From Fox's Earth 



vaulted lower story for the cattle, sometimes 

 stolen ; the rude traditions ; the hill, the road, 

 and the stream. Ay, and something more. 



One may not get further that way. The bank 

 is rough, with the clinging trees, down to where 

 the branches dip into the Tweed. On the steep, 

 and among the trees, is Scott's early border 

 home, where oft he sat 



Gazing down the steepy linn, 

 That hems our little garden in. 



Here he spent the poetic years in which he 

 made Scotland the joy of nations. Strangely 

 enough, not the Scotland he loved, and of which 

 he strove to have a little to call his own. His 

 objective genius found ruder effects elsewhere, 

 which took hold of the popular imagination, 

 Bright colours and strong contrasts were better 

 than subtle blending and wizard work, and of 

 these he was master. So it came about that, all 

 unwitting perhaps, he did more for the Teith 

 than for the blended floods of Yarrow and Ett- 

 rick, which flowed into the Tweed, just beyond 

 his house. 



Men talk of Loch Katrine, not of St. Mary's. 

 Bor one who follows the ride of William of Delo- 

 raine, a thousand follow that of Fitz-James. Top- 

 heavy coach loads swing out from Callander ; 

 and one passenger, with stronger memory than 

 the rest, rolls forth the epic to eager ears as they 



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