No doubt they are sometimes to be had, by the
basketful, but not often, nor by him who thinks twice before risking his
life by smothering in a peaty bottom.
To reach Clearburn Loch, if you start from the Teviot, you must pass
through much of Scott's country and most of Leyden's. I am credibly
informed that persons of culture have forgotten John Leyden. He was a
linguist and a poet, and the friend of Walter Scott, and knew
The mind whose fearless frankness naught could move,
The friendship, like an elder brother's love.
We remember what distant and what deadly shore has Leyden's cold remains,
and people who do not know may not care to be reminded.
Leaving Teviot, with Leyden for a guide, you walk, or drive,
Where Bortha hoarse, that loads the meads with sand,
Rolls her red tide.
Not that it was red when we passed, but _electro purior_.
Through slaty hills whose sides are shagged with thorn,
Where springs, in scattered tufts, the dark green corn,
Towers wood-girt Harden far above the vale.
And very dark green, almost blue, was the corn in September, 1888.
Upwards, always upwards, goes the road till you reach the crest, and
watch far below the wide champaign, like a sea, broken by the shapes of
hills, Windburg and Eildon, and Priesthaughswire, and "the rough skirts
of stormy Ruberslaw," and Penchrise, and the twin Maidens, shaped like
the breasts of Helen.
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