68 FRESH FIELDS 



full, and giving tlie ' ' lassies " a lift on their way 

 home. Beyond Annan bridge we parted company, 

 and a short walk brought me to Repentance Hill, a 

 grassy eminence that commands a wide prospect to- 

 ward the Solway. The tower which stands on the 

 top is one of those interesting relics of which this 

 land is full, and all memory and tradition of the use 

 and occasion of which are lost. It is a rude stone 

 structure, about thirty feet square and forty high, 

 pierced by a single door, with the word "Repent- 

 ance " cut in Old English letters in the lintel over it. 

 The walls are loopholed here and there for musketry 

 or archery. An old disused graveyard surrounds it, 

 and the walls of a little chapel stand in the rear of it. 

 The conies have their holes under it; some lord, 

 whose castle lies in the valley below, has his flagstaff 

 upon it; and Time's initials are scrawled on every 

 stone. A piece of mortar probably three or four 

 hundred years old, that had fallen from its place, I 

 picked up, and found nearly as hard as the stone, 

 and quite as gray and lichen-covered. Returning, I 

 stood some time on Annan bridge, looking over the 

 parapet into the clear, swirling water, now and then 

 seeing a trout leap. Whenever the pedestrian comes 

 to one of these arched bridges, he must pause and 

 admire, it is so unlike what he is acquainted with 

 at home. It is a real viaduct; it conducts not 

 merely the traveler over, it conducts the road over 

 as well. Then an arched bridge is ideally perfect; 

 there is no room for criticism, — not one superflu- 

 ous touch or stroke; every stone tells, and tells 



