stead over the south of Scotland. The high lands over which Leslie conducted his men on the morning on which he defeated Montrose, in 1645, were to within a few years ago a rough uncultivated moorland; now finely cultivated fields stretch out to the very hill-tops, and plantation strips of young firs gracefully wind along the boldest ridges.
At the most southern point of the grounds of Philliphaugh the Yarrow is reached; but in place of the melancholy murmurs which the thousand-and-one ballads might lead any one to expect, we were greeted by a brawling, dancing trout- stream; and, as the silvery spoil were busy all over the shallows, taking down the surface-flies, for a time we thought of nothing but fine tackle and trout-slaughter.
Lovers of the angle delight in the Yarrow. Its trout are large and fine; and, one day last spring, no less than two fine grilses, after an exciting run of half-an-hour each, were brought ashore by the hand of Lady Victoria Scott, the fair daughter of the Duke of Buccleuch. A number of ladies wield the trout-rod, but very few on Tweedside try the salmon. “Where Ettrick twines with Yarrow,” the rich woodland scenery of Bowhill, belonging to the nobleman above-named, begins, and the finely grown trees of all the varieties commonly grown in Scotland—the dark Scotch pine being often placed so as to produce a fine effect among the hardwoods—are set off to great advantage by the steep banks and undulations along the Yarrow, and the background of heath or grass-covered hills.
On the peninsula formed by the two rivers is Carterhaugh, the scene of the weird and romantic ballad of “Tamlane.” Of all the Border ballads this is perhaps the most wild and strange.
Carterhaugh was also the place where the great match at foot-ball was played by the men of Ettrick and Yarrow at which Scott and the Ettrick Shepherd were present, both of whom, if we remember correctly, wrote verses in praise of the men whose side they took in the match.
At Fasteneven, both foot and hand ball are still played at most of the towns on the Scottish border; and to a person who has not been accustomed from youth to seeing ball-playing, the game seems barbarous in the extreme. The ball is tossed up midway between two goals, perhaps a mile apart; and, if hand-ball, any means by the opposing parties of getting the ball to a goal may be used—throwing it, running with it, or concealing it, and thereby getting quietly to the goal with it. And the rule of play is, that any person holding the ball, or lifting it, or attempting to lift it, is liable to be floored by any means short of striking; so that broken heads and broken bones are by no means uncommon: and a ball is seldom played for a day without being carried into the river in the vicinity of the town or village where the game is annually held; and it is there where a Londoner would open eyes and mouth in astonishment. Although the season for ball playing is winter, and although keen frosty weather may prevail, a large number of the players dash into the river after the ball; and there they souse and plunge each other as freely, and apparently with as much relish, as if it were midsummer.
Ball-playing in the river affords great amusement to a large number of on-lookers, who crowd the bridges and the banks of the river in order to see the sport. The on-lookers are of both sexes, the females being all of the poorest class. Men and boys, however, of all grades and ages, eagerly watch the game.
From the mouth of the Yarrow upwards, for somewhere about five miles, the visitor passes through as beautiful and romantic a valley as Scotland can reveal; and within that compass, among other places of note, stand Foulshiels, the birth-place of Mungo Park, and Newark Castle, the scene of the “Lay of the Last Minstrel.”
Foulshiels is a humble cottage on the left bank of the river; and, until within a few years ago, it was inhabited by John, or, as the Selkirk folk called him, Johnnie Park—a brother of the traveller—a man of little learning and a small amount of knowledge, who knew little of either his brother or his travels.
Park served an apprenticeship in a doctor’s drug-shop in Selkirk, and during his study of physic-compounds, the following little episode, which we had from a venerable doctor of medicine, occurred:—
An old well-known burgher stepped into the shop one day, and, looking in an excited manner at the boy, said:
“Mungo, is the doctor in?”
“No, sir.”
“O lord! and I’m nearly dead wi’ the tooth-ache.”
“But I’ll draw the tooth for you, if you wish it drawn.”
“You, callant? Did ye ever draw ony teeth afore?”
“Yes, I have, sir.”
“Faith, I’ll rather come back again and see the doctor than lippen ye!”
The old gentleman went off, and, ere long, he returned with the old question:
“Mungo, my man, is the doctor in now?”
“No, sir; he’s not come yet.”
“What am I to do? I’m nearly daft wi’ the pain. Mungo, are ye perfectly downright sure ye’ve drawn teeth before this?”
“I really have, sir,” said the boy.
“Then get the nippers, and take out mine. Now mind!—take care—be canny.”
The youth extracted the tooth, and after the old gentleman got over the shock it caused, and found himself relieved, he complimented him on the skill he had shown,—and then asked him how many teeth he had drawn before operating on himself.
“Only thirty-two,” said Mungo.
“Thirty-twae! Faith, I think it’s a guid only. Where in the world did a’ the folk come frae?”
“O, I took them all out of one man’s mouth.”
“That was dreadfu’! I wonder the man let ye pull them.”
“He couldn’t prevent me.”
“How?”
“Because he was dead.”
