But of Yarrow, how is one to write? The task is hopeless, whether it be to speak of its beauty, of its legend, its poetry, or of its associations. From Scott and Wordsworth downwards, what poet has not sung its praises? However halting may be his pen, what writer in prose has not tried in words to picture its scenes? It is left to one now only to repeat what has been said by better men; at the best, one may but paraphrase the words of another. There is nothing new to be said of Yarrow, no fresh beauty to be pointed out. Its charm affects each one differently; each must see and feel for himself. But whether the season be sweetest summer-tide, or that when winter's blast comes black and roaring down the glens, fiercely driving before it sheets of water snatched from the tortured bosom of lone Saint Mary's,--there, still, abides the indescribable charm of Yarrow. Yet on the whole, I think almost that I should prefer my visit to be in the winter time, if a few fine days might be assured, or days at least without storm. In the summer season now, and especially since the advent of the motor car, from morning till night so constant a stream of visitors and {295}tourists passes through the vale, and along the lake side, that even Yarrow's deathless charm is broken, her peace disturbed; one's soul can take no rest there now, far from the clamour of the outer world. [Illustration: 0315] No longer may one quote Alexander Anderson's beautiful lines: "What boon to lie, as now I lie, And see in silver at my feet Saint Mary's Lake, as if the sky Had fallen 'tween those hills so sweet. "And this old churchyard on the hill, That keeps the green graves of the dead, So calm and sweet, so lone and still, And but the blue sky overhead." And yet, even in summer, if one can betake oneself to the old churchyard of St. Mary of the Lowes, at an hour when the chattering, picnic-ing tourist is far from the scene, one may still lie there and dream, unvexed by care; and, if fate be kind, one may yet spend long restful days among the hills, beside some crooning burn that ". . . half-hid, sings its song In hidden circlings'neath a grassy fringe"; still rejoice in the unspoilt moorlands and the breezy heights: "There thrown aside all reason-grounded doubts, All narrow aims, and self-regarding thoughts, Out of himself amid the infinitude, Where Earth, and Sky, and God are all in all." [Illustration: 0316] And in these hills, what fitter place can there be for dreams than St. Mary's chapel, overlooking the silent lake, with Yarrow gliding from its bosom? Here you will find a Sabbath peace, as placid as when "... on sweet Sabbath morns long gone, Folks wended to St. Mary's Forest Kirk,