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. Passing 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;
Shaggy 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.
Passing 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 passions, 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."