Tweed turns its face to the north, and running for the most part, as old Pennecuik puts it, "with a soft yet trotting stream," it pursues a course of slightly over a hundred miles, and drains a basin of no less than 1870 square miles, a larger area than any other Scottish river except the Tay.
(See pp. 23 , 35 , 39 , 60 , 61 , 89 , 90 , 91 , 123 )
Tweed's Well lies in the bosom of solemn, bare hills. There is nothing attractive about the spot. Grey moorlands, riddled with innumerable inky peat-bogs, the whaups crying as Stevenson heard them in his dreams, and the bleat of an occasional sheep are the chief characteristics. There is little heather, and the hills are hardly so shapely as their neighbours further down the valley. A first glance is disappointing, but the memories of the place are compensation enough. For what a stirring place it must have been in the early centuries! Here, as tradition asserts, the pagan bard Merlin was converted to Christianity through the preaching of the Glasgow Saint Mungo. Here Michael Scot, the "wondrous wizard," pursued his mysteries. And even the Flower of Kings himself wandered amongst those wilds, "of fresh aventours dreaming." One of his twelve battles is claimed for the locality. More historic, perhaps, is the picture of the good Sir James of Douglas (red-handed from dirking the Comyn) plighting his troth to the Bruce at Ericstane Brae, close to Tweed's Well, which latter spot, by the way, Dr. John Brown characteristically describes in one of his shorter "Horæ" papers. Readers of the "Enterkin" also will remember his reference to the mail-coach tragedy of 1831, when MacGeorge and his companion, Goodfellow, perished in the snow in a heroic attempt to get the bags through to Tweedshaws. At Tweedsmuir, (the name of the parish—disjoined from Drumelzier in 1643)—eight miles down, the valley opens somewhat, and vegetation properly begins. Of Tweedsmuir Kirk—on the peninsula between Tweed and Talla—Lord Cockburn said that it had the prettiest situation in Scotland. John Hunter, a Covenant martyr, sleeps in its bonnie green kirk-knowe—the only Covenant grave in the Border Counties outside Dumfries and Galloway. Talla Linns recalls the conventicle mentioned in the "Heart of Midlothian," at which Scott makes Davie Deans a silent but much-impressed spectator. In the wild Gameshope Glen, close by, Donald Cargill and James Renwick, and others lay oft in hiding. "It will be a bloody night this in Gemsop," are the opening words of Hogg's fine Covenant tale, the "Brownie of Bodsbeck." The Talla Valley contains the picturesque new lake whence Edinburgh draws its augmented water supply. Young Hay of Talla was one of Bothwell's "Lambs," and suffered death for the Darnley murder. At the Beild—regaining the Tweed—Dr. John Ker, one of the foremost pulpiteers of his generation, was born in 1819. Oliver Castle was the home of the Frasers, Lords of Tweeddale before they were Lords of Lovat. The Crook Inn was a noted "howff" in the angling excursions of Christopher North and the Ettrick Shepherd. Mr. Lang thinks that possibly the name suggested the "Cleikum Inn" of "St. Ronan's Well." At the Crook, William Black ends his "Adventures of a Phæton" with the climax of all good novels, an avowal of love and a happy engagement. Polmood, near by, was the scene of Hogg's lugubrious "Bridal of Polmood," seldom read now, one imagines. Kingledoors in two of its place-names preserves the memory of Cuthbert and Cristin, the Saint and his hermit-disciple. Stanhope was a staunch Jacobite holding, one of its lairds being the infamous Murray of Broughton, Prince Charlie's secretary, the Judas of the cause. Murray, by the way, was discovered in hiding after Culloden at Polmood, the abode of his brother-in-law, Michael Hunter. Linkumdoddie has been immortalized in Burns's versicles beginning, "Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed"—a study in idiomatic untranslateable Scots. Here is the picture of Willie's wife—a philological puzzle.
At Drumelzier Castle the turbulent, tyrannical Tweedies reigned in their day of might. Of their ghostly origin, the Introduction to the "Betrothed" supplies the key. They were constantly at feud with their neighbours, specially the Veitches, and were in the Rizzio murder. See their history (a work of genuine local interest) written quite recently by Michael Forbes Tweedie, a London scion of the clan. In the same neighbourhood, the fragment of Tinnis Castle (there is a Tinnis on Yarrow, too,) juts out from its bold bluff, not unlike a robber's eyrie on the Rhine. Curiously, this is a reputed Ossian scene (see the poem, "Calthon and Colmal.") The "blue Teutha," is the Tweed—"Dunthalmo's town," Drumelzier. Merlin's Grave, near Drumelzier Kirk, should not be forgotten. Bower's "Scotichronicon" narrates the circumstances of his death: "On the same day which he foretold he met his death; for certain shepherds of a chief of a country called Meldred set upon him with stones and staves, and, stumbling in his agony, he fell from a high bank of the Tweed, near the town of Drumelzier (the ridge of Meldred), upon a sharp stake that the fishers had placed in the waters, and which pierced his body through. He was buried near the spot where he expired."
A prophecy of Thomas the Rhymer—
is affirmed to have been literally fulfilled on the coronation day of James VI. and I. Passing on, we reach the resplendent Dawyck Woods. Here are some of the finest larches in the kingdom, the first to be planted in Britain, having that honour done them by the great Linnaeus himself, it is said. Stobo—semi-Norman and Saxon—was the plebania or mother-kirk of half the county. Here lies all that is mortal of Robert Hogg, a talented nephew of James Hogg. He was the friend and amanuensis of both Scott and Lockhart, whom he assisted in the Quarterly. Possessed of a keen literary sense, he would almost certainly have taken a high place in literature but for the consumption which cut short his promising career. (See "Life of Scott," vol. ix). At Happrew, in Stobo parish, Wallace is said to have suffered defeat from the English in 1304. One of the most perfect specimens (recently explored) of a Roman Camp is in the Lyne Valley, to the left, a little above the Kirk of Lyne. On a height overlooking the Tarth and Lyne frowns the massive pile of Drochil, planned by the Red Earl of Morton, who never lived to occupy it, or to finish it, indeed, the "Maiden," in 1581, cutting short his pleasures, his treacheries and hypocrisies. Now we touch the Black Dwarf's Country—in the Manor Valley, to the right. Barns Tower, a very complete peel specimen, stands sentinel at the entrance to this "sweetest glen of all the South." It is around Barns that John Buchan's "John Burnet of Barns" centres. The Black Dwarf's grave is at Manor Kirk, and the cottage associated with his misanthropic career is also pointed out. Scott, in 1797, visited Manor (Hallyards) at his friend Ferguson's, and foregathered with David Ritchie, the prototype of one of the least successful and most tedious of his characters. (See William Chambers's account of the visit). St. Gordian's Cross, mentioned in a previous chapter, is further up the valley, where also are the ruins of Posso, a place-name in the "Bride of Lammermoor." Presently we come to Neidpath Castle, dominating Peebles, the key to the Upper Tweed fastnesses. When or by whom it was built is unknown. In 1795, it was held by "Old Q," fourth Duke of Queensberry. Wordsworth's sonnet on the spoliation of its magnificent woods (an act done to spite the heir of entail) stigmatises for all time the memory of one of the worst reprobates in history.
Both Scott and Campbell have sung of the unhappy Maid of Neidpath spent with grief and disease, waiting her lover on the Castle walls, and beholding him ride past all unconscious of her identity.
The literary associations of Peebles—a charming township—are outstanding. William and Robert Chambers (founders of Chambers's Journal) were natives. So were Thomas Smibert and John Veitch, poets and essayists both. Mungo Park (a Gideon Gray prototype) was the town's surgeon for a time—an eternal longing for Africa in his soul. "Meg Dods," the best landlady in fiction, was one of its heroines. And "Peblis to the Play," probably by James I., is a Scots classic. Traquair is poetic ground every foot of it. At its "bonnie bush" how many singers have caught inspiration from Crawford of Drumsoy in 1725, to Principal Shairp in our own day! Shairp's lyric may well be quoted in full. It is by far the finest contribution to modern Border minstrelsy. "Thank ye again for this exquisite song; I would rather have been the man to write it than Gladstone in all his greatness and goodness," was the exuberant "Rab" Brown's compliment to the author:
(See pp. 35 , 39 , 91 , 92 , 103 )
Traquair House—possibly Scott's Tully-Veolan, "pallid, forlorn, stricken all o'er with eld," claims to be the oldest inhabited house in Scotland. It certainly looks it. The great gate, flanked with the huge Bradwardine Bears, has not been opened since the '45. There seems no reason to question the legend. It is not so "foolish" as Mr. Lang supposes. Innerleithen, Scott's "St. Ronan's," is near at hand, and the peel of Elibank—a mere shell. Harden's marriage to Muckle-mou'ed Meg Murray was not quite accounted for in the traditional way, however,—a choice between the laird's dule-tree and the laird's unlovely daughter. The legend is not uncommon to German folk-lore. At Ashestiel, thrice renowned, Scott spent the happiest years of his life (1804-1812), writing "Marmion," the "Lady of the Lake," and the first draft of "Waverley." In many respects the place is more important to students of Scott than Abbotsford itself. Yet for a thousand who rush to Abbotsford only a very few find their way up here. Yair, a Pringle house, and Fairnalee, comfortable little demesnes, lie further down the Tweed. At the latter, Alison Rutherford wrote her version of the "Flowers of the Forest"—"I've seen the smiling of Fortune beguiling." Abbotsford was Cartley Hole first—not Clarty—which is a mere vulgar play on the original. From a small villa about 1811 it has grown to the present noble pile. After Scott's day, Mr. Hope Scott did much for the place. But it is of Sir Walter that one thinks. What a strenuous life was his here! What love he lavished on the very ground that was dear to him—in a double sense! And what longing for home during that vain sojourn under Italian skies! "To Abbotsford; let us to Abbotsford!"—a desire now echoed on ten thousand tongues year by year from all ends of the earth. Behind Abbotsford are the Eildons, the "Delectable Mountains" of Washington Irving's visit, "three crests against a saffron sky" always in vision the wide Border over. Scott said he could stand on the Eildons and point out forty-three places famous in war and verse. "Yonder," he said, "is Lammermoor and Smailholm; and there you have Galashiels, and Torwoodlee, and Gala Water; and in that direction you see Teviotdale and the Braes of Yarrow, and Ettrick stream winding along like a silver thread to throw itself into the Tweed. It may be pertinacity, but to my eye these grey hills, and all this wild Border Country have beauties peculiar to themselves. When I have been for some time in the rich scenery about Edinburgh which is like ornamented garden land, I begin to wish myself back again among my own honest grey hills; and if I did not see the heather at least once a year, I think I should die." Melrose is the "Kennaquhair" of the "Monastery" and the "Abbot." Its glory, of course, is its Abbey, unsurpassed in the beauty of death, but all grace fled from its environment. Were it possible to transplant the Abbey together with its rich associations to the site of the original foundation by the beautiful bend at Bemersyde, Melrose would sit enthroned peerless among the shrines of our northern land. Within Melrose Abbey, near to the High Altar, the Bruce's heart rests well—its fitful flutterings o'er. Here, too, lie the brave Earl Douglas, hero of Chevy Chase; Liddesdale's dark Knight—another Douglas; Evers and Latoun, the English commanders at Ancrum Moor, that ran so deadly red with the blood of their countrymen; and, according to Sir Walter, Michael Scot—
One is not surprised at Scott's love for Melrose. As the grandest ecclesiastical ruin in the country, it must be seen to be understood. Mere description counts for little in dealing with such a subject. Every window, arch, cloister, corbel, keystone, door-head and buttress of this excellent example of mediæval Gothic is a study in itself—all elaborately carved, yet no two alike. The sculpture is unequalled both in symmetry and in variety, embracing some of the loveliest specimens of floral tracery and the most quaint and grotesque representations imaginable. The great east oriel is its most imposing feature. But the south doorway and the chaste wheeled window above it are equally superb. For what is regarded as the finest view of the building, let us stand for a little at the north-east corner, not far from the grave of Scott's faithful factotum, Tom Purdie. Here the coup d'œil is very striking; and the contour of the ruins is realised to its full. Or if it be preferred, let us look at the pile beneath the lee light o' the moon—the conditions recommended in the "Lay."
Three inscriptions—one inside, two in the churchyard, are worth halting by. "Heir lyis the Race of ye Hovs of Zair," touches many hearts with its simple pathos. "The Lord is my Light," is the expressive text (self-chosen) on Sir David Brewster's tomb—the greatest master of optics in his day; and the third, covering the remains of a former Melrose schoolmaster was frequently on the lips of Scott:
If half the grace of Melrose is lost by reason of its environment, the situation of Dryburgh is queenly enough. It is assuredly the most picturesque monastic ruin in Great Britain. Scott's is the all-absorbing name, and as a matter of fact he would himself have become by inheritance the laird of Dryburgh, but for the financial folly of a spendthrift grand-uncle. "The ancient patrimony," he tells us, "was sold for a trifle, and my father, who might have purchased it with ease, was dissuaded by my grandfather from doing so, and thus we have nothing left of Dryburgh but the right of stretching our bones there." So here, the two Sir Walters, the two Lady Scotts, and Lockhart, await the breaking light of morn. Dryburgh, be it noted, is in Berwickshire—in Mertoun parish, where (at Mertoun House) Scott wrote the "Eve of St. John." Not far off is Sandyknowe (not Smailholm, as it is generally designated) Tower, the scene of the ballad, and the cradle of Scott's childhood, where there awoke within him the first real consciousness of life, and where he had his first impressions of the wondrously enchanted land that lay within the comparatively small circle of the Border Country. Ruined Roxburgh, between Tweed's and Teviot's flow, and the palatial Floors Castle represent the best of epochs old and new, and even more than in Scott's halcyon school days is Kelso the "Queen of the South Countrie." Coldstream, lying in sylvan loveliness on the left bank of the Tweed—a noble river here—has been the scene of many a memorable crossing from both countries from the time of Edward I. to the Covenanting struggle. So near the Border, Coldstream had at one time a considerable notoriety for its runaway marriages, the most notable of which was Lord Brougham's in 1819. Within an easy radius of Coldstream are Wark Castle, the mere site of it rather—where in 1344 Edward III. instituted the Order of the Garter; Twizel Bridge, with its single Gothic arch, cleverly crossed by Surrey and his men (it is the identical arch) at Flodden, that darkest of all dark fields for Scotland,
Of Norham Castle, frowning like Carlisle, to the North, and set down as it were to over-awe a kingdom, Scott's description is always the best. Ladykirk Church was built by James IV. in gratitude for his escape from drowning while fording the Tweed. Last of all, we reach Berwick, at one period the chief seaport in Scotland—a "second Alexandria," as was said, now the veriest shadow of its former self. Christianized towards the close of the fourth century, according to Bede, as a place rich in churches, monasteries and hospitals, Berwick held high rank in the ecclesiastical world. Its geographical position, too, as a frontier town made it the Strasburg for which contending armies were continually in conflict. Century after century its history was one red record of strife and bloodshed. Its walls, like its old Bridge spanning the Tweed, were built in Elizabeth's reign, and its Royal Border Bridge, opened to traffic in 1850, was happily characterised by Robert Stephenson, its builder, as the "last act of the Union."
Ettrick and Yarrow between them comprise most of Selkirkshire. The Teviot and Jed are the main arteries running through Roxburghshire, or Teviotdale, as was the ancient designation, colloquially Tividale and Tibbiedale. On the source-to-mouth principle—the most natural and the most instructive—the best approach into Teviotdale is by way of Langholm, locally the Langholm, pleasantly situated on the Dumfriesshire Esk, at the junction of the Ewes and Wauchope Waters. In the fine pastoral valley of the Ewes—the Yarrow of Dumfriesshire—we pass several places of note before striking Teviothead and the main course of the Teviot. At Wrae, William Knox, author of "The Lonely Hearth," and writer of the stanzas on "Mortality," so constantly quoted by Abraham Lincoln, had his home for a time. George Gilfillan, no mean judge, characterises him as the best sacred poet in Scotland. Further on is the birth-spot of another well-known singer, Henry Scott Riddell, whose patriotic "Scotland Yet" has won its way to the ends of the earth, wherever Scotsmen gather. At Unthank Kirkyard—none more lonely save St. Mary's on Yarrow, perhaps—we examine the graves of the hospitable and kindly Elliots of "Dandie Dinmont" immortality. Mosspaul Inn, lately restored, is close to the boundary between the two counties. From the Wisp Hill (1950 feet) the view on a clear day from Carlisle in the south to the distant north, is one to be remembered. The Wordsworths were at Mosspaul in 1803, and Dorothy's description is still fairly correct: "The scene with its single dwelling, was melancholy and wild, but not dreary, though there was no tree nor shrub; the small streamlet glittered, the hills were populous with sheep; but the gentle bending of the valley and the correspondent softness in the forms of the hills were of themselves enough to delight the eye. The whole of the Teviot and the pastoral steeps about Mosspaul pleased us exceedingly."
At Teviothead we touch the Teviot proper. The upper basin of the Teviot is mainly a barren vale, flanked by lofty rounded hills. For a greater distance it is a strip of alluvial plain, screened by terraced banks clad with the rankest vegetation, and with long stretches of undulating dale-land, and overhung at from three to eight miles by terminating heights, and in its lower reaches it is a richly variegated champaign country, possessing all the luxuriance without any of the tameness of a fertile plain, and stretching away in resulting loveliness to the picturesque Eildons on the one hand and the dome-like Cheviots on the other. Teviothead, formerly Carlanrigg, is full of traditionary lore. Teviot Stone, extinct now, a landmark for centuries—its position being marked on some of our earliest maps—recalls Scott's favourite lines from the "Lay," imprinted on the Selkirk monument:
Teviothead Churchyard contains the graves of Johnie Armstrong of Gilnockie, and his gallants. James V. (a mere boy-king at the time) never planned a more despicable or more atrocious deed than the betrayal and summary execution of this most picturesque of the freebooters. And posterity has never forgiven him. Nor can it. Scott's "Minstrelsy" ballad commemorating the incident is far and away the most dramatic of its kind, Johnie's scathing answer to the King being specially characteristic:
There is a tradition that the trees on which they were hanged became immediately blasted; and Scott, in parting with the Wordsworths directed them to look about for "some old stumps of trees," but "we could not find them," adds Miss Wordsworth. Hard by are the graves of Scott Riddell and his third son, William, a youth of remarkable promise. Teviothead Cottage, where Riddell resided till his death in 1870, is passed on the left. The church in which he preached (he was in charge of the then preaching station here) is now the parish school, and his monument, like a huge candle extinguisher, crowns the neighbouring Dryden Knowes. Still keeping to the Teviot, now a fair-sized stream, rich in the variety and beauty of its scenery—
we pass Gledsnest and Colterscleuch, figuring in the well-known "Jamie Telfer" ballad; Commonside, mentioned in "Kinmont Willie"; Northhouse, Teindside, Harwood, and Broadhaugh, snug farms all, till the hamlet of Newmill is reached, the quarrel scene between the "jovial harper" of the "Lay" and "Sweet Milk," "Bard of Reull," in which the latter was slain:
Allan Cunningham's version of "Rattlin', Roarin' Willie" should be read in this connection. Branxholme (poetically Branksome) is a particularly interesting portion of the Teviot valley. Its Braes recall the old ditty:
And looming up before us is the massive white pile of Branxholme itself, the master-fort of the Teviot, and the key of the pass between the Tweed basin and Merrie Carlisle. The Castle occupies a strong position, has been much modernised, and is now a residence for Buccleuch's Chamberlain. Up to 1756, it was the chief seat of the Buccleuch family. Branxholme's main glory, however, is not its past history, or the pomp and circumstance surrounding it in the hey-day of its power. If there was "another Yarrow" to Wordsworth, there is "another Branxholme" to us. It is not the memory of the fighting barons of Buccleuch, with their tumultuous raids and unending quarrels, which draws the pilgrim's feet to Branxholme's Tower, but the memory of events which the imagination of the Minstrel has conjured up, and which have made for themselves a local habitation and a name. For here Scott placed the leading incidents of the "Lay,"—the first and finest of his Border efforts:
From Branxholme to the russet-grey Peel of Goldielands is scarcely two miles. Minus gables or parapet now, and standing among the haystacks and buildings of a farm, it is still in tolerable preservation. Here dwelt amongst others of its old heroes, "the Laird's Wat, that worthie man," who led the Scots at the Reidswire in 1575. Not improbably is Goldielands the peel associated with Willie of Westburnflat's operations in the "Black Dwarf." At Goldielands Gate one gets a fine view to the right of the Borthwick valley,
And up the Borthwick, a mile or two, on its steep bank sits Harden, a place of more than ordinary note to the Scott student. Here Auld Wat, Sir Walter's grandsire seven times removed, reigned a king among Border reivers, whose deeds of derring-do have been long shrined by the balladists, and graven deep on the tablets of memory. Hawick, the Glasgow of the Borders, comes next in sight,—where Slitrig and Teviot meet. An ancient town, but possessing few relics of antiquity, except St. Mary's Church, and the Tower Inn, a dwelling of the Drumlanrig Douglases, with the mysterious Moat "where Druid shades still flitted round." The modernity of the place is, however, lost sight of annually in the "riding of the marches," a custom which prevails also in Selkirk and Langholm. It is the great public festival of the year, and dates from time immemorial. Its memories are mostly of Flodden, and the brave stand at Hornshole in the neighbourhood, the year after. The Flodden flag, splendidly "bussed," is carried in civic and cornetal procession with crowds continually singing—as only Teridom can—the rousing martial air of "Teribus," the Hawick slogan, which expresses more than any other the wild and defiant strain of the war-trump and the battle-shout. Hawick, including Wilton, has several elegantly architectured buildings, over a score of Tweed mills and factories, seventeen churches, and boasts a population of nearly twenty thousand.
From Hawick to Kelso the distance is 21 miles, with a finely undulating road all through. The railway journey via St. Boswells is about double the distance. Our way lies through some of the most storied scenery in the Lowlands. The names on the map will give us an idea of the exceedingly romantic character of this second half of the Teviot. Here we come into touch with such song-haunted tributaries as the Jed and Oxnam, the Rule and Kale, and Ale, and with many of the great houses whose history has contributed more than any other to the making of the Border Country. The names of Scott and Ker, Elliot and Douglas, Turnbull and Riddell are patent to every parish through which we pass. At Minto, the home of the Elliots and seat of the present Indian Viceroy, one is reminded of the distinguished place which that family has held both in the stormy and in the more peaceful times of Border story. Here Jean Elliot wrote the "Flowers of the Forest," and Thomas Campbell his "Lochiel's Warning." From Minto Crags, crowned with Fatlips Castle and Barnhill's Bed, (729 feet) there is no more pleasing prospect in the Borderland. The windings of the Teviot are traceable for miles, the Liddesdale and Dumfriesshire heights hemming in the view on one side, and the blue Cheviots on the other. Ruberslaw rises immediately in front, with Denholm Dene on the right, and the narrow bed of the "mining Rule" on the left, while behind to the north are distinctly seen the three-coned Eildons, Earlston Black Hill, Scott's Sandyknowe, Hume Castle, and the wavy line of the Lammermoors. Hassendean (suggesting "Jock o' Hazeldean") Cavers, a Douglas house, where the pennon of the great Earl, and the Percy gauntlets are still shown; Denholm, Leyden's birthplace, Henlawshiel and Kirkton, scenes in his boyhood, lie all in the neighbourhood. Dr. Chalmers was for a time assistant in Cavers Kirk, and in later life delighted to recall his connection with the Border district. Adjoining Minto, Ancrum stands bonnie on Ale Water—a village of considerable antiquity. Its Cross, dating from David I.'s time, is one of the best-preserved of the market-crosses of the Border. Ancrum was the birthplace of Dr. William Buchan of "Domestic Medicine" celebrity, and John Livingston, its minister during the Covenant, was a man of mark and piety in his day. The place naturally suggests Ancrum Moor, a mile or two to the north-west, one of the last great battlefields of the international struggle. In February, 1544, an English army under Sir Ralph Evers and Sir Brian Latoun desolated the Scottish frontier as far north as Melrose, defacing the Douglas tombs in the abbey. On returning with their booty towards Jedburgh, they were overtaken at Ancrum Moor, and severely beaten by a Scottish force led by the Earl of Angus and Scott of Buccleuch. In this battle, according to tradition, fought Maiden Lilliard, a brave Scotswoman from Maxton, who fell beneath many wounds and was buried on the spot. Her grave, in the midst of a thick fir-wood, carries the somewhat doggerel epitaph:
[A] An attempt has been made to discredit this story by an appeal to the antiquity of the place-name, which is admittedly much earlier than Lilliard's day. This, however, does not dispose of the tradition. The likelihood is that originally the first line was really "the Fair Maid of Lilliard."
The monument has been frequently restored. Lady John Scott made the last repairing touches, adding the words:
The Jed, joining the Teviot close to Jedfoot Station, reminds us that the county town of Roxburgh—Jedburgh—is within easy access, and the fascinating valley of the Jed which Burns so vigorously extolled. The Jed takes its rise between Needslaw and Carlintooth on the Liddesdale Border. Its general course is east and north, and its length about seventeen miles. The places of chief interest on its banks are Southdean, where the Scottish chiefs assembled previous to Otterburn, and where the poet Thomson spent his boyhood; Old Jedworth, the original township, a few grassy mounds marking the spot; Ferniherst Castle, a Ker stronghold; Lintalee, the site of a Douglas camp described in Barbour's "Bruce;" the Capon Tree, a thousand years old, one of the last survivors of "Jedworth's forest wild and free;" and the Hundalee hiding caves. The charm of Jedburgh consists in its old-world character and its semi-Continental touches. Its fine situation early attracted the notice of the Scottish Kings, though Bishop Ecfred of Lindisfarne is believed to have been its true founder. He could not have chosen a more sweet or appropriate nook for his little settlement. Nestling in the quiet valley, and creeping up the ridge of the Dunion, the song of the river ever in its ears, freshened by the scent of garden and orchard, and surrounded by finely-wooded heights, Nature has been lavish in filling with new adornments, as years sped by, a spot always bright and fair.