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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,
No longer steel-clad warriors ride

Along thy wild and willowed shore;
Where'er thou wind'st, by dale or hill,
All, all is peaceful, all is still,

As if thy waves, since time was born,
Since first they rolled upon the Tweed,
Had only heard the shepherd's reed,

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,

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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,
Dispersed the country over ;
But I myself at Branxholm Place,
To sport me with my lover.
There nothing could my mind harass,
While I that blessing did possess,
To kiss my bonny blythesome lass

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,
For lo here is more money;
And for your reck'ning do not fear,

So lang as we have ony:
Gar fill the cap, gar fill the can,
We'll drink a health to the goodman,
We's a' be merry or we gang-

Here's till the bonny lassie."

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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,
Right hastily they clamb the Peel;
He loosed the ky out ane and a',
And ranshakled the house right weel.
"Now Jamie Telfer's heart was sair,

The tear ay rowing in his e'e;

He pled wi' the Captain to ha'e his geer,
Or else revenged he wad be.

"The Captain turned him round and leugh;
'Said, 'Man there's naething in thy house
But ae auld sword, without a sheath,

That hardly now would fell a mouse.'
"The sun was nae up, but the moon was down,
It was the gryming of a new fa' en sna';
Jamie Telfer has run ten myles afoot,

Between the Dodhead and the Stob's Ha'.
"And when he cam' to the fair tower gate,
He shouted loud, and cried weel he,
Till out bespak' auld Gibby Elliot—

'Whac's this that brings the fraye to me?"
"It's I, Jamie Telfer, o' the fair Dodhead,
And a harried man I think I be;
There's naething left at the fair Dodhead
But a waefu' wife and bairnies three.'

"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,
My lord may grip my vassal lands,
For there again maun I never be.'
"He has turned him to the Tiviot side,
E'en as fast as he could drie,
Till he cam' to the Coultart cleugh,

And there he shouted baith loud and hie. "Then up bespak' him auld Jock Grieve

'Whae's this that brings the fraye to me?"
It's I, Jamie Telfer, o' the fair Dodhead,
A harried man I trow I be.

"There's naething left in the fair Dodhead,
But a greeting wife and bairnies three;
And sax poor ca's stand in the sta',

A' routing loudly for their minnie.'

"Alack a wae!' quo' auld Jock Grieve,
Alack! my heart is sair for thee!
For I was married on the elder sister,
And you on the youngest of a' the three."
"Then he has ta'en out a bonny black,

Was right weel fed with corn and hay,
And he's set Jamie Telfer on his back,
To the Catslockhill to tak' the fraye.
"And whan he cam' to the Catslockhill,

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,

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Alack for thee my heart is sair!

I never cam' by the fair Dodhead

That ever I found thy basket bare.'
"He's set his twa sons on coal-black steeds,
Himsell upon a freckled gray,
And they are on wi' Jamie Telfer

To Branksome Ha', to tak' the fraye.
"And when they cam' to Branksome Ha',
They shouted a' baith loud and hie,
Till up and spak' him auld Buccleuch,
Said Whae's this brings the fraye to me?"
"It's I, Jamie Telfer, o' the fair Dodhead,
And a harried man I think I be;
There's nought left in the fair Dodhead,

But a greeting wife and bairnies three.'
"Alack for wae!' quoth the guid auld lord,
And ever my heart is wae for thee!
But fye gar cry on Willie, my son,
And see that he come to me speedilie.
"Gar warn the water, braid and wide,
Gar warn it sure and hastilie;
They that winna ride for Telfer's kye,

Let them never look in the face o' me. "Warn Wat o' Harden and his sons,

Wi' them will Borthwick Water ride;
Warn Gaudilands, and Allanhaugh,

And Gilmanscleugh, and Commonside.
"Ride by the gate at Priesthaughswire,
And warn the Currors o' the Lee;
As ye cum down the Hermitage Slack,
Warn doughty Willie o' Gorrieberry.'
"The Scotts they rade, the Scotts they ran,
Sae starkly and sae steadily;
And aye the ower-word o' the thrang

Was-Rise for Branksome readilie!?
"The gear was driven the Frostylee up,
Frae the Frostylee unto the plain,
Whan Willie has look'd his men before,
And saw the kye right fast drivand.
"Whae drives thir kye?' 'gan Willie say,
To make an outspeckle o' me?
It's I, the Captain o' Bewcastle, Willie,
I winna layne my name for thee.'

"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;
But I will drive Jamie Telfer's kye,
In spite of every Scott that's here.'

"Set on them, lads!' quo' Willie than ;
Fye, lads, set on them cruellie!

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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;
But or they wan to the Kershope fords,
The Scotts had gotten the victory.
"John o' Brigham there was slane,

And John o' Barlow, as I heard say;
And thirty mae o' the Captain's men
Lay bleeding on the grund that day.

Towers wood-girt Harden, far above the vale,
And clouds of ravens o'er the turret sail :
A hardy race who never shrunk from war,
The Scott, to rival realms a mighty bar,
Here fixed his mountain home, a wide domain,
And rich the soil had purple heath been grain :
But what the niggard ground of wealth denied,
From fields more blessed, his fearless arm supplied."

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.
"Hae back the kye! the Captain said;
'Dear kye, I trow, to some they be !
For gin I suld live a hundred years,
There will ne'er fair lady smile on me.'
"Then word is gane to the Captain's bride,

Even in the bower where that she lay,
That her lord was prisoner in enemy's land,
Since into Tividale he had led the way.
"I wad lourd have had a winding-sheet,

And helped to put it ower his head,

Ere he had been disgraced by the Border Scot,
Whan he ower Liddel his men did lead!'

"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;
They loosed out a' the Captain's kye,

And set them forth our lads before.
"There was an auld wyfe ayont the fire,
A wee bit o' the Captain's kin—
Whae dar loose out the Captain's kye,
Or answer to him and his men?'
"It's I, Watty Wudspurs, loose the kye,
I winna layne my name frae thee;
And I will loose out the Captain's kye,
In scorn of a' his men and he.'

"Whan they cam' to the fair Dodhead,

They were a welcum sight to see;
For instead of his ain ten milk kye,
Jamie Telfer has gotten thirty and three.

"And he has paid the rescue shot,

Baith with gowd and white monie ;
And at the burial o' Willie Scott,

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
ballad, we are disposed not to grudge its length,
for we consider it to be one of the best of the
class to which it belongs, and that it affords the
truest picture of the eternal turmoil that prevailed
in those times. The anxiety with which each
"Whae's this
respective baron asks the question,
brings the fraye to me?" proves how formidable
they were in the habit of considering what the
consequences of the "fraye" were likely to be,
and of course accounting for their unwillingness
too rashly to involve themselves in them.
The Borthwick Water joins the Teviot imme-nate Monmouth who was executed.
diately opposite to Goldielands, where stands
Harden Castle, an ancient Border fortress. Ley-
den, in his "Scenes of Infancy," thus describes
it:-

"Where Bortho hoarse, that loads the meads with sand,
Rolls her red tide to Teviot's western strand,
Through slatey hills whose sides are shagged with thorn,
Where springs in scattered tufts the dark-green corn,

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 weel she lo'ed a Hawick gill,

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,
Who flung his outlaw'd limbs to rest,
Where falcons hang their giddy nest,
'Mid cliffs from whence his eagle eye
For many a league his prey could spy;
Cliffs, doubling, on their echoes borne,
The terrors of the robbers' horn;
Cliffs which for many a later year
The warbling Doric reed shall hear,
When some sad swain shall teach the grove,
Ambition is no cure for love."

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,
And all the gay haunts of my youth I forsook:
No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove;
Ambition, I said, would soon cure me of love,
But what had my youth with ambition to do?
Why left I Amynta? why broke I my vow?
"Through regions remote in vain do I rove,
And bid the wide world secure me from love.
Ah! fool to imagine, that aught could subdue
A love so well founded, a passion so true!
Ah! give me my sheep, and my sheep-hook restore,
And I'll wander from love and Amynta no more!
"Alas! 'tis too late at thy fate to repine!
Poor shepherd, Amynta no more can be thine!
Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain,
The moments neglected return not again.
Ah! what had my youth with ambition to do,
Why left I Amynta! why broke I my vow."

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.

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"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,
Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild!
What visions haunt my waking dreams,
Of Teviot loved while yet a child!
Of castled rocks stupendous pil'd,

By Esk or Eden's classic wave!
Where loves of youth and friendship smail'd,
Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slaves,

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