Journey to Peebles—Characters—Conversation on Politics—Scottish Peasantry—Peebles—"Christ's Kirk on the Green"—A Legend—An old Church—The Banks of the Tweed—Its ancient Castles—The Alarm Fire—Excursion to the Vales of Ettrick and Yarrow—Stream of Yarrow—St. Mary's Lake and Dryhope Tower—"The Dowie Dens of Yarrow"—Growth of Poetry—Ballads and Poems on Yarrow by Hamilton, Logan and Wordsworth.

On a cold, drizzly morning we start, in a substantial stage-coach, well lined with cushions inside, for the ancient town of Peebles, which lies to the south of Edinburgh, some twenty-five miles or more. The 'outsides' are wrapped in cloaks and overcoats, and literally covered in with umbrellas; and from their earnest talking seem to be tolerably comfortable. The "Scottish mist," cold and penetrating, would soon reach the skin of an unsheltered back; all hands, therefore, and especially the driver in front, and the guard behind, are muffled to the neck with cravats and other appliances. Eyes and mouth only are visible, not indeed to the passers by, but to the denizens of the stage-coach, who cling together for warmth and sociability. Our travelling companions inside are a Dominie from Auchingray, fat as a capon, with face round, sleek and shiny, little gray eyes glancing beneath a placid forehead, and indicating intelligence and good nature; and a south-country laird, a large, brawny man, with a huge face and huger hat, corduroy breeches and top boots, a coat that nearly covers the whole of his body, and a vest of corresponding dimensions. A mighty cravat is tied neatly around his capacious throat, and a couple of large gold seals dangle from beneath his vest. In addition to these two, a little man, thin and wrinkled, but with a clear, quick, restless eye, is sitting in the corner, squeezed into a rather straight place by the laird and the dominie. From his appearance and conversation, we should take him to be a lawyer. With some little difficulty we get into conversation, but once set agoing, it jogs on at a pretty fair pace. Insensibly it glides into politics, and becomes rather lively. The lawyer is evidently a whig, the laird a tory of the old stamp, and the dominie neither the one nor the other, but rather more of a tory than anything else, as he is dependent, in some sense, upon 'the powers that be.'

"For my part," says the laird, taking hold of his watch-seals, and twirling them energetically, "I do not believe in your two-faced radicals, who have more impudence in their noddles than money in their pockets, and who go routing about the country, crying up democracy and all that sort of stuff, to the great injury of her majesty's subjects."

"But, my dear sir," replies the lawyer, "you forget that money is not the summum bonum of human life, and that the gentlemen to whom you refer are not impudent radicals, but clear-headed and patriotic whigs."

"All gammon, sir! all gammon!" is the rejoinder of the laird, "I wouldn't give a fig for the whole pack. One or two of them, I admit, are tolerably respectable men. Lord John Russel belongs to the old nobility, and is a man of some sense, but sadly deceived, full of nonsensical plans and dangerous reforms. As to Dan. O'Connel, he is an old fox, a regular Irish blackguard, who has not heart enough to make a living by honest means, but fleeces it out of the starving Irish, in the shape of repeal rent! Hang the rascal, I should be glad to see him gibbeted! Hume is a mean, beggarly adventurer. And even Sir Robert Peel, with all his excellences, has made sad mistakes on the subject of reform and the corn laws. He's not the thing, after all! Sadly out of joint, sir, sadly out of joint!"

All this is said with such terrible energy, and such a menacing frown, that even the lawyer cowers a little, and the dominie is almost frightened. We think it best, upon the whole, to say little. But, plucking up courage, the lawyer replies:

"Sir, you come to conclusions that are too sweeping. That Lord John Russel is a man of clear intellect and admirable forethought no one will think of denying. His plans are well matured, and, moreover, aim at the good of his country. Hume is a great political economist: Sir R. Peel is a man of the highest order of mind; and Daniel O'Connel, with all his faults, possesses uncommon powers of eloquence, and, doubtless, seeks the good of his country."

"The good of his country! All humbug, sir! If you had said his own good, you would have come nearer the mark. He's a rascal, sir, rely on it, a mean cowardly rascal, who, pretending to benefit the poor Irish, fills his own pockets with their hard earnings. I appeal to Mr. Cooper here, my respected friend, the parish schoolmaster of Auchingray."

To which the dominie replies demurely:

"As to my opinion, gentlemen, it is not of much consequence, but such as it is I give with all candor. In the first place I opine that we are liable somewhat to yield to our prejudices in estimating the characters of public men; for, as my old friend, the Rev. Mr. Twist, used to say, they have 'twa maisters to serve, the government and the public, and it's unco difficult sometimes to sail between Scylla and Charybdis.' Moreover, these are trying times, and much of primitive integrity and patriotism are lost. For myself, I do not approve altogether of the course of the whigs, and especially of the radicals. Daniel O'Connel is a devoted Catholic, with no generous aspirations, or enlarged conceptions of the public weal. A great man, certainly, a wonderful orator, no doubt, but much tinctured with selfishness, and carried away by wild and prurient schemes. Lord John Russel is a man of decided talent and fine character, but I have not much confidence, after all, in his practical wisdom, and good common sense. Sir Robert Peel, however is, with some slight exceptions, a model statesman, a man of a wonderfully clear, well balanced mind, and a deep insight into men and things. Still, as my friend on the left says, he's somewhat out of joint just now, and, for my own part, I could never altogether approve his schemes."

"There sir," quickly interposed the laird, "There sir! didn't I tell you, sir? All humbug, sir! Nothing safe—nothing useful about the whigs! Give me the good old days of my grandfather, when the rascals dared not peep or mutter!"

"But you forget, sir," is the answer of the lawyer, "that your friend, the schoolmaster here, has admitted nearly all for which I contend."

"Admitted nothing, sir! Comes to nothing, sir! And to tell you the plain honest truth, I believe the whole pack of them are a set of humbugs! All sham, sir! nothing but hypocrisy and humbug!"

"But a modification of the corn laws is certainly desirable for the sake of the poorer classes, many of whom are living upon the merest trifle:"—we venture to remark.

"All a mistake, sir! all a mistake! An honest, sensible man can always make his way, and secure bread for his family!"

"Well, but surely you consider a shilling or eighteen pence a day rather miserable support!"

"Not at all, sir! not at all! They're used to it, and thousands of them are happier than you or I!"

"Upon this point we beg leave to doubt, and hope the time is not far distant when the common people will have cheap bread:"—we quietly rejoin.

"Amen!" responds the dominie. "That I am confident would be an improvement; but how it is to be brought about is a question of great difficulty. The common people of Scotland are not so poorly off as foreigners represent them. Their habits are primitive and simple, and I certainly have known many families, particularly in the country, make themselves very comfortable on eighteen pence or a couple of shillings a day."

"Give us an example, if you please!"

"Why, there is James Thomson, a working man, who makes, upon an average, say eighteen pence or a couple of shillings sterling (fifty cents) daily, through the year. He has a wife and four children. He built himself a kind of stone and turf cottage on the edge of one of Lord B.'s plantations, with a but and a ben,[161] and a little out-house. One day I called in to see him about one of his children, and, in the course of conversation, asked him how he got along."

"Brawly;"[162] was the reply.

"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, butter 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 lassie 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 lassie grew paler and paler; and noo her bonny brown hair is covered wi' the yird. She was a sweet bit lassie, but she was frail in the constitootion, 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 nobles 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.

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 massive 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 passion subsisted between a daughter of that noble 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 pass 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 God,) an ancient class 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 God. 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 God, 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 tithes of this church are now used to support a Grammar school, and while the people still worship Almighty God, 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!

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.

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.

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.

More than a century ago, William Hamilton, of Bangor, a gentleman of rank, education, and poetical talents, wrote the following exquisite ballad:[166]

Somewhat more than half a century later, Logan wrote a song with the same title, of which the following are the concluding stanzas.

We are now prepared to read Wordsworths' two exquisite poems, "Yarrow Unvisited," and "Yarrow Visited," the splendid flowering, so to speak, of this poetical growth.

This is beautiful, but the following is more so. Indeed it is the very perfection of descriptive poetry.