After Yarrow hamlet the land is more desolate, the stream shrinks to a mountain burn, there are no more clumps of trees, and the hills creep in near the water’s edge, and they are taller and steeper. You pass lofty Mount Benger, near where Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, who loved and sang of those sweet vales, had a farm. Farther on the right bank is Altrive, where he afterwards lived, and where he died. Almost opposite, the Douglas Burn flows through a gloomy and solitary glen to Yarrow. Follow this burn and you come to the ruins of Blackhouse Tower. It was from here that Lord William and Lady Margaret fled at midnight from Lord Douglas and his seven sons. These were slain one by one, but it was only when her lover began to press roughly on her father that the lady interposed.
“Oh hold your hand, Lord William, she said, For your strokes they are wondrous sair. True lovers I can get many a one, But a father I can never get mair.”
An obvious if belated reflection! ’Twas of no avail, the father is left dead and dying, and the lady follows her knight (“For ye’ve left me nae other guide,” she says somewhat bitterly). They light down at “yon wan water” and his “gude heart’s bluid” dyes the stream, though he swears “’Tis naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak.” However, the lovers die that very night and are buried in St. Marie’s Kirke, and “a bonny red rose” and a briar grew out of the grave and twined together to the admiration of all who saw, but to the great wrath of Black Douglas, who, a sworn foe to sentimentality,
“Pull’d up the bonny briar And flang’d in St. Marie’s Loch.”
The wild path followed by the lovers over the hillside is still to be traced, the place of the combat is marked by seven stones; but again these are of an earlier date, and again it would be useless to criticise the creation of the fancy too curiously.
And now we are at St. Mary’s Loch, a beautiful sheet of water three miles long and half a mile broad. At the head of the loch is a monument to the Ettrick Shepherd. Near the monument is St. Mary’s Cottage, better known as “Tibbie Shiel’s,” and scene of many a gay carouse of Christopher North and his merry men, as you know very well if you have read the _Noctes Ambrosianæ_. The cottage is still kept by a relative of the original Tibbie, as a humble sort of an inn. If you are wise you will prefer it to the large new Rodona hotel not far off. It has a touch of the old times with its huge fireplace and box beds. It is something to hear the local anecdote, how one morning “after” Christopher or the shepherd, being more than ever consumed with the pangs of thirst, in a burst of wild desire, cried “Tibbie, bring ben the Loch.” It is said that Scott was never farther than the door. Scott, Hogg, Wilson were, we all know, great writers, though to-day Wilson is but little read, Hogg popular through one or two lyrics, whilst Scott is more and more known with the years. But each of the three had an impressive and attractive personality--he is more than a writer, he is first of all a man. Superior in interest to monument and cottage is St. Mary’s Kirk, which stands on a height on the left bank of the loch. One should say stood, for nothing of it is left. Here generations of martyrs and freebooters were carried, and the heroes and heroines of so many of the tales and ballads were laid to rest, but--
“St. Mary’s Loch lies slumbering still, But St. Mary’s Kirk-bells lang dune ringing, There’s naething now but the grave-stone hill, To tell o’ a’ their loud Psalm-singing.”
They still bury there, though at rare and distant intervals. Hard by is Dryhope Tower. Here was born Mary Scott, the “Flower of Yarrow.” The romance of the name caused this heroine to be incessantly be-rhymed through all the subsequent centuries, but we don’t know much about her. She was married to Walter Scott of Harden, a gentleman widely and justly renowned for his skill in “lifting” other people’s cattle. As a portion the bride’s father agreed to “find his son-in-law in man’s meat and horse’s meat for a year and a day, five barons becoming bound that, on the expiry of that period, Harden should retire without compulsion.” Not one of the parties to the contract could write. A daughter of the “Flower of Yarrow” was married to another freebooter called “Gilly wi’ the gouden garters.” The bride was to remain at her father’s house for a year and a day, and in return Gilly contracted to hand over the plunder of the first harvest moon. By the way, there is rather a pretty though quite untrustworthy tradition of the origin of the ballads connected with the name of Mary Scott. In the spoils brought home by her husband from one of his forays, was a child. Him she took and reared. Of gentle nature, he delighted to hear of and celebrate in songs the tragedies and romances acted or repeated around him; and so he, “nameless as the race from whence he sprung, saved other names and left his own unsung.” The Meggat Water is one of the many streams that fill the loch. On one of its tributaries called Henderland-burn is a ruined tower, and near it a large stone broken into three parts, on which you may still make out the inscription, “Here lyes Perys of Cockburne and his wyfe Marjory.” Cockburne was in his day a noted freebooter, and secure in his tower defied all attempts to bring him to justice. But James V. in his famous progress through the Border-land, heard of his proceedings, and came right over the hills and down upon Henderland, whose proprietor he found eating his dinner. It was his last meal; he was at once seized and strung up before his own door. His wife fled and concealed herself in a place called the Lady’s seat, and when she recovered the silence of the glen told her that the invaders had departed, and she returned and buried her husband. One of the most pathetic of the old ballads is said to be her lament
“But think na’ ye my heart was sair, When I laid the moul’ on his yellow hair; O think na’ ye my heart was wae, When I turned about, awa’ to gae.”
By the way, gold was found in the glen here; probably a little might be extracted to-day; but then it wouldn’t pay for the washing. Quite a different set of traditions deals with the Covenanting period. Far up in the solitary side glens were favourite meeting-places; here the saints came from far and near with Bible, and sword and gun, ready to offer up their lives if need may be, but quite determined to sell them as dearly as possible. Alas! the minstrels were not on their side, and no contemporary ballads tell the story of the dangers and deaths, though those were dramatic enough. In later times Hogg and Wilson did something to weave them into song and story. It was near the loch of the Lowes that Renwick preached his last sermon. “When he prayed that day few of his hearers’ cheeks were dry.” On the 17th February, 1688, “he glorified God in the grass-market,” as the old phrase ran.
And now one can understand how Yarrow came to its fame. Quieter, sweeter, softer than other vales, its green braes, its delicious streams attracted the old singers who preserved the memories of others’ deeds. But why is this music sad? Well, most border ballads are little tragedies, the strongest emotions are the saddest, and such the singers preferred. And then one or two ballads gave a decided tone to the others. The “Dowie Dens,” in fact, strikes the key-note of them all. William Hamilton, of Bangour, and John Logan have both told a story of love and death in excellent fashion in their poems on “The Braes of Yarrow.” As for the rest, Scott is chiefly descriptive; Wordsworth, in spite of an occasional line or even verse of high excellence, is on the whole very poor; and Alan Ramsay is exceedingly bad.
THE MISSISSIPPI
ALEXANDER D. ANDERSON
In the early days of European discoveries and rivalries in the Mississippi Valley its comprehensive river system played a prominent part on the stage of public affairs. The discovery of the river, in 1541, by De Soto and his Spanish troops, was about a century later followed by explorations by the French under the lead of Marquette, Joliet, La Salle and others, who entered the valley from the north. La Salle, during the years 1679-83, explored the river throughout its whole length, took possession of the great valley in the name of France, and called it Louisiana in honour of his King, Louis XIV. Then resulted grand schemes for developing the resources of the valley, which a French writer characterized as “the regions watered by the Mississippi, immense unknown virgin solitudes which the imagination filled with riches.” One Crozat, in 1712, secured from the King a charter giving him almost imperial control of the commerce of the whole Mississippi Valley. There was at that date no European rival to dispute French domination, for the English of New England and the other Atlantic colonies had not extended their settlements westward across the Alleghanies, and the Spanish inhabitants of New Spain or Mexico had not pushed their conquest farther north than New Mexico. Crozat’s trading privileges covered an area many times as large as all France, and as fertile as any on the face of the earth. But he was equal to the opportunity, and, failing in his efforts, soon surrendered the charter.