habitation breaks the monotony, if, indeed, it can be called monotony. Pastoral solitudes stretch out on every hand. The hills, beautifully rounded, clad in all hues, heathered, benty, gorsy, grassy, descend with gentle slope to the green meadow where Tweed's Well rises in its cooling pool. Here at the fountain-head it is only some three yards round, no more than a bubbling spring-a "Well" caller, clear, inspiring -where you may stoop down and drink, and experience in its delightsome refreshment a thrill of poetic rapture from a scene so gloriously Arcadian. One is tempted to muse at this shrine by the place of the old pilgrim Cross, and to read into Tweed's source a parable of human life with

moving him to plant churches in the most outlying parts of his province; Gwenddoleu, prince of the Cymri, resolutely defending his ancestral Druidism; Rydderch Hael, of Roman birth, hero of the new Christian faith; and Arthur, shadowy and mystic, with his knights of brave renown, ready to face every danger and to follow their liege lord. into all his bloody battles. Of all these, many traditions still survive in the pastoral solitudes of the Upper Tweed. The wood of Caledon gave place to the still more famous Forest of Ettrick which embraced all the land between the Ettrick and Tweed valleys. And that too, disappeared. The heather and "bent sae brown" wave on the lonely hills. The huntsman's horn has sounded

its first pure flow unmoved by storm and tempest, and as yet untainted by the gathering vears. Round about Tweed's Well there still cling to several places certain names that recall the historic associations of long-dead days. With the passing centuries the whole aspect of the district has changed. Now it is a bare and treeless waste. The wind sweeps unhindered from furthest glen and hill-top. And yet, here the ancient Forest of Caledon flourished with its thousand birches and hazels. Here wandered of old time Merlin, the wild, weird, mad romancist of the Tweed-dale hills; Taliessin, "Bard of the White Brow;" Saint Kentigern, large-souled apostle of Strath-clyde with a missionary zeal

Wishaw.

its requiem. The bleating of sheep, the barking of the shepherds' dogs, the whirling of the whaup, the shrill piping of the peasweep, and the music of the many mountain burns as they swish downward to the greater stream, are the chief sounds that now greet the ear.

About seven miles from Tweed's Well is the hamlet of Tweedsmuir with its little Parish Church finely situated on what is believed to be an ancient Druidical sanctuary. In the kirkyard sleeps one of Scotland's martyred hillmen, John Hunter, who, in 1685, during the dark "killing time," was shot dead while wending his way to a conventicle among the glens of Annan Water. His tombstone bears the inscription-

"Here lyes John Hunter, martyr, who was cruelly murdered at Corehead by Col. James Douglas and his party for his adherence to the Word of God and Scotland's covenanted work of Reformation, 1685. Erected 1726. When Zion's King was Robbed of his right, His witnesses in Scotland put to flight; When popish prelates and Indulgencie Combin'd 'gainst Christ to Ruin Presbytric,

All who would not unto their idols bow

They socht them out, and whom they would they slew;
For owning of Christ's cause I then did die,
My blood for vengeance on his enemies did cry."

The whole of this district is crowded with memories of the Covenant. The wild recesses of Talla, and Gameshope, of Fruid, Hawkshaw, and Fingland, have echoed the simple melody of the hillmens' psalm, and heard their prayer, "How long, O Lord, how long?" The first stone bridge on the Tweed, of great antiquity, crosses the stream at Tweedsmuir village above a singularly wild and picturesque cascade called Carlow's Linn. Just opposite the church is the site of the dismantled castle of Oliver, where Sir William Wallace was befriended and sheltered by Sir Simon Fraser the hero of Roslin, a warrior ancestor of the Lovat family. From Oliver, right down to the mouth of Tweed, a long chain of forts and towers kept guard of the Border country, and it might be no uncommon event to find the beacon fires on each flashing forth their intelligence to all for whom it meant the field of death or glory. Let us pass on along the storied river. We come to Polmood, an ancient hunting-seat of the Scottish Kings, and the scene of the Ettrick Shepherd's weird tale of the "Bridal of Polmood." Linkumdoddie, of which Burns sang in a lyric of most finished sarcasm, is close at hand. Everybody has heard of "Willie Wastle" and his amiable spouse. The spot is now marked by three withering ashtrees, and a commemorative slab. All around are ruins of the old feudal baronies. Mossfennan, Wrae, Rachan, Tinnis, Drumelzier, bear ample witness to the lawless spirit which at one time held in thrall the now peaceful banks of Tweed. Here, at Drumelzier, by the junction of Tweed and Powsail, you have pointed out the traditional grave of Merlin, the homeless bard of these Southern hills. Thomas the Rhymer is represented as having foretold that-

"When Tweed and Powsail meet at Merlin's grave England and Scotland shall one monarch have,' a circumstance which is alleged to have actually occurred on the very day of James VI.'s coronation as King of the united realms. With a glance at Stobo's Norman architectured kirk, and a look at Lyne foot and Manor foot mingling their classic waves with the more storied stream, we thus pass from Upper to Central Tweeddale. The town of Peebles, glorified by royalty through

the old Scots poem of Peblis to the Play, lies witchingly in front of us. Peebles, according to the popular proverb, is one of Scotland s pleasureshrines. It is certainly one of Nature's fairest spots. Surrounded by charming hills, and Tweed's majestic sweep, one could scarcely hope to view a more beautiful township. Neidpath Castle, on the outskirts of Peebles, is the most interesting feature on this portion of Tweedside. The possession of many noble families, it passed in 1778 into the hands of an unworthy owner, in the person of the fourth Duke of Queensberry, commonly known as "Old Q," who stripped the property of its magnificent plantations, leaving the banks in the condition of little more than a shelterless wilderness. Wordsworth bemoaned the loss in his well-known "Sonnet, Composed Castle," commencing

at

"Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy Lord!" The legend of the faithful Maid of Neidpath, waiting her lover on the castle walls, has found its poetic illustrators in Sir Walter Scott, and Thomas Campbell. Wandering to-day amid the wreck of Neidpath's former self where, in spite of much execrable spoliation, there are yet many of Nature's delights, one cannot help glancing backward to the days of its pomp and chivalry, when fair ladies and brave knights kept court in its lordly halls, and much of the glory of Scotland gathered to its gaiety, and when much too, of Scottish patriotism nerved itself for heroic deed.

Border Notes and Queries.

TAE.-I am surprised "J. C." tries to make out Philip A. Ramsay's edition as correct. If it is a copy of the same edition I handled in a discussion on the same word about eighteen years ago, I admit "to" appears instead of "tae," but the well-known charge against Ramsay is bad editing, freely changing Scots words into English, in many verses both appear in the lines of the poet's songs. Another thing, there is not the whole of Tannahill's work in Ramsay's edition. Semple sent his out revised and properly edited from the poet's own edition, and of the editors, previous to Ramsay, finding also a large number of verses and pieces never published before, in them "tae" is used. Had there been space to spare in this Magazine I could have proved what I have asserted as to the common use of "tae" for "to" by many. In this month's "Annie Swan's Magazine," The Woman at Home, Ian Maclaren writes "tae" for "to" in a story "Kate Carnegie." ETTRICK.

[THIS good-natured correspondence may fitly close here. While it is admitted that the word tae is used by several popular writers, that admission does not necessarily sanction its use in Scotch literature. Few Scotch people, we imagine, say "John's gaun tae Hawick." In nine cases out of ten the expression is John's gaun Hawick-with a simple touch of the t only. ED., B. M.]