self laird of Murdieston, whilst the more warlike Sir William Scott was laird of Branxholm, in which he no sooner found himself fairly installed, than he dryly and shrewdly remarked, that the cattle of Cumberland were as good as those of Teviotdale. Fortifying himself, therefore, with a strong band of hardy, active, determined, and well-mounted men-at-arms, he soon turned the tide of affairs, and made the balance of the account between him and the Cumberland people very much in his own favour—a state of matters which his descendants endeavoured to keep up for generations after him, so that few dales on the Scottish Border must have teemed with more warlike circumstances. How appropriate, then, are these verses of Sir Walter Scott, drawing the comparison between these ancient warlike times of Teviot and the more modern days of peace and tranquillity, and how beautiful is the contrast, in a poetical point of view:- "Sweet Teviot on thy silver tide The glaring bale-fires blaze no more, Along thy wild and willowed shore; As if thy waves, since time was born, Nor startled at the bugle-horn." Mr. Stoddart tells us that the course of the Teviot is upwards of forty miles in length, but old Stewart makes it only thirty-four miles. Mr. Stoddart says that of all its tributaries, such as the Lymy-cleugh and Frostly burns, the Allan and Borthwick waters, the Slitrigg, the Rule, the Ale, the Jed, the Oxnam, and the Kale, the last mentioned is in the best repute among anglers; and he talks of his friend, Mr Wilson, and himself, having captured thirty-six dozen of trout between them in the course of a day. One of these, taken with the worm, weighed two pounds. The Teviot itself is a stream where sport is by no means certain, and considerable skill must be exerted to ensure it. The trouts are more shy than in most rivers, and the finest tackle, and great attention to the size and colour of the fly, must be employed to tempt them, otherwise an empty pannier will be the consequence. The Teviot is a peculiarly pure stream, while its purity is rendered more apparent by its pebbly bed; and, after leaving the hills, it winds delightfully through its rich, extensive, and well-cultivated valley. The first and greatest place of interest on the Teviot is the ancient house of Branxholm, which has been alike the scene of old ballad and modern poetry, and we conceive that it will demand so much of our paper and time, if we hope to do it anything like justice, that it would be a waste of both to bestow more of our attention upon the upper part of the river's course than we have already done. Sir William Scott, the hero of whom we have already spoken in connexion with Branxholm, having fairly established himself in Teviotdale, in defiance of the English Border freebooters, the remaining half of the barony of Branxholm was, in the following reign, that of James II., granted to Sir Walter Scott, and his son, Sir David. Branxholm now became the principal seat of the Buccleuch family, and continued to be so whilst the nature of the times required security to be considered as one of the chief objects in the chole? of a mansion. The building, as it now stands, is greatly reduced in its dimensions from what it must have been of old, and, with the exception of one square tower of immense strength of masonry, it possesses less of the character of the castle than of the old Scottish house. It is sufficiently pic turesque, however; and its situation, in the dell of the Teviot, surrounded by fine, young, thriving wood, and looking down on the beautiful river, is extremely delightful; and, from the narrowness of the glen here, it comes so suddenly on the passing traveller, that the interest it excites is enhanced, and would in itself be considerable, even if Sir Walter Scott had not thrown a poet's witchery over it. The oldest story that belongs to this place is that connected with the bonny lass of Branxholm. She was the daughter of the woman who kept the ale-house of the adjacent hamlet. A young officer of some rank, of the name of Maitland, having been sent hither with a party, to keep the Border moss-troopers in order, fell so desperately in love with her that he married her, and so very strange was such a més-alliance held to be in those days, that the mother, whose nick-name was "Jean the Ranter," was strongly suspected of having employed witchcraft to effect it. A very old ballad still exists on this subject, out of which Allan Ramsay composed his, which is somewhat better known. The original one is found in an old manuscript, entitled, "Jean the Ranter's bewitching of Captain Robert Maitland to her daughter-by Old Hobby (or Robert) in Skelftrill." We shall here extract some of the verses, so as to give our readers some notion of the whole ballad :— "As I came in by Tiviot side, And by the braes of Branxholm, There I spied a bonny lass; She was both neat and handsome. My heart and mind, with full intent, To seek that lass was ready bent; At length by orders we were sent To quarter up at Branxholm." * My men their billets got in haste, Upon the bracs of Branxholm. "The lassie soon gave her consent, And so did Jean, her mother; And a' her friends were well content, That we should wed each other. We spent some time in joy and mirth, At length I must gae to the north, And cross the rural road of Forth, To see my ancient mother. "When my competitors got wot That I was gaun to leave them, They cam to me, my foy to set, And kindly Jean received them. With mirth hence a' our cares did fly; No fears did our brave hearts annoy, Till drink did a' our stomachs cloy, And drown our active senses. "Haste, Dame, said we, gar fill more bear, So lang as we have ony: Here's till the bonny lassie." And, assuredly, it was a custom not only well calculated to ensure the safety and repose of the garrison of Branxholm, but to make it extremely perilous for any body of English marauders, unless they came in overwhelming force, to venture into Teviotdale at all. This, indeed, was the key of this pass, and the narrowness of the valley here rendered any attempt to evade it, without subduing it, perfectly hopeless. We are well aware that great and rich men often find that a superabundance of places of residence proves a great curse. His Grace the Duke of Buccleuch has houses enough, truly; but we cannot help stating, that, if Branxholm were ours, we could not resist the temptation of restoring its architecture to what it once was. The Tower of Goldieland stands very picturesquely on the height of a wooded knoll, on the south side of the river, opposite to, but a little way below Branxholm. It is one of those ancient Border peels which contains nearly as much masonry in the walls as vacant space within them, and the shell of which can neither be cracked nor burned, reminding one of one of those nuts one sometimes meets with, of strong and stubborn shell, which nothing can overcome but a hammer, and which, when broken at last, seems to be altogether devoid of contents. Goldieland was the ancient possession of a retainer and clansman of the Scotts of Branxholm; and, doubtless, he did not fail to lend his ready help to his chief, whether the war was offensive or defensive, and that, too,' with very little trouble or inquiry into the cause or the merits of the quarrel. Sir Walter Scott tells us that the last of these Scotts of Goldieland is said to have been hanged, over his own gate, for march treason. The ballad of "Jamie Telfer of the Fair Dodhead," given by Sir Walter Scott in his "Border Minstrelsy," in which the Laird of Goldieland is so particularly noticed, is so very characteristic of the manners of the times, and so perfectly shows how the weak and small were compelled to hang for protection on the great and powerful, that, although it, perhaps, somewhat surpasses in length the bounds of rea sonable quotation, we cannot resist extracting it as it stands :: "It fell about the Martinmas tyde, When our Border steeds get corn and hay; The Captain of Bewcastle hath bound him to ryde, And he's ower to Tividale to drive a prey, "The first ae guide that they met wi', It was high up in Hardhaughswire; The second guide that they met wi', It was laigh down in Borthwick Water. "What tidings, what tidings, my trusty guide?' 'Nae tidings, nae tidings, I hae to thee; But gin ye'll gae to the fair Dodhead, Mony a cow's cauf I let thee see.' "And when they came to the fair Dodhead, The tear ay rowing in his e'e; He pled wi' the Captain to ha'e his geer, "The Captain turned him round and leugh; That hardly now would fell a mouse.' Between the Dodhead and the Stob's Ha'. 'Whac's this that brings the fraye to me?" "Gae seek your succour at Branksome Ha', For succour ye'se get nane frae me ; Gae seek your succour where ye paid black-mail, For, man, ye ne'er paid money to me.' "Jamie has turned him round aboutI wat the tear blinded his e'e; 'I'll ne'er pay mail to Elliot again, And the fair Dodhead I'll never see. "My hounds may'a' rin masterless, My hawks may fly frae tree to tree, And there he shouted baith loud and hie. "Then up bespak' him auld Jock Grieve 'Whae's this that brings the fraye to me?" "There's naething left in the fair Dodhead, A' routing loudly for their minnie.' "Alack a wae!' quo' auld Jock Grieve, Was right weel fed with corn and hay, He shouted loud, and cried weel hie; Till out and spak' him William's Wat'O whae's this brings the fraye to me?" "It's I, Jamie Telfer, o' the fair Dodhead, A harried man I think I be; The Captain of Bewcastle has driven my gear-For God's sake rise and succour me! "Alas for wae quoth William's Wat, Alack for thee my heart is sair! I never cam' by the fair Dodhead That ever I found thy basket bare.' To Branksome Ha', to tak' the fraye. But a greeting wife and bairnies three.' Let them never look in the face o' me. "Warn Wat o' Harden and his sons, Wi' them will Borthwick Water ride; And Gilmanscleugh, and Commonside. Was-Rise for Branksome readilie!? "O will ye let Telfer's kye gae back? Or will ye do aught for regard o' me? Or, by the faith of my body,' quo' Willie Scott, 'I'se ware my dame's caufskin on thee.' "I winna let the kye gae back, Neither for thy love, nor yet thy fear; "Set on them, lads!' quo' Willie than ; For ere they win to the Ritterford, Mony a toom saddle there sall be !' "Then till't they gaed, wi' heart and hand, The blows fell thick as bickering hail; And mony a horse ran masterless, And mony a comely cheek was pale. "But Willie was stricken ower the head, And thro' the knapscap the sword has gane; And Harden grat for very rage, When Willie on the grund lay slane. "But he's ta'en aff his gude steel cap, And thrice he's waved it in the airThe Dinlay snaw was ne'er mair white, Nor the lyart locks of Harden's hair. "Revenge! revenge!' auld Wat 'gan cry; 'Fye, lads, lay on them cruellie! We'll ne'er see Tiviotside again, Or Willie's death revenged sall be.' "O mony a horse ran masterless, The splintered lances flew on hie; And John o' Barlow, as I heard say; Towers wood-girt Harden, far above the vale, This castle is worthy of notice from its pic "The Captain was run through the thick of the thigh, turesque situation, and from the romantic and And broken was his right leg bane; If he had lived this hundred years, He had ne'er been loved by woman again. Even in the bower where that she lay, And helped to put it ower his head, Ere he had been disgraced by the Border Scot, "There was a wild gallant amang us a', His name was Watty wi' the Wudspurs, Cried-On for his house in Stamgirthside, If ony man will ride with us?' ."When they cam' to the Stamgirthside, They dang wi' trees, and burst the door; And set them forth our lads before. "Whan they cam' to the fair Dodhead, They were a welcum sight to see; "And he has paid the rescue shot, Baith with gowd and white monie ; I wat was many a weeping e'e." precipitous dell in front of it, which is covered with fine timber. It is also remarkable for possessing a lobby paved with marble, and the hall has its ceiling decorated with some remarkably fine old plaster mouldings. Over one of the chimney-pieces is an earl's coronet, and the letters W. E. T., for "Walter, Earl of Tarras." This was Walter Scott of Highchester, husband of Mary, Countess of Buccleuch, who was so created in 1660, The town of Hawick presents an extremely rough-looking exterior, and its river, the Slitterig, which here joins the Teviot, possesses somewhat of the same character. Its people, however, are remarkable as being sound and original thinkers. During the Hon. John Elliot's election, some years ago, when the county was contested, these gentlemen did try to wash Toryism out of some of his opponents by gently dipping them in their euphoniously-named stream. Whether they were successful or not, we cannot tell, but certain it is that John Elliot came in upon the occasion of this last election, and now sits as member for Roxburghshire, without any opposition whatsoever. Hawick is a considerable place for manufactures, but it has every prospect of rising into a great manufacturing town, as it will soon have the advantage of a railway which is now making to it from Edinburgh. In the times of Border warfare, it must have had many a thump, and very little peace. But it would seem to have been well constructed in those days for the kind of usage to which it was, doubtless, daily sub"the Mr. Chambers tells us that jected. houses were built like towers, of hard whinstones, and very thick in the wall, vaulted below, no door to the street, but with a pended entry giving access to a court-yard behind, from which the second flat of the building was accessible by a stair; and the second flat communicated with the lower only by a square hole through the arched ceiling. The present head inn, called 'the Tower,' was a fortress of a better order, belonging to the superior of the burgh, and it was the only house not consumed in 1570 by the army of the Earl of This last-mentioned house was a freSussex." quent residence of Anne, Duchess of Buccleuch and Monmouth, widow of the royal but unfortuThis proud After extracting and then reperusing this "Where Bortho hoarse, that loads the meads with sand, dame used to occupy a raised state chair, with a canopy over it, and, taking to herself all the rank of a princess, she made all those stand who came into her presence. There is a well-preserved moat hill at the head of the town. Here it was that the brave Sir Alexander Ramsay of Dalwolsie was acting in his capacity of Sheriff of Teviotdale, when he was set on and seized by Sir William Douglas, who thought he should himself have had that office bestowed upon him, and who threw him, horse and man, into a dungeon of Hermitage Castle, and there left him to die by starvation. In the song of "Andrew and his Cutty Gun," we have Hawick especially noticed in the verse"Blythe, blythe, and merry was she, Blythe was she butt and ben, And leuch to see a tappit hen." These are all measures of liquors, and the Hawick gill was distinguished by being double the size of any other gill. There are several places and things deserving notice as we proceed down the river, but from our having not long ago visited Minto, we are so full of that noble residence, that we cannot bring ourselves to bestow on anything else either time or space, both being rather scarce with us. Minto is indeed a superb place. Its grand natural features of beauty are, first, its picturesque range of crags, which are seen over all the country, and which have been planted with so much judgment, and secondly, its deep glen. Scott celebrates the former, in the following verses, in his "Lay of the Last Minstrel" : tors. "On Minto Crags the moonbeams glint, Where Barnhill hewed his bed of flint, The great extent of its woodland scenery it owes to the industry and taste of its various proprie The crags are extremely romantic in themselves, and the legend which Scott tells us is attached to them, namely, that a small platform, on a projecting rock, commanding a grand prospect, is called "Barnhill's Bed," from a robber of that name, the remains of whose strong tower are still to be seen beneath the overhanging cliffs, add to their interest. The remnants of another tower, called Minto Crags, are still to be seen on the rocky summit. The timber all throughout the park and pleasure ground is of a very grand description, but its growth, in the deep, narrow, and winding glen below the house, is, in many instances, stupendous. Some of the silver firs and larches are especially wonderful, and we have little hesitation in pronouncing that the latter must be nearly, if not altogether, coeval with those of Dunkeld, to which, with perhaps the exception of the great one on the lawn near the spot where old Dunkeld house stood, most of them appear to us to be superior. Here, as at Castle Craig, an old ruined church, with its churchyard, have been made excellent use of in forming a beautiful and picturesque spot in the midst of the pleasure ground, the grave-stones, with their rude but forcible me mentos of the perishable nature of all earthly things, and the little mouldering heaps to which they are attached, being well calculated to soften and touch the heart of solitary meditation. This is one of those families which may be said to belong to or to be the property of Scotland, and of which she has reason to be proud. It has produced brave, and wise, and patriotic men, likewise contributed its proportion to the poetry of the harmonious Teviotdale, as the following beautiful pastoral song, written by Sir Gilbert Elliot, the grandfather of the present Earl, may sufficiently prove : "My sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep hook, In quoting this song, Sir Walter Scott hints at the gratifying fact that the Muse has not altogether deserted the family, which may lead us to hope for future productions of their family. There is something really remarkable in the poetical atmosphere which may be said to hang over this favoured region of Teviotdale. Whereever we go, we seem to find some rare instance of river to the pretty little village of Denholm, and the Muse's inspiration. Let us now cross the there we find the birth-place of the justly-celebrated Dr. John Leyden. Alas! this precious scion of poesy was by necessity transplanted to the hotter regions of India, where he afterwards died; and there is something truly heart-sinking lowing beautiful and touching verses, in which he in the tone of despair that runs through the folbeen compelled to make for the miserable golden contemplates the dreadful sacrifice which he has coin which he holds in his hand : I. "Slave of the dark and dirty mine, What vanity hath brought thee here? How can I bear to see thee shine So bright, that I have bought so dear. The tent rope's flapping lone I hear, For twilight converse arm in arm ; The jackall's shriek assails mine ear, When mirth and music wont to charm. II. "By Cherical's dark wandering streams, By Esk or Eden's classic wave! |