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applied to this river; as it is rarely for a moment at rest, from the time it leaves its parent lake, until it joins the Ettrick at Bowhill. The scenery near this lordly mansion of the Buccleuchs, is picturesque in the highest degree. This princely abode, - for it well may be called so, -- stands on a kind of peninsula, formed by the meeting of the waters. The mountains overlooking the Yarrow rise to no great height; but their appearance is greatly enhanced by the tasteful plantations which adorn their sides, and clothe some of them to their utmost tops.
In the lower parts of the valley, the Yarrow may, at times, be seen bounding in gladness, (if aught inanimate can feel that sensation,) over its rocky bed, at times visible, at others hidden from our view; but it will ever be reminding us of its vicinity; like a spoiled child, it appears unwilling to be forgotten, even for a moment, but must continually be forcing itself upon our notice:— if not present to our sight, we can at least hear its brawling at no great distance.
On ascending the stream, we reach the humble cottage in which the interesting but ill-fated Mungo Park was born ; and, a short way farther on, we pass
“Where Newark's stately tower
Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower.” Newark is no longer the scene of feudal hospitality, as in the days of the last minstrel, but now a mouldering ruin, — a time-worn monument of years long departed, and of pride and pomp, which have had an end. The situation of this ruin is exceedingly beautiful; proudly standing on a precipitous bank overhanging the river; and, by its presence, - aside from every recollection of the past, — adding much to the beauty of the surrounding landscape. Here Sir Walter Scott lays the scene of the “ Lay of the Last Minstrel.” But those halls which once rang to the song of the wandering bard, are cold, silent, and deserted; the fire which burned so merrily in the hall has long been extinguished; and Time, the great destroyer of man and the most durable of his works, has here set his seal; and although this hoary pile may, for a course of time, brave the storms of winter and the heat of summer, it shall never more raise its head, as in the days of other years, when its courts resounded to the warrior's shout, or echoed back the song of the minstrel.
A few miles above the ruins of Newark Castle, the scene. ry on the banks of the river undergoes an entire change
and a tree is an object for which we look almost in vain. the character of the scenery bears a strong resemblance to that on the banks of the Ettrick, only the valley of the Yarrow is a little narrower, and the mountains of a darker hue. The Yarrow has its source in St. Mary's Loch, on whose placid bosom, at times, in the words of a truly great poet, the swan may be seen "to float double, swan and shadow ;” but the visits of this majestic bird, are, like those of angels, “ few and far between.”
St. Mary's is hemmed in, on all sides, by lofty mountains. well may the poet exclaim,
“ Abrupt and sheer the mountains sink
At once upon the level brink;
Marks where the water meets the land.” Bourhope Law seems to have been born of the waters, and to have sprung from the deep recesses of the lake, rising, as it does, in the most abrupt, yet picturesque manner, from its margin: no appearance of cultivation, unless we except a few solitary patches, breaks in upon the solitude of the scene
“ There's nothing left to fancy's guess,
You see that all is loneliness.” When the surface of the water is unruffled by the breathings of the summer's eve, the surrounding mountains are beautifully shadowed forth, in a manner which art cannot imitate, and to which even the pencil of a Turner could not do justice. The ruins of St. Mary's Chapel no longer give an interest to the landscape; but the tower of Dryhope still remains, recalling us to the days of Mary Scott, the cele. brated Flower of Yarrow. The Lochs of the Lows and St. Mary's are almost one and the same sheet of water; being separated only by a very narrow strip of land; and the description which serves for the one, may well be applied to the other.
Should curiosity lead the traveller farther from the abodes of men into the solitary wilderness, among the dark mountains which frown over the western shores of this lake, he will be gratified by a view of the Gray Mare's Tail, roaring and foaming over a terrific precipice of three hundred feet in height; and, about a mile above this fall, we come upon the dark Loch Skene, lying in a scene of gloomy desolation and
grandeur, unequalled, we believe, by any thing of the same nature in the Highlands of Scotland.
A long course of years has elapsed since this country, whose scenery we have endeavoured to describe, was covered with a dense forest; and although few vestiges of it now remain, it is still known as the Forest of Ettrick. In olden times, when Scotland was an independent kingdom, with a sovereign and a court of her own, Ettrick Forest was the hunting domain of royalty; and here the court frequently assembled to enjoy the heart-stirring amusement of hunting the wild deer with horn and hound. In the words of the ballad we may say, that
“ Ettricke Foreste is the fairest foreste
That evir man saw wi' his e'e;
And of wild bestis grete plentie.” But those times are long passed; and although tradition may still point out such localities as the Hart's Loup, or the Cleuch of the Buck, there is not, at this time, a single deer to be seen on the forest mountains. Years have rolled on; and many changes have taken place, since Ettrick and Yarrow heard the bugle of royalty echo along the shores of St. Mary, or among the “dowie dens o’ Yarrow:” the hart no longer roams in uncontrolled freedom, a glorious creature full of life and beauty, on the heath-clad mountains of Ettrick, — he no longer bounds away, tossing his spreading antlers aloft, in mockery of his pursuers ; — but a scene of a more pleasing nature opens on our view. Royalty, and the freaks of royalty, are only remembered in those wilds as among the things which once had a being; and the race who now inhabit those sequestered glens, if not so warlike, are certainly more independent, and, we may add, far more happy than their forefathers. The shepherds who now dwell in those valleys, are generally men highly intelligent, of great simplicity of manners, and of great goodness of heart; having had but little intercourse with the more busy world, they live a virtuous, a contented, and a happy life, and are, at all times, hospitable and kind to strangers. In such a country, and among such a people, it was the fortune, - we may say the good fortune, of the Ettrick Shepherd to be born, and to live for the first forty years of his life.
THE SWISS GUIDE. Rogers.
* Jorasse was in his three-and-twentieth year, -
Once, nor long before, —
* Pronounced, Yomas'sag.
ş Rozenloro, – 0w, as in now. | The Jungfrau,” YoongfToo | Crampong,
He slipped, — he fell; and, through a fearful cleft