventeen days on grains of corn that dribbled\ndown from a granary overhead into the dungeon where he lay. But the\nsmall dungeon where he is {384}said to have been confined has a vaulted\nroof, and the room above was manifestly a guard room; so that--unless\nthere was some other dungeon--probably this story too, so far at\nleast as the grains of corn are concerned, must go the way of other\npicturesque old tales.\n\n[Illustration: 0404]\n\nSome interesting relics were found among the rubbish on the floor when\nthe dungeon was opened early in the nineteenth century, but I do not\nknow that there was anything that could in any way be connected with Sir\nAlexander's fate. Many an unhappy wretch no doubt had occupied the place\nsince his day. But what there was I believe was given to Sir Walter\nScott, who also, as readers may see in Lockhart's \"Life,\" got from Dr.\nElliot of Cleuchhead \"the large old Border war horn, which ye may\nstill see hanging in the armoury at Abbotsford.... One of the doctor's\nservants had used it many a day as a grease-horn for his scythe,\n{385}before they discovered its history. When cleaned out, it was never\na hair the worse--the original chain, hoop, and mouthpiece of steel,\nwere all entire, just as you now see them. Sir Walter carried it home\nall the way from Liddesdale to Jedburgh, slung about his neck like\nJohnny Gilpin's bottle, while I [Shortreed] was intrusted with an\nancient bridle-bit which we had likewise picked up.\" The horn I think\nhad been found in a marshy bit of land near the castle.\n\nSince about 1594, Hermitage has been the property of the Scotts of\nBuccleuch, into whose hands it came through their connection with\nFrancis Stewart, Earl of Bothwell. A sketch done in 1810 shows that\nat that date one wall of the castle was rent from top to bottom by an\nenormous fissure, seemingly almost beyond redemption. But about 1821,\ncareful repairs were undertaken by order of the then Duke of Buccleuch,\nand, externally, the building now seems to be in excellent condition.\n\nMany a warrior, no doubt, lies buried in the graveyard of Hermitage\nchapel, but I do not think any tombstones of very-great age have ever\nbeen found. Outside, however, between the wall of the burial ground\nand the river, there is an interest ing mound, the reputed grave of\nthe famous Cout o' Keilder. Keilder is a district of Northumberland\nadjoining Peel Fell, and in the day of the wizard Soulis, that\niniquitous lord's most noted adversary was the chief of Keilder, locally\ncalled, from his great size and strength and activity, \"the Cout.\" In\nhis last desperate fight with Soulis and his followers on the banks of\nHermitage Water, the Cout was hewing a bloody path through the press of\nmen, towards his chief enemy, when weight of numbers forced him, like a\nwounded stag, to take to the water. Here, at bay in the rushing stream,\nguarding himself from the foes who swarmed on either bank, the Cout\nstumbled and fell, and, hampered by his armour, he could not regain\nhis feet; for each time that the drowning man got his head above water,\nSoulis and his band thrust him back with their long spears. Finally, as\nhe became more exhausted, they held him down. And so the Cout perished.\nHere on the grassy bank, hard by what is still called \"The Cout o'\nKeilder's pool,\" is his grave.\n\n[Illustration: 0406]\n\nBut one is disappointed to learn that when an examination of it was made\nsome years ago, no gigantic bones were unearthed, nor indeed any bones\nat all.\n\nThere is in some of the hills near Hermitage a peculiarity which cannot\nfail to strike observers; and that is, the deep gashes--you cannot call\nthem glens--that have been cut here and there by the small burns. Scored\nwide and deep into the smooth sides of the hills, they are yet not so\nwide as to force themselves on the eye. It would be possible to drive\ninto them, and there effectually to conceal for a time, large mobs of\ncattle, and I do not doubt that in old days these fissures were often so\nused when a hostile English force was moving up the valley.\n\nAs one goes down Hermitage Water towards its junction with the Liddel,\nthe country, one finds, is plentifully sprinkled {387}with the ruins of\npeel towers,--abandoned rookeries of the Elliot clan, I suppose, for the\nArmstrong holdings were a little lower down. But in old days, when the\nde Soulis's held all Liddesdale, there were other strong castles besides\nHermitage. Near Dinlabyre there stood the castle of Clintwood, and not\nfar from the meeting of the two streams, on the high bank of Liddel,\nstood one of their strongholds--Liddel Castle. It was from this castle\nthat the old village of Castleton look its name: the village was at\nfirst merely a settlement of de Soulis's followers.\n\nThe old Statistical Account of the Parish gives an extract from the\nSession Records of Castleton church which is of interest. It is as\nfollows: \"17 January 1649. The English army commanded by Colonels Bright\nand Pride, and under the conduct of General Cromwell, on their return to\nEngland, did lie at the Kirk of Castleton several nights, in which time\nthey brak down and burnt the Communion table and the seats of the Kirk;\nand at their removing carried away the minister's books, to the value of\none thousand merks and above, and also the books of Session, with which\nthey lighted their tobacco pipes, the baptism, marriage, and examination\nrolls from October 1612 to September 1648, all which were lost and\ndestroyed.\"\n\nCastleton as a village does not now exist, and the old church has\ndisappeared, though the churchyard is still used. The other village, the\npresent Newcastleton, is of course entirely a township of yesterday---to\nbe precise, it dates only from 1793. But it is interesting from the fact\nthat the present railway station occupies the site where once stood the\ntower of Park, the peel of that \"Little Jock Elliot\" who so nearly put\nan end to the life of Bothwell. What a difference it might have made if\nhe had but stabbed in a more vital spot, or a little deeper.\n\nNot far from Castleton was the home of the notorious Willie of\nWestburnflat, last of the old reivers, and--it almost goes {388}without\nsaying--an Armstrong; the last of those of whom it was written:\n\n                   \"Of Liddisdail the common thiefis,\n\n                   Sa peartlie stellis now and reifis,\n\n                   That nane may keip\n\n                   Horse, nolt, nor scheip,\n\n                   Nor yett dar sleip\n\n                   For their mischeifis.\"\n\nBut Willie lived in degenerate days; the times were out of joint, and\nreiving as a profession had gone out of fashion. People now resented\nhaving their eye \"lifted,\" and meanly invoked the new-fangled aid of the\nLaw in redressing such grievances. Nevertheless, Willie did his best\nto maintain old customs, and consequently he was feared and hated far\nbeyond the bounds of Liddesdale.\n\nModern prejudice however at length became too strong for him. It so fell\nout that a dozen or so of cows, raided one night from Teviotdale, were\ntraced to Westburnflat. In the dead of night, when Willie was peacefully\nasleep, tired perhaps, and soothed by the consciousness of a deed well\ndone, the men of Teviotdale arrived, and, bursting in, before Willie\ncould gather his scattered wits or realise what was happening he was\noverpowered by numbers, and they had bound him fast, hand and foot.\nHis trial, along with that of nine friends and neighbours, was held\nat Selkirk, and though the lost cattle had not been found in his\npossession, and the evidence of this particular theft was in no way\nconclusive, on the question of general character alone the jury thought\nit safer to find all the prisoners guilty. Sentence of death was\npronounced. Thereupon Willie arose in wrath, seized the heavy oak chair\non which he had been seated, broke it in pieces by main strength, kept\na strong leg for himself, and passing the remainder to his condemned\ncomrades, called to them to stand by him and they would fight their way\nout of Selkirk. There is little doubt, too, that he would have\nsucceeded had he been properly backed up. But his friends--{389}poor\n\"fushiunless,\" spiritless creatures, degenerate Armstrongs surely, if\nthey were Armstrongs--seized his hands and cried to him to \"_let them\ndie like Christians_.\"\n\n[Illustration: 0409]\n\nPerhaps it was a kind of equivalent to turning King's Evidence; they may\nhave hoped to curry favour and to be treated leniently because of their\nservices in helping to secure the chief villain. But they might better\nhave died fighting; pusillanimity availed them nothing. They were all\nduly hanged.\n\nA few miles down the Liddel from Westburnfiat is the site {390}of\nMangerton Castle, home of the chief of the Armstrong clan, Johnie of\nGilnockie's brother.\n\n[Illustration: 0410]\n\nNothing now is left of the building, but Sir Walter mentions that an old\ncarved stone from its walls is built into a neighbouring mill. Near to\nMangerton, in a field between Newcastleton and Ettletown Churchyard,\nis the interesting Milnholm Cross, said to have been erected somewhere\nabout six hundred years ago to mark the spot where a dead chief of the\nArmstrongs lay, prior to being buried at Ettletown. The tradition as\ngiven in the Statistical Account of 1798, is as follows: \"One of\nthe governors of Hermitage Castle, some say Lord Soulis, others Lord\nDouglas, having entertained a passion for a young woman in the lower\npart of the parish, went to her house, and was met by her father, who,\nwishing to conceal his daughter, was instantly killed by the Governor.\nHe was soon pursued by the people, and, in extreme danger, took refuge\nwith Armstrong of Mangerton, who had influence enough to prevail on\nthe {391}people to desist from the pursuit, and by this means saved\nhis life. Seemingly with a view to make a return for this favour, but\nsecretly jealous of the power and influence of Armstrong, he invited him\nto Hermitage, where he was basely murdered. He himself, in his turn, was\nkilled by Jock of the Side, of famous memory, and brother to Armstrong.\nThe cross was erected in memory of the transaction.\" Here, too, I fear\ntradition is untrustworthy. Jock of the Syde--\"a greater thief did never\nride\"--lived long after the day of the de Soulis's or of Douglas; he\nwas, indeed, contemporary with the equally notorious \"Johne of the\nParke,\"--Little Jock Elliot. This Milnholm Cross is a little over eight\nfeet in height. The carving is worn, and not very distinct, but on a\nshield there is the heraldic device of the Armstrongs, a bent arm; some\nlettering, i.h.s.; below, the initials m.a., and what appears to be\na.a.; and on the shaft is cut a two-handed sword, about four feet in\nlength. In his \"History of Liddesdale,\" (1883). Bruce Armstrong says the\nshield was added \"recently.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII KERSHOPEFOOT, CARLISLE CASTLE, SOLWAY MOSS\n\n|A little{392} further down the river we come to the Kershope Burn, here\nthe boundary between Scotland and England. It was here, at \"the Dayholme\nof Kershoup\"--which I take to be the flat land on the Scottish side of\nLiddel, opposite to the mouth of the burn--that the Wardens' Meeting\nwas held in 1596, which became afterwards so famous owing to the illegal\ncapture by the English of Kinmont Willie. All the world knows the tale,\nand all the world knows how gallantly Buccleuch rescued the prisoner\nfrom Carlisle Castle. But until one goes to Carlisle, and takes note for\noneself of the difficulties with which Buccleuch had to contend, and\nthe apparently hopeless nature of his undertaking, it is not possible\nto appreciate the full measure of the rescuer's gallantry. Kinmont, I\nsuppose, on the day of his capture was riding quietly homeward down the\nScottish side of the river, suspecting no evil, for the day was a day\nof truce. \"Upon paine of death, presentlie to be executed, all persones\nwhatsoever that come to these meitings sould be saife fra any proceiding\nor present occasioun, from the tyme of Meiting of the Wardens, or their\nDeputies, till the next Day at the sun rysing.\" The English did not play\nthe game; from their own side of Liddel they had probably kept Kinmont\nin sight, meaning to seize him if opportunity offered. And they made the\nopportunity. For the most part, the banks of {393}Liddel here are steep\nand broken, and the river is devoid of any ford; but a mile or two down\nfrom Kershopefoot the land on the Scottish side slopes gently from the\nwater, and it is easily fordable.\n\n[Illustration: 0413]\n\nHere probably began the chase which ended in Willie's capture. A very\nfine sword was found near this.\n\nThe night of Kinmont's release, the 13th of April, 1596, was very dark,\nwith rain falling, and a slight mist rising over the river flats at\nCarlisle. And the Eden was swollen. It is not possible to form any very\ndefinite idea of the initial difficulty Buccleuch must have met with at\nthis point, because the bed of the river is now entirely different from\nwhat it was then. In former days, I believe, a long, low island lay in\nmid-stream, the water flowing swiftly through two channels. Even now\nthere is shallow water part way across, but the stream runs strong and\n{394}it would be ill to ford, especially on a dark night. Buccleuch, I\ntake it, must have swum his horses across the Eden nearly opposite, but\na trifle above, the mouth of the litde river Caldew, the water being at\nthe tyme, through raines that had fallen, weill thick; he comes to the\nSacray, a plaine place under the toune and castell, and halts upon the\nsyde of a little water or burn that they call \"Caday.\"\n\n[Illustration: 0414]\n\nThe \"Sacray\" is of course what now goes by the name of the Sauceries.\n\nBuccleuch's scaling ladders proved too short to enable him to get within\nthe castle walls by their means; but there is a small postern gate in\nthe wall (nearly abreast of the present public Abattoirs), and this\nwas forced, or at least one or two men squeezed in here, possibly\nby removing a stone below the gate, and opened the postern to their\ncomrades. This postern has recently been reopened. After Buccleuch's\nexploit it had been securely built upon both sides, outside and in; and\nlater, {395}a Cook's galley and other domestic offices were erected on\nthe inner side, against the wall, effectually hiding the old gate.\n\n[Illustration: 0415]\n\nThese buildings and the stonework blocking the postern have now been\npulled down, and the identical little oaken gate through which Buccleuch\nand his men entered, once more has seen the light of day, and, I\nunderstand, is now being put in a state of thorough repair.\n\nHaving made his entry, Buccleuch placed one part of his force between\nthe castle and the town, so that he might not be assailed in rear, and,\nleaving a few men to guard the postern and secure their retreat, the\nrest pushed towards Kinmont Willie's place of confinement in the Keep,\nall making as great a noise as possible, \"to terrifie both castell\nand toune by ane imaginatioun of a greater force.\" Hitherto they had\nencountered only the castle sentinels, who were easily scattered and\nbrushed aside; \"the rest that was within doors heiring the noyse of\nthe trumpet within, and that the castell was entered, and the noyse\nof others without, both the Lord {396}Scroope himself and his deputy\nSalkeld being thair with the garrisone and hys awin retinew, did keep\nthamselffis close.\"\n\n[Illustration: 0416]\n\nIt was one thing, however, for the rescuers to have forced their way\ninside the castle walls, but it should have been quite another, to\naccomplish the feat of getting the prisoner out of the dungeon. Through\na female spy they knew in what part of the castle he lay; but his place\nof confinement,--inside the Keep,--was quite a hundred yards from the\npostern gate, and {397}surely a few resolute men might have held so\nstrong a post for a time without much difficulty. Lord Scrope, however,\ndid not emerge from his retreat; and to the others as well, discretion\nseemed the better part of valour.\n\n[Illustration: 0417]\n\nMeantime, Buccleuch's trumpets were blaring out the arrogant old Elliot\nslogan; \"_O wha daur meddle wi' me?_\"; and his men, falling to with\nenergy, forced the gate of the Keep, burst in the massive door of the\nouter dungeon, tore away that of the dark and noisome inner prison, a\nrough, vaulted stone chamber to which no ray of light ever penetrated\neven on the brightest clay, and there they found Kinmont, chained to\nthe wall. No time now to strike off his fetters; they could but free him\nfrom the long iron bar that ran along one side of the wall, and\n\n               \"Then Red Rowan has hente him up,\n\n                   The starkest man in Teviotdale--\n\n               'Abide, abide now, Red Rowan,\n\n                   Till of my Lord Scroope I take farewell.'\n\n               \"'Farewell, farew ell, my gude Lord Scroope!\n\n                   My gude Lord Scroope, farewell!' he cried--\n\n               'I'll pay ye for my lodging maill,\n\n                   When first we meet on the Border side.'\n\n               \"Then shoulder high, with shout and cry,\n\n                   We bore him down the ladder lang;\n\n               At every stride Red Rowan made,\n\n                   I wot the Kinmont's aims played clang!\n\n               \"We scarce had won the Staneshaw-bank,\n\n                   When a' the Carlisle bells were rung,\n\n               And a thousand men on horse and foot,\n\n                   Cam' wi' the keen Lord Scroope along.\"\n\nBut still they held aloof, hesitating to attack the retreating little\nScottish band, and Buccleuch and his men, with Willie in their midst,\nplunged in and safely recrossed the swollen river.\n\n                \"He turned him on the other side,\n\n                   And at Lord Scroope his glove flung he--\n\n               'If ye likena my visit in merry England,\n\n                   In fair Scotland come visit me!'\"\n\nBut Lord Scrope on this night scarcely merited the term, \"keen\"; he went\nno farther towards Scotland than the water's edge.\n\n               \"'He is either himself a devil frae hell,\n\n                   Or else his mother a witch maun be;\n\n               I wadna have ridden that wan water\n\n                   For a' the gowd in Christentie,'\"\n\ncried he, according to the ballad. Was he, one cannot help wondering,\nashamed of the English breach of Border law entailed in the matter\nof Kinmont's capture, and was he in a measure wilfully playing into\nBuccleuch's hands? If that were the case, he took on himself a heavy\nrisk. Elizabeth was not exactly the kind of Sovereign who would be\nlikely to be tender hearted and to make allowances for slackness in such\nan affair, nor one with whom her servants might safely take liberties.\n{399}As safely might the gambolling lamb play pranks with the drowsing\nwolf.\n\n[Illustration: 0419]\n\nNot far from Longtown, at a place called Dick's Tree, on the farther\nside of Esk, there still stands the \"smiddy\" (or smith's shop) where\nKinmont's irons were struck off. In one of Sir Walter Scott's M.S.\nletters of 1826 it is told that: \"Tradition preserves the account of the\nsmith's daughter, then a child, how there was a _sair clatter_ at the\ndoor about daybreak, and loud crying for the smith; but her father not\nbeing on the alert, Buccleueh himself thrust his lance thro' the window,\nwhich effectually bestirred him. On looking out, the woman continued,\nshe saw, in the grey of the morning, more gentlemen than she had ever\nbefore seen in one place, all on horseback, in armour, and dripping\nwet--and that Kinmont Willie, who sat woman fashion behind one of them,\nwas the biggest carle she ever saw--and there was much merriment\nin {400}the company.\" Except for this event, Dick's Tree is quite\nuninteresting, and quite unpicturesque; it is merely a cottage like a\nthousand others to be seen in the Border, possessing no special feature,\nor even any indication of antiquity.\n\n[Illustration: 0420]\n\nAnd no one works the \"smiddy\" now, except at odd times; modern\nrequirements have, I understand, taken the business away to Longtown.\n\nWhat was the end of Kinmont Willie no one knows, but he {401}certainly\nlived to pay, to some small extent, for his \"lodging maill;\" he was\nengaged in a raid on Lord Scrope's tenants in the year 1600, and\ndoubtless he did not forget the debt incurred at Carlisle. Later than\nthis I think there is no record of him, but it would not be surprising\nto learn that at the last Lord Scrope was able to give a receipt in\nfull. Many an Armstrong in old days danced at the end of a rope at\n\"Hairribie.\" Not improbably, Kinmont was one of them. There is a grave\nin an old churchyard not far from the Tower of Sark, which is pointed\nout as his. But the date on the tombstone makes it impossible that\nthe veritable Willie of Kinmont lies underneath. The name of \"William\nArmstrong called Kynmount\" is in Lord Maxwell's Muster Roll of 1585,\ntogether with those of his seven sons. Willie, therefore--if at that\ndate he had seven sons fit to fight--could have been no youth. Now the\nWilliam Armstrong to whose memory the Sark tombstone is erected died in\n1658, which, if he had been the famous Kinmont, would give him an age of\nconsiderably over a hundred years. But in any case, it is an interesting\nold stone. Many years ago steps were taken to preserve it from further\ndecay, and the lettering and other points were retouched. Round the\nedges of the stone is cut:\n\n\"_HEIR LYES. ANE. WORTHIE. PERSON. CALLIT. WILLIAM. ARMSTRONG. OF. SARK.\nWHO. DIED. TE IO. DAY. OF. JUNE. 16. 58. AETATIS. SVAE. 56_.\"\n\nOn the body of the stone:\n\n                   \"Man as grass to grave he flies.\n\n                   Grass decays and man he dies.\n\n                   Grass revives and man doth rise.\n\n                   Yet few they be who get the prise.\"\n\nBelow are the Armstrong bent arm holding a sword, a skull and crossed\nbones, an hour glass and other emblems, and below all, \"memento mora.\"\nThis William Armstrong, therefore, who died in 1658, aged 56, was not\nborn when Kinmont Willie was rescued by Buccleuch from Carlisle Castle.\n\nHere, on the lower part of Sark, we are in a country world {402}famed\nfor its old fashioned run-away marriages, more famed even than was\nColdstream.\n\n[Illustration: 0422]\n\nDown the river is Sark Bridge, with its toll-bar, and adjacent to it,\nGretna Green. At the tollhouse alone in the early part of last century,\nwithin six years thirteen hundred couples were married--a profitable\nbusiness for the \"priest,\" (usually the village blacksmith,) for his\nfee ranged from half a guinea to a hundred pounds, according to the\ncircumstances of each fond couple. But what was charged in a case such\nas that of Lord Erskine, Lord High Chancellor of England, who, when he\nwas nearly seventy years of age, eloped with a blushing spinster and was\nmarried at Gretna--in the Inn, I think--history does not tell. There is\na something, part comic, part pathetic, in the thought of the tired\nold gentle{403}man gallantly propping himself in a corner of his post\nchaise, flying through the darkness of night on Love's wings, a fond\nbride by his side.\n\n[Illustration: 0423]\n\nAnd when grey dawn at length stole through the breath-dimmed glass of\nthe closed windows, revealing the \"elderly morning dew\" on his withered\ncheeks and stubbly chin, with callous disregard emphasizing the\nwrinkles, the bags below the puffy eyes--bloodshot from want of\nsleep--and the wig awry, did the young lady begin to repent her bargain,\none may wonder.\n\nStretched between Sark and Longtown is the Debateable Land and Solway\nMoss; the latter \"just a muckle black moss,\" they will tell you here,\nyet surely not without its own beauty under certain combinations of sun\nand cloud. \"Solway Moss\" is a name of evil repute to us of Scotland,\nfor here on 24th {404}November 1542 took place the most miserable of all\nBorder battles--if indeed \"battle\" is a term in any degree applicable to\nthe affair.\n\n[Illustration: 0424]\n\nThe encounter, such as it was, took place not so much in Solway Moss,\nhowever, as over towards Arthuret. The Scots--a strong raiding army,\nbut disorganised, and in a state of incipient mutiny against their\nnewly-appointed leader, Oliver Sinclair, (Ridpath says: \"a general\nmurmur and breach of all order immediately ensued\" when his appointment\nwas made known,)--at dawn of the 24th were already burning northward\nthrough the Debateable Land. Wharton with his compact little English\nforce watched them from Arthuret Howes and skilfully drew them into a\nhopeless trap between the Esk and an impassable swamp, where there\nwas no room to deploy. Here the English--at most not a sixth part so\nnumerous as the Scots--charging down on the Scottish right flank\nthrew them into hopeless confusion, and from that minute all was over.\n{405}Panic seized the Scots: men cast aside whatever might hamper their\nflight, and, plunging into the water, scrambled for what safety\nthey might find among the Grahams and the English borderers of\nLiddesdale--which, as it turned out, meant little better than scrambling\nfrom the frying pan into the fire.\n\n[Illustration: 0425]\n\nMany were driven into the swamp and perished there miserably, many\nwere drowned in the river, and twelve hundred men--including a large\npercentage of nobles--were captured. Out of a force variously estimated\nat from two to three thousand strong--Sir William Musgrave, who was with\nthe cavalry, puts it at the higher figure--the English lost but seven\nmen killed. It was a {406}sorry business, a dreadful day for Scotland;\nand it ended the life of James V as effectually as if he had been slain\non the field of battle.\n\n[Illustration: 0426]\n\nI do not know if Arthuret church was injured on this occasion; it is\nrecorded in 1597 that it had then been ruinous for about sixty years.\nPerhaps the Armstrongs may have been responsible; they made a big raid\nhereaway in 1528. The present building dates, I believe, from 1609.\n\nThere was another calamity connected with Solway Moss, later than the\nbattle and local in effect, yet sufficiently terrible to cast over\nthe district a black shadow of tragedy, the memory of which time has\nlightened but even yet has not entirely wiped out. November 1771 was a\nmonth of evil note for its storms and ceaseless wet. Day followed day\nsodden with driving rain, and the country lay smothered under a ragged\ngrey blanket of mist. Firm ground became a quagmire that quaked under\nfoot, pools widened into lakes, and the rivers {407}rose in dreadful\nspate that yet failed to carry off the superfluous water.\n\n[Illustration: 0427]\n\nLiddel roared through the rocky gorge of Fenton Linn with a fury such as\nhad never been known; Esk left her bed and wandered at will. Many people\nliving in the low lying flats surrounding the Moss, alarmed for the\nsafety of their cattle, were abroad in the dark of the morning of 16th\nNovember, intent on getting the beasts to higher ground, {408}when a\nlong-drawn muffled rumble, as of distant thunder, startled them.\n\n[Illustration: 0428]\n\nThe Moss had burst, spewing out from its maw a putrid mass that spread\nrelentlessly, engulfing house after house, in many cases catching the\ninhabitants in their beds. For weeks the horrible eruption spread, and\nere its advance was stayed thirty families were homeless, their houses,\nfurniture, and live-stock buried twenty feet deep under a black slime\nthat stank like the pit of Tophet.\n\nHarking back to Carlisle, (which we left in company of Kinmont Willie,)\none would fain linger in that pleasant town, to dream awhile over its\nalluring past. But Carlisle is a subject too big to introduce at the\nclose of a volume; there is a more than sufficient material in the story\nof the castle (with its wealth of warlike and other memories), and of\nthe Cathedral, alone to make a fair-sized book. There is too much to\ntell; for, besides the story of the captivity here of Queen Mary of\n{409}Scotland, and that of the capture of Carlisle by Prince Charlie,\nthere are a hundred and one other things, if once a beginning were made\nand space to tell them were available. (What used to be called Queen\nMary's Tower, to save cost of repairs was pulled down by Government\nbetween 1824 and 1835, together with the Hall in which Edward I held\nParliaments, and much else of surpassing interest. Vandalism in those\ndays was a vice which affected not alone the private individual.)\nMoreover, there would be the question of where to stop, for if the\nhistory of Carlisle be touched upon, at once we are mixed up with that\nof half a score of places in the immediate neighbourhood, all of which\nare full of profoundest interest. There would be, for example, Naworth,\nnot far from the quaint little town of Brampton, Naworth with its\nmassive walls, and memories of the Dacres, and of Belted Will Howard--a\nname better known to Border fame, at least to the Borderer of to day,\nthan even that of his predecessors. Then there would necessarily be\nthe fascinating subject of the Roman wall, of Bird-Oswald camp, of\nLanercost, and of Gilsland, with its memories of Sir Walter. One\nmust needs make an end somewhere, and it is hopeless to treat of\nsuch subjects in small space. But Bewcastle, perhaps, because of its\nconnection with a subject mentioned earlier in this volume, must not be\nomitted.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII BEWCASTLE, LIDDEL MOAT, NETHERBY, KIRK ANDREWS, GILNOCKIE,\nLANGHOLM\n\n|A pilgrimage{410} to Bewcastle cannot be recommended to persons\nanimated by curiosity alone; or even by a passion for the beauties of\nnature.\n\n[Illustration: 0430]\n\nFrom childhood the writer had a desire to behold Bewcastle, because it\nwas the Captain of Bewcastle who, in the ballad of _Jamie Telfer_, in\n_The Border Minstrelsy_, made such an unlucky raid on the cows of\na farmer in Ettrickdale. The very word Bewcastle seemed to re-echo\n{411}the trumpets of the Wardens' Raids and the battles long ago.\n\n[Illustration: 0431]\n\nBut when you actually find yourself, after a long walk or drive up a\nsuccession of long green ascents, in the broad bleak cup of the hills;\nwhen you see the grassy heights, with traces of ancient earthworks that\nsurround the blind grey oblong of the ruined castle; the little old\nchurch, all modern within, and the {412}tiny hamlet that nestles by\nthe shrunken and prosaic burn; then, unless you be an antiquary and a\nhistorian, you feel as if you had come very far to see very little.\n\n[Illustration: 0432]\n\nBut if a secular antiquary and a ballad lover, you fill the landscape\nwith galloping reivers, you restore the royal flag of England to the\ntower, and your mind is full of the rough riding life of Mus-graves and\nGrahams, Scotts, Elliots and Armstrongs. If, on the other hand, your\ntastes are ecclesiastical, and you are an amateur of Runic writing, you\ncan pass hours with the tall headless Runic cross beside the church, a\nwork of art dating from the middle of the seventh century of our era,\naccording to the prevalent opinion.\n\nBewcastle is at least ten miles from the nearest railway at Penton;\ntwelve from Brampton; not easily approached by a fell path from\nGilsland; and is most easily if least romantically reached by motor\ncar from Carlisle, a drive of nearly twenty {413}miles. The Elliots\nand Scotts of the reiving days, got at Bewcastle by riding down Liddel\nwater, crossing it at the Kershope burn ford, and then robbing all and\nsundry through some four miles. The castle they could not take in a\ncasual expedition.\n\nThe oldest monument in the place, except the earthworks said to be\nRoman, is the Cross, which much resembles the more famous Cross of\nRuthwell, near Dumfries, with the runes from the Song of the Rood. More\nfortunate than the Ruthwell relic of early Anglican Christianity, that\nof Bewcastle was never broken up by the bigots of the Covenant as \"a\nmonument of idolatry.\" The head, however, was removed by Belted Will of\nNaworth, and sent to Camden the historian, in the reign of James VI\nand I. The west face is the most interesting. The top panel contains a\nfigure of St. John the Baptist; our Lord is represented in the central\npanel, inscribed in runes, _Gessus Kristins_. The figure is noble\nand broad in treatment; done in the latest gloaming of classical art.\nBeneath is seated a layman, in garb of peace, with his falcon. The runic\ninscription on the central panel is black, painted black, it seems, by\na recent rector, the Rev. Mr. Maughan, who laboured long at deciphering\nthe characters. Professor Stephens read them:\n\n                   This victory-column\n\n                   Thin set up\n\n                   Hwaetred Woth\n\n                   gar Olfwolthu\n\n                   after Alcfrith\n\n                   Once King\n\n                   and son of Oswi\n\n                   Pray for the high\n\n                   sin of his soul.\n\nRunes are difficult. Mr. Stephens once read a Greek epitaph in elegiac\nverse, for a Syrian boy, at Brough, as a Runic lament, in old English,\nfor a martyred Christian lady. I have little confidence in Hwaetred,\nOlfwolthu, and Wothgar: who were they; the artists employed in making\nthe Cross? _Eac Oswiung_, \"and son of Oswin,\" \"the king,\" is said to\nbe plain enough, and to indicate Alchfrith, son of Oswin, who after a\nstormy youth accepted, as against the Celtic clerics, the positions of\nSt. Wilfred.\n\n[Illustration: 0434]\n\nThe decorative work, knot work, vine scrolls, birds and little animals\namong the grapes, is of Byzantine and {415}Northern Italian origin: like\nthe decoration of the Ruthwell Cross.\n\nBewcastle must, it seems, have been a more important and populous place\nwhen this monument was erected, than even when the Royal castle was a\ncentre of resistance to the Riddesdale clans in Queen Elizabeth's day.\n\nReturning from Bewcastle by Penton, we strike the Riddel near Penton\nLinn, not distant from the vanished peel of that Judas, Hector Armstrong\nof Harelaw, who betrayed the Earl of Northumberland into the hands of\nthe Regent Murray in 1569. A little way below, near the junction of\nRiddel and Esk, on a commanding height that overhangs railway and river,\nis Riddel Moat. Locally this moat is called \"the Roman Camp,\" but to the\naverage amateur there is certainly nothing Roman about it. No doubt the\nRomans may have had an outpost here; the position is too strong not to\nhave been held by them, especially as they had a station barely a couple\nof miles away, at Netherby. But the prominent remains of fortifications\nnow to be seen here manifestly date from long after Roman days. It is,\nI believe, the site of the earliest Riddel Castle, erected by Ranulph de\nSoulis before either the Riddel Castle at Castleton, or Hermitage,\nwas built. This Riddel Castle was razed to the ground, wiped out of\nexistence, by the Scottish army under David Bruce, which invaded England\nin 1346 and was so totally routed at Neville's Cross a few weeks later.\nOn his march southward, says Redpath, Bruce \"took the fortress of Riddel\nand put the garrison to the sword,... spreading terror and desolation\nall round him in his progress through Cumberland.\" Liddel Moat is well\nworthy of a visit, but it is somewhat out of the beaten track and\ncan only be reached by walking a little distance, preferably from the\nstation at Biddings Junction. The position, defended on the landward\nside by an immensely deep moat, and on the other dropping almost sheer\ninto the river--or rather, now, on to the intervening railway line--is\na magnificent one, and the view obtained from the {416}highest point is\nvery fine,--at one's feet, just beyond the two rivers, \"Cannobie lea\";\n\n          \"There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan,\n\n               Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran,\n\n          There was racing and chasing on Cannobie lea,\n\n               But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.\"\n\nA short way farther down the Esk is Netherby, headquarters of that\nclan whose peel towers once dotted this part of Cumberland and all the\nDebateable Land, and who in the early seventeenth century were so hardly\nused by James VI and I. They were no better, I suppose, than the others\nof that day, but they were no worse, and the story of their banishment\nis not very pleasant reading. Lord Scrope believed that the Grahams\nwere \"privy\" to Buccleuch's rescue of Kinmont Willie, and certainly\nthe Grahams did not love Lord Scrope, who, I suppose, was not likely to\npresent the clan in a very favourable light to Queen Elizabeth. Their\nreputation, in any case, became increasingly black, and James I, when he\ncame to the throne, issued a proclamation against them. In fact, the\ndog was given an exceedingly bad name--not of course wholly without\ncause--and hung; or, rather, many of their houses were harried, their\nwomen and children turned out to fend for themselves in the wet and\ncold, and their men shipped off to banishment in Ireland and in Holland.\nCertainly, in driblets they made their way back to their own country\nagain, after a time--those who survived, that is,--but their nests had\nbeen harried, their broods scattered down the wind, and, as a clan,\ntheir old status was never regained.\n\nAs has already been told, Netherby was the site of a Roman station, and\nit is rich in evidences of the old Legions--coins, altars, and what not.\nThe original peel at Netherby--which still forms part of the present\nmansion--I take to have been such another as the Graham tower of Kirk\nAndrews, its near neighbour, which stands--still inhabited--just across\nthe Esk, perched on a rising ground overhanging the river. {417}From\na sporting point of view at least, the Esk here is a beautiful stream,\nfamous for its salmon, which are plentiful and often of great size.\n\n[Illustration: 0437]\n\nIn his Notes to \"Redgauntlet,\" Sir Walter Scott mentions that \"shortly\nafter the close of the American war, Sir James Graham of Netherby\nconstructed a dam-dike, or cauld, across the Esk, at a place where it\nflowed through his estate, though it has its origin, and the principal\npart of its course, in Scotland. The new barrier at Netherby was\nconsidered as an encroachment calculated to prevent the salmon\nfrom ascending into Scotland; and the right of erecting it being an\ninternational question of law betwixt the sister kingdoms, there was no\ncourt in either competent to its decision. In this dilemma, the Scots\npeople assembled in numbers by signal of rocket-lights, and, rudely\narmed with fowling-pieces, fish spears and such rustic weapons, marched\nto the banks of the river for {418}the purpose of pulling down the\ndam dike objected to. Sir James Graham armed many of his own people to\nprotect his property, and had some military from Carlisle for the same\npurpose. A renewal of the Border wars had nearly taken place in the\neighteenth century, when prudence and moderation on both sides saved\nmuch tumult, and perhaps some bloodshed. The English proprietor\nconsented that a breach should be made in his dam-dike sufficient for\nthe passage of the fish, and thus removed the Scottish grievance. I\nbelieve the river has since that time taken the matter into its own\ndisposal, and entirely swept away the dam-dike in question.\" I do not\nthink there is now any trace of the obstruction which so roused the good\npeople of Langholm and their supporters The question, of course, was not\na new one. As early as the middle of the fifteenth century, Cumberland\nfolks and Scots were at loggerheads over a \"fish-garth\" constructed by\nthe former, which the Scots maintained prevented salmon from ascending\nto the upper waters. The dispute raged for something like a hundred\nyears.\n\nLeaving Kirk Andrews, we get at once onto the old London and Edinburgh\ncoach road close to Scot's Dike, and in the course of two or three\nmiles reach the village of Canonbie, where at a little distance from the\nbridge over Esk stands the comfortable old coaching inn, the Cross Keys,\nnow favoured of anglers. Thence all the way to Langholm the road runs\nby the river-bank through very delightful scenery, said, in old days,\nindeed, to be the most beautiful of all between London and Edinburgh.\nIn the twelfth century a Priory stood at Canonbie, and as late as 1576\nthere was still a resident Prior, but the building itself I think was\nwrecked by the English in 1542, after the battle of Solway Moss. A few\nof its stones are still to the fore, but I fear the ruin was used as a\nquarry during the building of Canonbie Bridge.\n\nThat also is a fate that waited on another famous building not far from\nCanonbie--Gilnockie Castle, the residence of the {419}notorious Johnny\nArmstrong. Hollows Tower, a few hundred yards above the village of\nHollows, is often confounded with Gilnockie, probably for the reason\nthat no stone of the latter has been left standing on another, and that\nHollows Tower is a conspicuous object in the foreground here.\n\n[Illustration: 0439]\n\nPerhaps, too, Sir Walter Scott was partly responsible for the belief\nprevalent in many quarters that the Hollows is Gilnockie. In \"Minstrelsy\nof the Scottish Border,\" he says: \"His [Johny Armstrong's] {420}place\nof residence (now a roofless tower) was at the Hollows, a few miles from\nLangholm, where its rains still serve to adorn a scene which, in natural\nbeauty, has few equals in Scotland.\"\n\n[Illustration: 0440]\n\nI am not certain, but I do not think that Sir Walter ever visited\nGilnockie. If he had done so, it could scarcely have escaped his\nknowledge that another castle once stood less than half a {421}mile from\nHollows Tower, and that towards the end of the eighteenth century the\nstones from that castle were utilised in the building of Gilnockie\nBridge. That they were so used is well authenticated; and I should think\nit is probable that the ruin was found to be a convenient quarry also\nwhen houses in the neighbouring village of Hollows were being built.\n\nHollows lower is a very good example of the old Border Keep, but it\nis small, much too small to have given anything like sufficient\naccommodation for Johny Armstrong's \"tail,\" which must necessarily have\nbeen of considerable strength. The dining hall, for instance, measures\nroughly only a little over twenty-two feet by thirteen, and the total\noutside length of the tower is less than thirty-five feet. I should\nimagine it to be certain that Johny never lived here; indeed. I should\nbe inclined to doubt if this particular Hollows Tower was even built\nduring Johny Armstrong's life-time. Neither is the position a very\nstrong one,--though on that point it is perhaps not easy to judge,\nbecause, in old days no doubt (as in the case of Hermitage Castle,)\nimpassable swamps probably helped to protect it from assault on one or\nmore sides.\n\nThe place where Gilnockie stood is without any doubt a little lower\ndown the Esk than Hollows Tower, at a point where the river makes a\nserpentine bend and contracts into a narrow, rocky gorge, impossible to\nford. Here, at the Carlisle end of Gilnockie Bridge, on the high tongue\nof rocky land that projects into the stream, are faint but unmistakeable\noutlines of a large building, with outworks. The position is\nmagnificent--impregnable, in fact, to any force of olden days unprovided\nwith artillery. On three sides the rocky banks drop nearly sheer to the\nwater, and across the root of the tongue are indications of a\nprotecting fosse. It is impossible to imagine a site more perfect for\na freebooter's stronghold. To have neglected it, in favour of such a\nposition as that occupied by the Hollows Tower, would have been on the\nreiver's part to throw away the most obvious of the gifts of Providence.\n{422}Local tradition has it that Johny had a drawbridge by which, at\nwill, he could cross the river.\n\n[Illustration: 0442]\n\nCertainly there is a projecting nose of rock just at the narrowest part\nof the stream, immediately above the present stone bridge, but one\nwould be inclined to doubt if the engineering skill of Scotland in\nthe {423}sixteenth century was equal to the task of constructing a\nserviceable drawbridge capable of spanning a width so great.\n\nThere, is a curious stone that projects _inwards_ from high up in\nHollows Tower, the original purpose of which forms to the amateur lover\nof ancient buildings a quite insolvable puzzle. The stone measures,\nroughly, from the wall to its tip about three feet in length, and its\ndiameter is perhaps ten or twelve inches. Towards the end farthest from\nthe wall it has a well-marked groove on the upper part and sides, as if\nheavy weights had frequently been suspended from it by ropes or chains.\nIts position is on the light of a narrow door that opens two or three\nfeet above the floor-level of the room into which the stone projects,\nand the stone itself must have been close to the ceiling of the chamber.\nWhat was its use? An intelligent but youthful guide, when the writer\nwas at Hollows, suggested with ghoulish delight that it was \"a\nhangin'-stane.\" But that, surely, would have been wilful waste on the\npart of the Armstrongs, so long as trees were available. Nor is it\nlikely that they got rid of prisoners in this way with a regularity\nsufficient to account for the well worn groove in the stone. It does,\nhowever, recall Sir Thomas Dick Lauder's feelings, when \"at the top of\nthe south-western angle of the Tower [of Neidpath], a large mass of the\nmasonry had fallen, and laid open a chamber roofed with a Gothic arch of\nstone, from the centre of which swung, vibrating with every heavy gust\nof wind, an enormous iron ring. To what strange and wild horrors did\nthis not awaken the fancy?\"\n\nFrom a little beyond Hollows Tower, all the way to Langholm you catch\nthrough the trees glimpses of hurrying, foamfleckcd streams that speak\nmost eloquently of \"sea-trout, rushing at the fly.\" It has never been\nthe writer's fortune to cast a line in this water, but if looks go for\nanything the sport must be excellent.\n\nIt is impossible to imagine scenery more pleasing than the woody banks\nthat overhang the river as Langholm is {424}approached; and the position\nof the town itself, nestling amongst beautiful hills, is singularly\ninviting. Langholm occupies the site of a famous old battle, that of\nArkenholm, where in 1454 the power of the Douglas's was finally broken.\n\n[Illustration: 0444]\n\nIn and about the town there is much to interest those whose tastes lean\ntowards archaeology; the whole countryside, indeed, is sprinkled with\ntowers and the remains of towers. In the burgh itself for example, there\nis what appears to be the remains of an old peel, now forming part of\nthe wing of a hotel; just above the upper bridge are the ruins--the\nsorely battered ruins--of Langholm Castle, once an Armstrong stronghold;\nand most beautifully situated on Wauchope Water, just outside the town,\nis Wauchope Castle, long ago the seat of the Lindsays. Little now\nis left of the building, practically nothing, indeed, but two small\nportions of the outer wall on the rocks {425}immediately overhanging\nthe picturesque water of Wauchope. The position must in the days of its\npride have been immensely strong, and the scene now is very beautiful.\n\nIn close proximity to the castle is an old graveyard, with remains--at\nleast the foundations--of a pre-Reformation church and a few interesting\nold stones, two, at least, apparently very ancient, if one may judge\nfrom the style of sword cut on them. Not far from this are traces of\nthe old Roman Road, and near at hand a stone bridge, also believed to be\nRoman, once crossed the stream. But it is said--with what truth I know\nnot--to have been destroyed long ago by a Minister, whose care of his\nflock was such that, to prevent the lads of Langholm strolling that way\nof an evening, disturbing the peace of mind and pious meditations of his\nfemale domestics, he demolished it.\n\nAs in the case of Selkirk, and of Hawick, the great festival of the year\nat Langholm is on the occasion of the Fair and Common Riding. In the\nProclamation of the Fair, after a statement of the penalties to be\nimposed on disturbers of the festival, the curious words occur: \"They\nshall sit down on their bare knees and pray seven times for the King,\nand thrice for the Muckle Laird o' Ralton.\" The Laird of Ralton was an\nillegitimate son of Charles II, but what he had to do with Eskdale, or\nwhat is the origin of the words, I have been quite unable to learn.\n\nTo go, even superficially, into the history of Langholm and of the\ninteresting and beautiful country surrounding it, would occupy much\nspace, and neither time nor space is available.\n\nHere, amongst the hills and the many waters, we must leave the Border.\nIt is a country whose mountains are seldom grand or awe-inspiring, as\nin some parts of the Scottish Highlands they may be; its streams do not\nflow with the rich majesty of Thames, nor with the mighty volume of Tay;\nand there are, doubtless, rivers possessed of wilder scenery. But to the\ntrue Borderer, however long absent he be, into what part {426}soever of\nthe world he may have been driven by the Fates, there are no hills like\nthe Border hills--they are indeed to him \"the Delectable Mountains\";\nthere are no waters so loved, none that sing to him so sweetly as Tweed\nand all the streams of his own land. \"If I did not see the heather at\nleast once a year, I think I should die,\" said Scott. To a greater or\nless extent it is so with all of us. One of her most loving sons (he\nwho should have guided the course of this volume, and who, had he lived,\nwould have made of it something worthy of the Border), once said, on his\nreturn from a visit to famed Killarney: \"The beauty of the Irish Lakes\nis rather that of the Professional Beauty. When one comes back to the\nBorder, there one finds the same beauty one used to see in the face of\none's mother, or of one's old nurse.\" And: \"I am never so happy as\nwhen I cross the Tweed at Berwick from the South,\" he writes in an\nIntroduction to Mr. Charles Murray's \"Plamewith.\" It was not only his\nown, but, I think, every Borderer's sentiments that he voiced when he\nwrote:\n\n               \"Brief are man's days at best; perchance\n\n                   I waste my own, who have not seen\n\n               The castled palaces of France\n\n                   Shine on the Loire in summer green.\n\n               \"And clear and fleet Eurotas still,\n\n                   You tell me, laves his reedy shore,\n\n               And flows beneath his fabled hill\n\n                   Where Dian drave the chase of yore.\n\n               \"And 'like a horse unbroken' yet\n\n                   The yellow\" stream with rush and foam,\n\n               'Neath tower, and bridge, and parapet,\n\n                   Girdles his ancient mistress, Rome!\n\n               \"I may not see them, but I doubt\n\n                   If seen I'd find them half so fair\n\n               As ripples of the rising trout\n\n                   That feed beneath the elms of Yair.\n\n               \"Unseen, Eurotas, southward steal,\n\n                   Unknown, Alpheus, westward glide,\n\n               You never heard the ringing reel,\n\n                   The music of the water side!\n\n               \"Though Gods have walked your woods among,\n\n                   Though nymphs have fled your banks along;\n\n               You speak not that familiar tongue\n\n                   Tweed murmurs like my cradle song.\n\n               \"My cradle song,--nor other hymn\n\n                   I'd choose, nor gentler requiem dear\n\n               Than Tweed's, that through death's twilight dim,\n\n                   Mourned in the latest Minstrel's ear!\"\n\nHis love of the Border hills, \"the great, round-backed, kindly, solemn\nhills of Tweed, Yarrow, and Ettrick,\" his devotion to the streams beside\nwhose banks the summers of his boyhood were spent, never lessened with\nthe passing years. In prose and in verse continually it broke out.\nTweed's song is the same that she has ever sung; but now--\n\n                   \"He who so loved her lies asleep,\n\n                   He hears no more her melody.\"\n\n\n\n\n\nINDEX\n\n\n     A\n\n     Abbey St. Bathans, 028\n     Abbot of Inchcolm, 093\n     Abbotsford, 178, 227, 230, 245, 261, 384\n     Agricola, 212\n     Aidan, Bishop, 216\n     Ale, 033, 126, 169, 172, 280\n     Alemuir, 176, 286\n     Alexander II., 004, 091, 255\n          III., 004, 091, 255, 337\n     Allanbank,008\n     Allanton, 008\n     Allan Water, 107, 197\n     Allen Water, 235\n     Allevard, 021\n     Altrive, 305\n     Ancrum, 033, 126, 129, 169\n          Moor, 102, 169\n     Anderson, Alexander, 295\n     Angus, Earl of, 102, 169, 229\n     Annan, 375\n     \"Antiquary, The\" 25, 084\n     Argyll, 053\n     Arkenholm, 424\n     Armstrong, Johnny, 197, 418\n     Armstrong of Harelaw, Hector, 413\n     Armstrongs, 144, 197, 388, 401, 406\n     Arran, Earl of, 102, 170\n     Artburet, 351, 404\n     Arthur's Oven, 347\n     Arundel, Earl of, 092\n     Ashiesteel, 237, 322\n     Ashkiik, 174\n     Auld Babby Metlan, 213\n     Auld Maitland, 213\n     Auld Ringan Oliver, 136\n     Auld Wat of Harden, 278\n     Ayala, 052\n\n\n     B\n\n     Badlieu, 371\n     Bairds, 346\n     Baillie, Lady Grisell, 043\n     Bale-fires, 023\n     Ballad of Otterburne, 153\n     Ballantyne, James, 078\n     Balliol, 006\n          Edward, 092\n     Barmoor, 051\n     Barnhill's Bed, 181\n     Barns, 345\n     Battle Stone, 162\n     Bawtie's Grave, 020\n     Beaton, Cardinal, 170, 171\n     Beaut\u00e9, Sieur de la, 020\n     Bedrule, 182\n     Bellenden, 286\n          Felted Will Howard, 409, 413\n     Bemersyde, 209\n     Berwick, 003, 025, 048, 098, 113, 269\n     Berwickshire Naturalists' Club,\n     Bewcastle, 178, 410\n          Cross, 413\n     Bield, The, 359\n     Biggar, 353\n          Moss, 354\n          Water, 353\n     Billie, 013\n     Billy Castle, 017\n     Binram's Corse, 298\n     Bird-Oswald, 409\n     Bishop Flambard, 047\n     Boghall Castle, 353\n     Bogle Burn, 217\n     Bohun, Humphrey de, 004\n     Boldside, 233, 245, 150, 069, 165\n     Bonny Bertha, 371\n     Borland, Rev. Dr., 307\n     Borthwick Water, 190, 280\n          Castle, 106\n     Boston of Ettrick, 287\n     Bothan, 028\n     Bothwell (Hepburn), Earl of, 052, 085, 106, 215\n          (Stewart), Earl of, 135, 385\n     Brig, 137\n     Bowden Moor, 229\n     \"Bowed Davie,\" 343\n     Bowerhope, 298\n     Bowhill, 231, 273, 318\n     Bow mont, 048\n          Valley, 149\n     Box-beds, 303\n     Blackadder, 008, 032, 039\n     Blackcastle Rings, 039\n     Black Dwarf, 343\n     Black Hill of Earlstoun, 144\n     Blackhouse Heights, 346\n          Tower, 297\n     Black Law, 144, 346\n     Black, William, 359, 374\n     Blair, Rev. Thos., 061\n     Blanerne, 013\n     Blind Harry, 354\n     Bloody Laws, 088\n     Braidley Burn, 107\n     Brampton, 409\n     Branksome, 002, 174, 179, 192\n           Hall, 194\n     Branxton, 051\n     Braxfield, Lord, 355\n     Breamish, 048\n     Bremenium, 088, 142, 164, 166\n     Brewster, Sir David, 188\n     \"Bride of Lammermuir,\" 346\n     Bridgelands, 260\n     Bridgend, 227\n     Broadlaw, 144, 352\n     Broadmeadows, 038\n     Broomhouse, 020\n     Brougham, Lord, 061\n     Broughton, 355\n     Brown, Dr. John, 354\n     Brownies, 031\n     \"Brownie of Bodesbeck,\" 291, 369\n     Bruce, David, 068, 415\n         Robert the, 067, 092, 208, 347, 375\n     Buccleuch, 002, 195, 286\n          Duke of, 196, 208, 305, 316, 385\n          Hunt, 222\n          Lairds of, 134, 179, 194, 229, 392, 394, 395\n     Buchan, Earl of, 208\n     Buchanan, George, 067, 106, 112\n     Bunkle, 013, 015\n     Burghley, 135\n     Buried Treasure, 056, 088\n     Burke and Hare, 250\n     \"Burke, Sir Walter!\" 090\n     Burns, Robert, 118, 123\n     Byrecleuch Ridge, 030\n\n\n     C\n\n     Caddonfoot, 222, 322\n     Cademuir, 347\n     Caerlanrig, 197\n     Caledon, 352\n     Camps, 128\n     Camptown, 141\n     Cannobie Lea, 416\n     Canonbie, 418\n     Capel Fell, 287\n     \"Capon Tree,\" 125\n     Cappercleucb, 300\n     Cardrona, 340\n     Carey, 135\n     Cargill, Rev. Donald, 137, 368\n     Carham, 003\n          Burn, 048\n     Carlin's Tooth, 143, 152\n     Carlisle, 077, 115, 117, 150, 152, 392, 408\n     Castle, 144, 392\n     Carmichael, Sir John, 144\n     Carter Bar, 141, 148\n     Carterfell, 129, 136, 143, 166\n     Carterhaugh, 273\n     Castlebill, 348\n     Castleton, 387\n     Catcleuch Reservoir, 141\n          Shin, 141, 166\n     Catrail, 002, 041, 231, 379\n     Cauldcleuch Head, 107, 144\n     Cauldshiels Loch, 233\n     Cavers, 072, 184\n     Caves, 126, 134\n     Cecil, Sir W., 037, 134\n     Cessford, 086\n     Cockburn Law, 026\n          Thomas, 022\n          of Henderland, 198, 299\n     Cockburns, 020\n     Coldstream, 056\n          Guards, 050\n     Collingwood Bruce, Dr., 165\n     Collingwood, Sir Cuthbert, 147\n     Colting woods, 145\n     Colmslie, 235\n     Commonsiae Hill, 002\n     Cope, Sir John, 005, 035, 077\n     Corbridge, 005\n     Coultercleuch, 280\n     Cout o' Keilder, 383\n     Covenanters, 007, 035, 137, 293, 359, 365, 370\n     Cowdenknowes, 289\n     Ciudad Rodrigo, 266\n     Chambers, Dr. Robert 104, 302\n          Dr. William, 338\n     Channelkirk, 217\n     Chapel Knowe, 165\n     Charles I., 077\n     Chesters (Berwickshire), 042\n          (Roxburghshire), 168\n     Cheviot, 144\n     Cheviots, 001, 088, 142, 151, 212\n     Chillingham, 050\n     Chimside, 007, 015\n     Chronicle of Lanercost, 004\n     Churchill, 006\n     Clandestine Weddings, 060, 402\n     Clarty Hole, 231\n     Claverhouse, 359, 365, 369\n     Clear burn Loch, 286\n     Cleikum Inn, 339\n     Clerk of Eldin, John, 353\n     Clints Dod, 030\n     Clintwood, 387\n     Clovenfords, 322\n     Clyde, 353\n     Crab, 005\n     Craigmillar, 023, 113\n     Crailing, 087, 126\n     Cranshaws, 030\n     Crawford, 052\n     Cromwell, 022, 056, 316, 338, 343, 3S3, 371, 387\n     Crook-backed Richard, 005\n     Crook Inn., 357\n     Crooked Loch, 286\n     Cumberland, 025\n     Curie, Mr., 212\n\n\n     D\n\n     Dacre, 053, 074, 098, 130\n     Dalkeith, 025, 152, 257\n     Dandie Dinmont, 377, 381\n     D'Arcy, Sir Anthony, 020\n     Darnick, 227\n          Tower, 227\n     Darnley, 085, 213, 330, 347, 365\n     D'Aussi, 052\n     David I., 066, 073, 081, 084, 091\n     David, Earl, 255\n     Dawstane Rig, 378\n     Dawyck, 347, 348\n     Woods, 351\n     Debateable Land, 403\n     De Beaugu\u00e9, M., 131\n     De Bolbec, Walter, 383\n     \"Degenerate Douglas,\" 341\n     De Grey, Sir Thomas, 048\n     Deil o' Dawyck, 349\n     De la Mothe Rouge, 133\n     Deloraine, 280\n          William of, 174, 281\n     Denham Tracts, 066\n     Denholm, 119, 179\n     De Soulis, 382, 387, 4x5\n     D'Espec, Walter, 066\n     D'Ess\u00e9, Sieur, 129, 132\n     Deuchar Bridge, 309\n     Devil's Beef Tub, 375\n     Dick Lauder, Sir Thomas, 008, 017, 035, 059, 172, 233, 241,\n          259, 327, 336, 358, 423\n     Dick's Tree, 399\n     Differences with Prisoners, 266\n     Dinlabyre, 387\n     Dodhead, 178, 280\n     Dog Knowe, 115\n     Dogs in Church, 308\n     Dollar Law, 144, 346\n     Donald's Cleuch, 368\n     \"Doo Tairts and Herrin' Pies,\" 83\n     Douglas, Archibald, 072\n     Douglas Burn, 072, 297\n     Douglas, Earl, 072, 149, 153\n          of Kelhead, Sir John, 355\n          Rev. Dr., 231\n          Sir George, 071\n          Sir George, 170\n          Sir James, 080, 092, 125, 128, 347, 375\n          Tragedy, 297\n     Douglas's Wounded, 165\n     Douglases, 072, 145\n     Dowie Dens of Yarrow, 072, 311\n     Drochil Castle, 347\n     Drumclogj 137\n     Drum lan rig, 118\n     Drummelzier, 348, 350\n     Dryburgh Abbey, 206, 220\n     Drygrange, 212, 222\n     Dry hope Tower, 305\n     Dunbar, 056, 101, 113, 150, 152\n          Castle, 020, 086\n          Earl of, 030\n     Dumbarton Castle, 382\n     Dunion, 144, 176\n     Dunkeld, 137\n     Duns, 015, 026, 044\n          Law, 046\n          Scotus, 044\n     Durham, 153\n          Bishop of, 158, 160\n          Cathedral, 216\n     Dussac, 133\n     Dye Water, 029\n\n\n     E\n\n     Earlsihe Moor, 107\n     Earlstoun, 016, 217\n     Eden (Carlisle), 393\n          Water, 008, 033, 057, 064\n     Edie Ochiltree, 084\n     Edgar, 035\n          Burn, 035\n     Edgerston, 141, 144\n     Edinburgh, 056, 152, 159, 198, 212, 261, 292\n          299, 333, 349\n     Edington, 008\n     Edinshall, 008, 027\n     Ednam, 008\n     Edrington Castle, 007\n     Edrom, 008, 015\n     Edward I., 056, 058, 069, 208, 214, 255, 379 409\n           II., 005, 048, 069, 208, 255\n          III., 005, 068, 069, 092\n           VI., 169. 316\n     Eildon Hills, 142, 144, 212, 221, 224, 231, 245\n     Eildon Tree, 217\n     Eital Castle, 050\n     Elba, 027\n     Elcho, Lord, 118\n     Elibank, 327\n     Eliott of Stobs, Sir Gilbert, 119\n     Elizabeth, Queen, 398, 416\n     Elliot of Cleuchhead, Dr., 384\n          Jean, 181\n     Elliots, 145\n     Ellison, Mr., 163\n     Ellwand, 235\n     Elsdon Church, 167\n     Emperor Alexander Severus, 165\n     Ernckstane, 375\n     Errol, 052\n     Erskine, Lord, 402\n     Esk, 407, 416\n     Ettrick, 002, 176, 231, 245, 252, 263, 271, 288\n          Bank, 249\n     Ettrickbridgend, 278\n     Ettrick Hall, 287, 290\n          Kirk, 287\n          Pen, 287\n          Shepherd, 121, 283, 278, 288\n     Evelaw Tower, 035\n     Evers, Lord (Sir Ralph), 100, 170, 171, 227\n     Eye Water, 088\n\n\n     F\n\n     \"Fair Maiden Lilliard,\" 172\n     Fairies, belief in, 056, 181\n     Fairnilee, 271, 319\n     Fairy Dene, 235\n     Falaise, Treaty of, 004\n     Falkirk, Battle of, 255\n     Falla Moss, 371\n     False alarm, 025\n     Fast Castle, 086\n     Father Ellis, 126\n     Fat Ups Castle, 180\n     Faungrist Burn, 039\n     Fenwick, Sir Roger, 129\n     Fenwicke, Colonel, 022\n     Ferguson, Adam, 343\n     Fernihirst, 128, 130, 134, 137\n          Mill, 136\n     Flemings, 353\n     Fluimen, 049, 059, 255\n     Flodden Edge, 048, 050\n     Fogo, 033\n     Ford Castle, 049\n     Forest of Ettrick, 255\n          Jedworth, 129, 131\n     Forster, Sir John, 144\n     Foulshiels, 039, 314\n     Floors Castle, 071\n     Flower of Yarrow, 305\n     Flowers of the Forest, 181, 319\n     Franck, Richard, 007\n     Fraser, Sir Simon, 341, 348\n     Frasers of Fruid and Oliver, 340\n     French Invasion, 024\n          Prisoners in Selkirk, 258\n     Froissart, 115, 149, 157\n     Fruid, 357\n\n\n     G\n\n     Gala, 094, 237, 241\n     Gala Rig, 272\n     Galashiels, 094, 224, 233, 237, 248\n     \"Galashiels Herons,\" 084\n     Galashiels Town's Arms, 240\n     Gamelshiel, 030\n     Gameshope Burn, 357, 370\n     Glen, 363, 370\n          Loch, 369, 370\n     Gamescleuch, 287\n     Garter, Countess of Salisbury's, 069\n     Gemmels, Andrew, 084\n     Giant's Stone, 371\n     Gibb's Cross, 035\n     Gilnockie, 197, 418\n          Bridge, 421\n     Gjlsland, 409\n     Girthgate, 236\n     Godscroft, 158\n     Goldielands, 191\n     Gordon Arms, 305\n     Glendearg, 235\n     Glengaber, 001\n     Glenkinnon Burn, 324\n     Glenrath Burn, 346\n     Graham, Sir James. 417\n     Grahams, 405, 416\n     Greatmoor Hill, 107\n     Greenlaw, 041\n     Gretna Green, 060, 402\n     Grey Friars, 141\n     Grey Mare's Tail, 303\n     Guizot, M., 059\n     \"Guy Mannering,\" 380\n\n\n     H\n\n     Hahhie Ker's Cave, 126\n     Haggiehaugh, 078\n     Haig of Bemersyde, 209\n     Haining, 255, 259, 265\n     Halidon Hill, 005, 053\n     Hall, Hobbie, 087\n     Henry, 087, 137\n     Halliburton, Wm,, 067\n     Hailyards, 343\n     Hangingshaw, 038, 313\n     Happrew, 348\n     Harden, 192\n     Harecleuch Hill, 032\n     Hare head, 030\n     Harelaw, 035\n     Harewood, 317\n     Hartlaw, 035\n     Hartshorn Pyke, 143\n     Hassendean, 178\n     Hawick, 094, 107, 185, 381\n     \"Minister's Alan,\" 117\n     Mote, 191\n          Hawkshead Burn, 371\n          Castle, 371\n     Hay of Yester, 341\n          of Talla, 085\n     Hearthstane Burn, 357\n     Hellmuir Loch, 286\n     Hemingburgh, 005\n     Henderland, 298\n     Henderson, Willie, 179\n     Henry I., 066\n         III., 069\n        VIII., 004, 049, 074, 099, 132, 169, 170, 177, 197, 208\n     Hepburn of Bowton, 085\n          of Hailes, 030\n     Hermitage Castle, 072, 085, 107, 382\n          Water, 107, 380, 381\n     Heron, Lady, 049\n     Heronry at Dawyck, 351\n     Herries, 053\n     Herrit's Dyke, 041\n     Hertford, 013, 037, 044, 074, 100, 102\n          129, 132, 141, 170, 227, 287\n     Hexham, 145\n     Hielandman's Grave, 116\n     Hill Burton, 074\n     Hiltslap, 235\n     Hindside, 035\n     Hirsel, The, 060\n     Hodgson, Richard, 069\n     Hogg, James, 206, 213, 278, 290, 297, 303, 305\n     Hollows lower, 419\n     Holydene, 041, 126, 229\n     Holylee, 327\n     Home Castle, 020, 022, 023, 113\n     Home, Sir David, 020\n          Family of, 017, 020, 212\n          Grisell, 042\n          Lord, 008, 020, 022, 051, 060, 229, 257\n          of Haliburton, 044\n          of Polwarth, Patrick, 041\n     Homildon Hill, 055\n     Hoolet of Barns, 345\n     Hornsbole, 187\n     Horsburgh, 330\n     Hotspur's Pennon, 184\n     Howpasley, 192\n     Howard, Edmund, 053\n     Edward, 053\n     Hundalee, 126\n     Hunsdon, Lord, 037, 134\n     Hunter, John, 362\n     Hunthill, 128, 129, 134\n     \"Huntlie Bank,\" 219\n     Huntly, Earl of, 052, 106\n     Hutton Hall, 008\n     Hyndhope, 280\n\n\n     I\n\n     Illicit Stills, 116\n     Innerleithen, 327\n\n\n     J\n\n     James I., 337, 342\n          II., 023, 067, 080\n         III., 005\n          IV., 048, 049, 281\n           V., 178, 197, 229, 282, 287, 406\n          VI. and I., 006, 067, 305, 353, 413, 416\n     \"Jamie Telfer, 377, 192, 280, 410\n     Jed, 033, 078, 094, 124, 152, 166\n     Jedburgh, 023, 078, 090, 114, 119, 126, 131, 171, 222\n          Abbey, 092, 095, 102, 113\n          Castle, 092, 093\n          Prison, 123\n     Jedforest Hunt, 129\n     \"Jethart's here!\", 100, 146\n     John, King, 004\n     John's Cleuch, 030\n\n\n     K\n\n     Kale Water, 084, 087, 126, 166\n     Kelso, 026, 033, 061, 064, 071, 113, 114, 126, 222, 267\n          Abbey, 074, 084\n     Ker, Dand, 086\n          of Cessford, 069, 087, 229\n          of Pernihirst, 008, 069, 229\n          of Graden, 078\n          of Samuelton, George, 008\n          Sir Andrew, 135\n          Sir John, 132\n          Sir Thomas, 130\n     Kershope Burn, 392\n     Kerss, Rob., 205\n     Killiecrankie, 137\n     \"Kilmeny\" 271\n     King Arthur, 244, 347\n     \"King of the Woods,\" 125\n     Kingledores Burn, 357\n     Kingside, 286\n     Kinmont Willie, 179, 392, 399\n     Kirk Andrews, 416\n     Kirk o' Field, 085\n     Kirkhope L\u00eenn, 278\n          Tower, 278\n     Kirk Sessions, 062\n     Knight of Liddesdale, 246, 326, 383\n     Knox, John, 052, 214\n\n\n     L\n\n     Lacy, Richard de, 004\n     Lads of Wamphray, 089\n     Lady of Branksome, 194\n     \"Lady of the Lake,\" 322\n     Ladykirk, 048\n     Laidlaw, Will, 213, 297\n          of Peel, 324\n     Laiton, 170, 227\n     Lammermuirs, 007, 029, 144, 212, 216\n     Lanercost, 409\n     Langholm, 418, 424\n          Castle, 424\n     Langshaw, 235\n     Langton Tower, 020\n     Lanton Village, 093\n          Tower, 128\n     Larriston, 078, 185\n     Lauder, French Prisoners at, 270\n          Bridge, 005\n     Lauderdale, Earl of, 045, 213, 216\n     Lawson, Rev. Dr., 263\n     \"Lay of the Last Minstrel, 192, 281, 322\n     Leader Water, 041, 212\n     Leaderfoot, 222\n     Le Croc. M., 111\n     Leet Water, 057\n     Legerwood, 016, 041\n     Lei then, 328\n     Lennox, 053\n     Leslie, Bishop of Ross, 151\n          General, 038, 046, 056, 254\n          Norman, 170\n     Lessudden, 026, 206\n     Lethem, 165\n     Lethington, 216\n          Mr. Secretary, 107\n     Leyden, John, 179, 190, 247, 322\n     Liddel Castle, 357\n          Moat, 415\n          Valley, 152\n          Water, 078, 116, 152, 380, 386, 393\n     Liddesdale, 115, 144, 150,152,178,378, 380\n     Lilliardsedge, 169, 222\n     Lirnekilnedge, 381\n     Lincumdoddie, 356\n     Lindean, 246, 252\n     Lindisfarne, Bishop of, 097\n     Lindsay, Sir James, 158\n     Linglie, 249, 252\n     Lintalee, 092, 125, 128\n     Lin thill House, 018\n     Linton, 084\n          Tower, 085\n     Lion of Liddesdale, 078\n     Littledean, 206\n     \"Little Jock Elliot,\" 106, 387\n     Loch of the Lowes, 292, 301\n           Skene, 369\n     Lockhart, J. G., 206, 208, 232, 353, 380\n     Longtown, 152, 399\n     Lord Maxwell's Muster Roll, 401\n     Lost Pay Chest, 038\n     Lothian, Lord, 135, 138\n          Marquess of, 103\n     Lumsden, Margaret, 045\n     Lyne Water, 347\n\n\n     M\n\n     Maccus Whele, 073\n     Mackay, 137\n     \"Mad\" Jack Hall, 162\n     Maid of Norway, 005\n     Maitland of Lethington, 214\n     Makerstoun, 204, 222\n     Malcolm II., 003, 048\n             IV., 236\n             The Maiden, 001\n     Mangerton Castle, 390\n     Manor Kirkyard, 344\n          Valley, 343\n          Water, 345\n     Manslaughter Law, 029\n     Marchmont, Earl of, 022, 041\n          House, 042\n          Alarmion, 051, 055, 094, 322\n     Marquis of Annandale's Beef Stand, 375\n     Mary of Gueldres, 023, 081\n          Guise, 214\n     Mary Queen of Scots, 023, 052, 074, 104, 169,\n     194, 208, 250, 330, 408\n     Mathieson, 322\n     Maxwell, 053\n          Sir Herbert, 002, 030, 072, 084, 169, 176, 338\n          Sir John, 158\n     Meg Dods, 339\n     Megget, 300\n     Melrose, 071, 166, 170, 225, 235\n          Abbey, 163, 172, 256\n     Melville of Halhill, Sir James, 112\n     Menzion, 357\n     Merlin, 351\n     Merse, 021, 048, 134, 144\n     Mertoun, 206\n          Bridge, 220\n     Midlem Bridge, 172\n     Miles, Sir George Heron, 147\n     Milnholm Cross, 390\n     Minchmuir, 002, 038\n     Minto, 180\n          Crags, 144, 180\n     Moffat, 369, 373, 375\n     \"Monastery, The\" 227, 233, 235\n     Monk, General, 059\n     Monks' Ford, 220\n     Monk law, 128\n     Monmouth, Duke of, 196\n          Anne, Duchess of, 316\n     Mons Meg, 048, 080\n     Montague, Sir William, 068\n     Montgomery, Earl of, 158\n     Montrose, Marquis of, 002, 038, 076, 254\n     Moray, Earl of, 106\n          Countess of, 112\n     Morebattle, 086\n     Morton, Earl of, 147\n          Regent, 367\n     Mossburnfoot, 126\n     Mossfennan, 336\n     Muckle Mouthed Meg, 327\n     Murray of Broughton, 355\n          Sir David, 355\n          Sir Gideon, 327\n          of Philiphaugh, Sir John, 247\n     Musgrave, Sir William, 405\n     Muthag, Provost, 272\n     Mutiny Stones, 030\n\n\n     N\n\n     Naesmiths, 346\n     Napier and Ettrick, Lord, 055, 387\n     Napoleon, 024, 262\n     Naworth, 409\n     Neidpath Hill, 322\n          Castle, 337, 342\n     Netherby, 416\n     Nett ley Burn, 249\n     Neville's Cross, 415\n     Newark Tower, 278, 315\n     Newcastle, 077, 141, 145, 159, 160, 203\n     Newcastleton, 387\n     Newstead, 142, 166, 212, 224\n     Newton Don, 064\n     Nine Cairn Edge, 216\n     Niue Stane Rig, 381\n     Norfolk, 074\n     Norham, 004, 047\n     North, Christopher, 301\n     Note o' the Gate, 115, 378\n     Notman Law, 346\n\n\n     O\n\n     Oakwood Tower, 276\n     Ogle, Sir James, 147\n          Sir Robert, 067, 069\n     Old Jedward, 128\n          Mailros, 028\n         Melrose, 212, 213, 222\n     \"Old Mortality,\" 362\n     \"Old Q,\" 341\n     Oliver, Auld Ringan, 136\n     Oliver Castle, 359\n     Ormistoun, 035, 086\n     Otterburne, 072, 149, 170\n          Village, 162\n          Hall, 164\n     Ottercops, 149\n     Outlaw Murray, 035, 313\n     Oxnam Water, 087, 126, 166\n\n\n     P\n\n     Park, Archibald, 315\n          Mungo. 314, 326\n     Pearlin, Jean, 008\n     \"Peblis to the Play,\" 339\n     Peebles, 309, 330, 334, 336, 340, 349\n     Peel Burn, 152, 379\n          Fell, 001, 143, 379\n     Penchrise, 001, 176, 280\n     Pennecu\u00eeck, Dr., 342, 353\n     Pennistone Knowe, 292\n     Penshiel, 030\n     Penton, 415\n          Linn, 407, 415\n     Percy, 040\n          Earl, 153, 161\n          Henry, 092\n          Ralph, 158\n     Percy's Cross, 162\n     Philiphaugh, 002, 038\n     Piets' Work Dyke, 379\n     Pinkie, 056\n     Piper's Pool, 254\n     Pitcairn's Criminal Priais, 086\n     Pitscottie, 051, 081, 198, 282\n     Plague, The, 246\n     Plummer of Sunderland Hall, 257\n     Poachers, 173, 242, 254\n     Pollution of Rivers, 094, 095, 185, 237, 238, 252, 327\n     Polmood, 356\n          Burn, 357\n     Polwarth, 042\n          Lord, 192\n     Porteous of Hawkshaw, 371\n     Possessed Woman in Duns, 045\n     Posso, 345, 347\n          Craigs, 346\n     Pot Loch, 259\n     Powsayl Burn, 351\n     \"Pride and Poverty !\", 083\n     Priesthaugh Burn, 107\n     Prince Charlie, 077, 078, 114, 115, 126, 409\n     Prisoners' Bush, 260\n          Theatre, 268\n     Proclamation of St. James's Fair, 082\n     Purdie, Tom, 322\n\n\n     Q\n\n     Queen Mary's House, 104\n          Illness, 109\n     Queen's Mire, 108\n     \"Queens Wake\" 121\n     Queensberry, Duke of, 118\n\n\n     R\n\n     Raecleuch, 035\n     Raid of the Reidswire, 244\n     Ramsay, Sir Alexander, 383\n     Rev. Mr., 064\n     Randall's Wa's, 347\n     Randolph, 347\n     Rankleburo, 002, 286\n     Raven Burn, 152\n          Craig, 031\n     Redbraes, 042\n     Redesdale, 141, 145\n     R de Valley, 088, 115, 141, 161\n     \"Redgauntlet\", 375, 417\n     Regiment, 94th, 266\n     Renwick, 292\n     Richard, King, 004\n          II., 208\n     Richmond, Sir Thos., 125\n     Riddell, 174\n     Rink, 002, 245, 249\n     Riskinhope, 292\n     Rivalry between Kelso and Jedburgh, 082\n     Rob o' the Trows, 205\n     Robert II., 208\n     Rhymer's Glen, 219, 231\n     Roman Road, 088\n     Rory dhu Mohr, 137\n     Rothely Crags, 149\n     Rowchester, 142\n     Roxburgh, 023, 067, 126\n          Castle, 078, 092, 149\n          Newtown, 085\n     Roxburghe, Duke of, 071\n     Ruberslaw, 144, 183, 212\n     Rule Water, 107, 177, 212\n     Ruskin, John, 094, 230\n     Russell, Sir Francis, 147\n     Russell of Yarrow, Rev. Drs., 281, 298\n     Rutherford, 206\n          Alison, 319\n          Rev. John, 308\n     \"Rutherfurd Bauld,\" 146\n     Rutherfurd, Captain, 123\n     Rutherfurds, 141\n     Ruthven, Lord, 134\n\n\n     S\n\n     St. Ahb's Head, 025\n     St. Andrews, Bishops of, 049\n     St. Boswells, 078, 206\n          Green, 221\n     St. Cuthbert, 206, 216, 357\n     St. Gordian's Kirk, 344, 347\n     St. James's Fair, 081\n     St. Kentigern, 382\n     St. Mary of the Lowes, 177, 295\n     St. Mary's Chapel, 296\n     St. Mary's Loch, 287\n     St. Ronan's, 327\n     \"St. Ronan's Well,\" 339\n     Salisbury, Earl of, 068\n     Salmon, 209\n          fishing, 222\n     Sandyknowe, 211\n     Sark Bridge, 402\n          Tower, 401\n     Satcheils, 176\n     \"Savoury Mr. Peden,\" 183\n     Scabcleuch, 292\n     Scots Brigade, 266\n     Scots Dyke, 418\n     Scott, Adam of Tushielaw, 282, 299\n     Sir John, 287\n          Lady John, 087\n          Mary, \"the Flower of Yarrow,\" 305\n     Scott, Michael, 256, 276\n     Sir Walter, 002, 025, 038, 051, 068, 078, 083, 118,\n          144, 174, 179, 180, 198, 206, 208, 227,\n          236, 257, 305, 322, 325, 339,\n          343, 347, 353, 355. 369, 380, 384, 399, 419\n     Scott, Sir Walter and the Border Minstrelsy, 213\n     Scott of Gorrenberry, 117\n          of Tushielaw, 213\n     Scotts of Buccleuch, 071, 102, 144, 170, 192, 195, 286, 384\n          of Harden, 276, 327\n     Scrope, 174, 222\n          Lord, 397, 398, 400, 416\n     Selkirk, 026, 172, 231, 247, 249, 252, 269, 388\n          Cauld, 253\n          Common Riding, 270\n          \"Selkirk Craws,\" 084\n          Selkirk Flodden Traditions, 256\n          Prison, 123\n     Selkirkshire Yeomanry, 257\n     Shaftoes, 145\n     Shielhope Head, 346\n     Shrewsbury, Lord, 130\n     Sidney, Sir Philip, 149\n     Sinclair, Oliver, 404\n     Singlie, 280\n     Skelfhill, 001, 002, 176, 280, 382\n     Skene of Rubislaw, 369\n     Skirmish Field, 229\n     Skraysburgh, 101, 128\n     Slain Man's Lea, 315\n     Slitrjg, 001, 107, 188, 280, 381\n     Smailcleuchfoot, 136\n     Smailholme Tower, 144, 209\n     Snow Storm of 1831, 373\n     Solway Moss, 403, 406, 418\n     Somerset, 022, 127, 130\n     \"Soor Plums in Galashiels,\" 240\n     Soulis, Lord, 381\n     \"Souters of Selkirk,\" 53, 257\n     Southdean, 033, 148, 150, 165, 167, 380\n     Soutra Hill, 236, 241\n     Spirit of Borderers, 025\n     Spottisw'oode, 217\n     Springwood Park, 071, 072\n     Spy at Southdean, 151\n     Stanhope, 355\n          Burn, 357\n     Stanley, 053\n     Stephen, King, 069\n     Stewart of Stewartfield, Colonel, 119\n     Stobo, 016, 348\n     Stobs Camp, 381\n     Stoddart, 034, 057\n     Stow, 244\n     Stuart, Lady Louisa, 333\n     Sir Robert, 008\n     Sunderland Hall, 249, 257\n     Sunlaws, 126\n     \"Superstitions, Teviotdale, 121\n     Surrey, Earl of, 051, 054, 068, 097, 129, 130\n     Sussex, Earl of, 023, 037, 066, 134, 186\n     \"Sweet Leader Haughs,\" 217\n     \"Sweet Milk\" Robin, 177\n     Swinnie Moor, 107\n     Synton, 175, 285\n\n\n     T\n\n     Tall, a, 352, 357, 363\n          Linn, 360, 365\n          Reservoir, 357\n     Tarth Water, 347\n     Telfer, James, 136\n     \"Teribus and Teriodden,\" 186\n     Teviot, 001, 033, 078, 094, 126, 166, 169, 176,\n          179, 193, 203, 280\n     Teviotdale, 016, 134, 144, 178, 181, 388\n     \"The Eve of St. John, 209\n     The Great Unknown, 261\n     \"The Young Tantieme273\n     Three Brethren, 271, 320\n     \"Three days' blood,\" 089\n     Thiefs Road. 346\n     Thirlestane (Patrick), 287\n          Castle (Lauderdale), 045\n     Thomas of Ercildoune, 217\n     Thomas the Rhymer, 076, 209, 217, 353\n     Thomson, James, 033, 124, 172\n     Thornilee, 327\n     Tibbie Shiels, 291, 301\n          Tamson, 271\n     Till, 048, 050\n     Timpendean, 169\n     Tinnies, 348, 350\n     Tinnis (Yarrow), 038\n     Torsonce, 244\n     Torwoodlee, 002, 041, 243\n     Turn Again, 178, 232\n     Turnbulls of Rule Water, 145, 177\n     Tushielaw, 002, 281, 289\n     Traquair, 305, 330\n          Countess of, 333\n          Earl of, 038, 254, 331\n     Trout-fishing, 220, 241\n     \"True Thomas,\" 217, 219, 319\n     Tweed, 002, 3, 048, 173, 204, 212, 222, 231,\n     237, 245, 271 309, 319, 347, 357, 371, 375, 377\n     Tweeddale, Lord, 341\n     Tweed Shaws, 372\n     Tweed's Cross, 372\n          Well, 372\n     Tweedsmuir, 301, 340, 357, 371\n          Church, 361\n          Kirk Session Records, 362\n          Post Office, 359\n     \"Tweed\" Trade, 239\n     Tweedys, 349\n     Twin Law Cairns, 029\n     Twizell Bridge, 051\n\n\n     V\n\n     Veitch, Professor, 167, 342, 347\n     Veitchs of Dawyck, 348\n\n\n     W\n\n     Wade, Marshall, 077\n     Waich Water, 029\n     Walkerburn, 327\n     Wallace, Sir William, 208, 354\n     Wamphray, 089\n     Wark Castle, 050, 057, 066, 134, 149\n     Water-Bull, 234\n     Wauchope, 425\n          Castle, 424\n     Wedale, 244\n     Wedderlie, 035\n     \"Weir of Hermiston, 355\n     Weirdlaw Hill, 235\n     Well of the Holy Water Cleuch, 216\n     Wheeling Head, 132\n     Whele Causeway, 115, 150, 379\n          Chapel, 379\n     Whitadder, 007\n     White, Mr. Robert, 163\n     Whithaugh Mill, 116\n     Whitterhope Burn, 381\n     Will's Nick, 254\n     Will of Phaup, 280, 288\n     William the Lion, 004, 048, 091, 255, 330\n          le Walleys, 348\n     Williamhope Ridge, 325\n     Willie of Westburnflat, 387\n     Windburgh Hill, 144, 188\n     Wind Pell, 287\n     Windy Law, 286\n     Winter, Jamie, 043\n     Witch of Fauldshope, 277\n     \"Witch of Fife,\" 121\n     Woifstruther, 035\n     Wooler, 051, 078, 149\n     Wordsworth, 118, 341\n     Wortnscleuch Burn, 379\n\n\n     Y\n\n     YAIR, 176, 250, 319\n          Bridge, 249, 318\n     Cauld, 249\n     Yarrow, 002, 038, 039, 094, 176, 273, 287, 292, 294\n          Dowie Dens of, 072, 311\n          Kirk, 306, 309\n          Manse, 306\n     Yetholm, 149, 150\n     Young Hay of Talla, 364","title":"Highways and Byways in the Border: Illustrated","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":119558}