ST. BOS WELLS. 241 



AV]-ien silver edges the imagery, 



And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die ; 



When distant Tweed is heard to rave, 



And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave, 



Then go — but go alone the while — 



Then view St. David's ruin'd pile." 



It has been often remarked that the ancient monks, 

 who were doubtless allowed to choose the sites for their 

 abbeys, selected them with such taste and judgment as 

 we could scarcely imagine surpassed. In almost every 

 instance these buildings stand on, or near, the banks of 

 some famous river ; and, viewing the matter from an 

 angler's standpoint, it must have been for other reasons 

 than the scenery alone, that this came to be the case. 

 Wise, and full of forethought, were those ancient fathers ; 

 for beyond a doubt they had ascertained the capacities 

 of the river for trout and salmon, long ere the foundation- 

 stone of the proud abbey had been laid, — it may be by 

 royal hands. A wise man once said, " Say not thou the 

 former days were better than these." True, perhaps, for 

 many things; but not so, I think, for angling. Where is 

 the fisher who would not like a day on the Dryburgh 

 water, if he could have it as it was in those far-off sum- 

 mers, when the sound of the workman's hammer, and the 

 voices of the busy craftsmen rang out over the river, as 

 story after story of the ponderous masonry rose into 

 view ; or as it might appear in the long years after, when 

 the cowled monks were seen in the early morning drag- 

 ging the nets at their "salmon haul" to prepare for 

 Friday's Fasf ? 



