Surely the elves and genii of the place were conversing, by some inscrutable means, with the principle of intelligence lurking within the poor uncultivated clod! Perhaps to that ethereal principle the wonders of the past, as connected with that stream, the glories of the present, and even the history of the future, were at that moment being revealed! Of how many feats of chivalry had those old walls been witness, when hostile kings contended for their possession!--how many an army from the south and from the north had trod that old bridge!--what red and noble blood had crimsoned those rushing waters!-what strains had been sung, ay, were yet being sung, on its banks!--some soft as Doric reed; some fierce and sharp as those of Norwegian Skaldaglam; some as replete with wild and wizard force as Finland's runes, singing of Kalevala's moors, and the deeds of Woinomoinen! Honour to thee, thou island stream! Onward may thou ever roll, fresh and green, rejoicing in thy bright past, thy glorious present, and in vivid hope of a triumphant future! Flow on, beautiful one!--which of the world's streams canst thou envy, with thy beauty and renown?
Stately is the Danube, rolling in its might through lands romantic with the wild exploits of Turk, Polak, and Magyar! Lovely is the Rhine! on its shelvy banks grows the racy grape; and strange old keeps of robber-knights of yore are reflected in its waters, from picturesque crags and airy headlands!--yet neither the stately Danube nor the beauteous Rhine, with all their fame, though abundant, needst thou envy, thou pure island stream!--and far less yon turbid river of old, not modern renown, gurgling beneath the walls of what was once proud Rome, towering Rome, Jupiter's town, but now vile Rome, crumbling Rome, Batuscha's town, far less needst thou envy the turbid Tiber of bygone fame, creeping sadly to the sea, surcharged with the abominations of modern Rome--how unlike to thee, thou pure island stream! And, as I lay on the bank and wept, there drew nigh to me a man in the habiliments of a fisher.

He was bare-legged, of a weather-beaten countenance, and of stature approaching to the gigantic.

'What is the callant greeting for ?' said he, as he stopped and surveyed me.

'Has onybody wrought ye ony harm ?' 'Not that I know of,' I replied, rather guessing at than understanding his question; 'I was crying because I could not help it! I say, old one, what is the name of this river ?' 'Hout! I now see what you was greeting at--at your ain ignorance, nae doubt--'tis very great! Weel, I will na fash you with reproaches, but even enlighten ye, since you seem a decent man's bairn, and you speir a civil question.

Yon river is called the Tweed; and yonder, over the brig, is Scotland.