"Brawly;"[162] was the reply.

[Footnote 162: Finely.]

"Can you make 'the twa ends meet' at the close of the year?"

"Yes," said he, "and something mair than that. Last Candlemas I laid up nae less than ten and saxpence."

"But how can you do it. Have you any land to cultivate?"

"A wee bittock," was the answer, "but it's graund for taties and turnips."

"Have you a cow?"

"O aye, we have a coo, and a gude coo she is."

"Well, what have you for victuals?"

"The best o' parritch and milk in the morning, and at nicht. And as for denner, we ha' nae great variety, but what's wholesome eneuch. And ye ken, Dominie C., that hunger's the best sauce."

"True enough, but excuse me, I should like to know what you generally have for dinner."

"Ou," said he, laughing, "the graundest kail i' the world, made o'

barley, b.u.t.ter and vegetables, wi' a bit o' beef, or a marrow bane in't once in a while, and mealy tatties, scones and cakes, the very best in the kintra!"

"Well, you're content!"

"To be sure we are! and gratefu', besides, to the Giver o' a' gude."

"But you have a little pinch occasionally--in the cold and stormy winter weather?"

"Why ye-s--but it's nae mair than a body may expeck, and it's a great deal less than we deserve. For mysel' I ha' nae great reason to complain, but Sandy Wilson, ower the way, has had a sair time on't."

"What's the matter?"

"Why, ye see, Sandy is no very able-bodied, and maybe a little shiftless, and he fell sick about the middle o' winter. His wife is a proud kind o' body, and she said naething to the neebors, and I jalouse they had a sair pinching time on't. The wee bit la.s.sie seemed to be dwining awa', and Sandy, puir fellow, was just at death's door. But the minister o' the parish found it out, and Sandy was soon provided for.

Hech sir! we ought to be thankfu' that we hae our health. It's a great blessing. For if a man only has health and a clear conscience he needna fear famine or the deevil."

"Sandy then got over his troubles, did he?"

"In a measure," was the cautious reply, "but the puir wee la.s.sie grew paler and paler; and noo her bonny brown hair is covered wi' the yird.

She was a sweet bit la.s.sie, but she was frail in the const.i.tootion, ye see, and the hard famishing winter was ower muckle for her feeble frame.

But she was weel cared for on her sick bed. And when she died, the hail kintra side turned out to attend the funeral, and mony tears were shed upon her wee bit grave. My Mary, who gaed to school wi' her, canna get ower it to this day. She was an unco bonny thing--sweet as the mornin'

wat wi' dew, and gentle as a pet lamb. But her grave is green by this time, and Sandy is better off than he used to be."

The burly laird listened attentively to this narrative, and at the close of it, a tear dimmed his eye. He gave a slight cough, as if to repress and to hide his rising emotion, and looking out the coach window, exclaimed, "There's Peebles, at last, and yonder's the sign of the Black Bull," as if he were prodigiously relieved.

The day is brightening, and this ancient city on the Tweed, looks quite agreeable, reminding us of the days of old, when the kings and n.o.bles of Scotland used to witness, on its beautiful green, games of archery, golf, and so forth. It is supposed to be the scene referred to in the opening stanza of "Christ's Kirk on the Green," by James the First, the royal poet of Scotland.

"Was never in Scotland hard nor sene, Sic dansing nor deray, Nouther at Falkland on the green, Nor Pebllis in the play; As wes of wowarris as I wene, At Christ's Kirk on ane day; Thair came our kittles washen clene, In thair new kirtillis of gray Full gay, At Christ's Kirk o' the Grene that day."

This old town was burnt and laid waste more than once during the invasions of the English. Still, from its sequestered situation, it never figured largely in any great event. An antique bridge, consisting of five arches, connects the old and new towns, which lie on either bank of the river. Rambling through the place, we come to a large ma.s.sive building, in a castellated form, known to have belonged to the Queensberry family, and believed to be the scene of a romantic incident, thus related by Sir Walter Scott:--"There is a tradition in Tweedale, that when Nidpath castle, near Peebles, was inhabited by the Earls of March, a mutual pa.s.sion subsisted between a daughter of that n.o.ble family and the son of the Laird of Tushielaw, in Ettrick Forest. As the alliance was thought unsuitable by her parents, the young man went abroad. During his absence, the young lady fell into a consumption, and at length, as the only means of saving her life, her father consented that her lover should be recalled. On the day when he was expected to pa.s.s through Peebles, on the road to Tushielaw, the young lady, though much exhausted, caused herself to be carried to the balcony of a house in Peebles, belonging to the family, that she might see him when he rode past. Her anxiety and eagerness gave such force to her organs that she is said to have distinguished his horses' footsteps at an incredible distance. But Tushielaw, unprepared for the change in her appearance, and not expecting to see her in that place, rode on, without recognizing her, or even slackening his pace. The lady was unable to support the shock, and after a short struggle died in the arms of her attendants."

Here are the ruins of some very old churches, one in particular, at the western extremity of the old town. This was the original parish church of Peebles, and was built upon the site of one still more ancient, occupied by the Culdees, (probably from Cultores Dei, worshipers of G.o.d,) an ancient cla.s.s of monks, whose forms of worship and doctrinal belief were extremely simple, and, as some suppose, evangelical. They had monasteries at Jona, and in various parts of Scotland, before the Anglo-Saxon period, and preserved for many years, the pure worship of G.o.d. An altar in St. Andrew's church, was dedicated to St. Michael, with a special endowment for the services of "a chapellane, there perpetually to say mes, efter the valow of the rents and possessions gevin thereto, in honor of Almighty G.o.d, Mary his Modyr, and Saint Michael, for the hele of the body and the sawl of Jamys, King of Scotts, for the balyheis, ye burges, and ye communite of the burgh of Peebles, and for the hele of their awn sawlis, thair fadyris sawlis, thair modyris sawlis, thair kinnis sawlis, and al Chrystyn sawlis." Part of the t.i.thes of this church are now used to support a Grammar school, and while the people still worship Almighty G.o.d, they have but little reverence for "Mary his modyr, and St. Michael."

Let us wander along the banks of this far-famed and beautiful river, gliding sweetly through one of the most beautiful vales in Scotland, and once adorned with numerous castles and monasteries, whose mouldering remains yet diversify the landscape. The whole vale of the Tweed, both above and below Peebles, was studded with a chain of castles, built in the shape of square towers, and ordinarily consisting of three stories, to serve as a defence against the invasion of the English freebooters.

They were built alternately on each side of the river, and at such distances that one could be seen from the other. A fire kindled on the top of one of these, to give warning of a hostile incursion, could thus be perpetuated through the whole, till a tract of country seventy miles long, "from Berwick to the Bield," and fifty broad, was alarmed in a few hours. What objects of terror and sublimity these blazing summits, lighting, in a dark night, the whole valley of the Tweed, and flashing their ruddy gleam upon copsewood and river, hill-top and castle turret!

"A score of fires, I ween, From height, and hill, and cliff were seen, Each with warlike tidings fraught, Each from each the signal caught; Each after each they glanced in sight, As stars arise upon the night: They gleamed on many a dusky tarn Haunted by the lonely earn,[163]

On many a cairn's grey pyramid, Where urns of mighty chiefs lie hid."

_Lay of the Last Minstrel._

[Footnote 163: The Scottish eagle.]

But the grey mist of evening is beginning to settle upon the vale of the Tweed, and the quaint old town of Peebles, "with its three old bridges, and three old steeples, by three old churches borne."

With fair weather, and in admirable spirits, we set off next morning, after breakfast, and travel at an easy pace down the fair banks of the "silver Tweed," till we reach the pretty village of Innerleithen, at the bottom of a sequestered dell, encircled on one side by high and partially wooded hills, and enlivened by the clear waters of the Tweed, rolling in front. Pa.s.sing a handsome wooden bridge which crosses the river, we reach the hamlet of Traquair and Traquair house, and naturally enquire for the far-famed "Bush aboon Traquair." It is pointed out at the bottom of the hill which overlooks the lawn, where a few birch trees may be seen, the only remains of that dear old spot, made sacred by melody and song. Continuing our journey across the country, we get among the hills, and after travelling some time through a deep glen, we see before us the "haunted stream of Yarrow," the very name of which has become a synonym for all that is tender in sentiment and beautiful in poetry.

"And is this Yarrow? This the stream, Of which my fancy cherished So faithfully a waking dream, An image that hath perished?"

Following in somewhat pensive mood, "its beautiful meanderings" through this hill-guarded valley, we come to St. Mary's Lake, lying in solemn but beautiful serenity among the mountains, whose heathy sides and bare cliffs are mirrored in her pellucid depths.

"Nor fen nor sedge Pollute the pure lake's crystal edge; Abrupt and sheer the mountains sink At once upon the level brink; And just a trace of silver sand Marks where the water meets the land.

Far, in the mirror bright and blue, Each hill's huge outline you may view; s.h.a.ggy with heath, but lonely bare, Nor tree, nor bush, nor brake is there, Save where of land, yon slender line Bears thwart the lake the scattered pine.

Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy, Where living thing concealed might lie; Nor point retiring hides a dell Where swain or woodman lone might dwell; There's nothing left to fancy's guess, You see that all is loneliness; And silence adds,--though the steep hills Send to the lake a thousand rills, In summer tide so soft they weep, The sound but lulls the ear asleep; Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too rude, So stilly is the solitude."

_Marmion._

Pa.s.sing to the eastern extremity of the Lake, we come to Dryhope Tower, the birth-place of Mary Scott, the famous "Flower of Yarrow." Her lover, or husband, was slain by Scott of Tushielaw, from jealousy, or from a desire to secure her fortune, her father having promised to endow her with half his property. Seized by the imagination of the ancient Minnesingers, this incident became the subject of a ballad, or ballads of great beauty and pathos, well known through Scotland, and frequently sung "amang her green braes." This has invested Yarrow with a deep poetical charm, and given rise to a great variety of sweet and pathetic strains, affording a fine exemplification of the manner in which poetry grows, as by a natural law of progress. A single incident gathers around itself all beautiful images, all tender thoughts, feelings and pa.s.sions, till the region in which it occurred becomes instinct with fantasy, and absolutely glows with a sort of conscious beauty. The very air is burdened with a melancholy charm. The stream meandering through the vale, and the winds whispering through the mountain glens or rippling the surface of St. Mary's lake, "murmur a music not their own." In a word, we have come from the real, everyday world, into one that is ideal, where, in the deep stillness of nature, the voices of the past reveal themselves to the listening soul. In this view we know not a more interesting or instructive series of poems than those relating to Yarrow. The first is the ballad of the "Dowie Dens," or rather, "Downs of Yarrow." This is variously printed, but we give the version of Motherwell.

There were three lords birling at the wine, On the Dowie Dens of Yarrow; They made a compact them between, They would go fecht to-morrow.

"Thou took our sister to be thy wife, And thou ne'er thocht her thy marrow, Thou stealed her frae her daddy's back, When she was the Rose of Yarrow."

"Yes, I took your sister to be my wife, And I made her my marrow; I stealed her frae her daddy's back, And she's still the Rose of Yarrow."

He is hame to his lady gane, As he had done before, O; Says, "Madam I must go and fecht, On the Dowie Downs o' Yarrow."

"Stay at hame, my Lord," she said, "For that will breed much sorrow; For my three brethren will slay thee, On the Dowie Downs o' Yarrow."

"Hold your tongue, my lady fair; For what needs a' this sorrow?

For I'll be hame gin' the clock strikes nine, From the Dowie Downs o' Yarrow."

He wush his face, and she combed his hair, As she had done before, O; She dressed him up in his armour clear, Sent him forth to fecht on Yarrow.

"Come ye here to hawk or hound, Or drink the wine that's sae clear, O; Or come ye here to eat in your words, That you're not the Rose o' Yarrow?"

"I came not here to hawk or hound, Nor to drink the wine that's sae clear, O; Nor came I here to eat in my words, For I'm still the Rose o' Yarrow."