The Solway is noted all the world over for its swift tide: "Love flows like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide," says Scott in one of his best-known lines. A spring-tide, urged by a breeze from the south-west, speeds along at a rate of ten miles an hour. A deep, hoarse roar is heard twenty miles away, a swirling mist glittering with a number of small rainbows is seen on the sea, a huge wave of foam comes into sight, and this resolves itself into a volume of water six feet high--the vanguard of the ocean itself, which follows, a great mass in violent perturbation. The Solway near Annan is crossed by a long railway bridge. Some years ago this bridging of the Firth was considered a remarkable engineering feat, but now that you rattle in express trains over the Tay and the Forth, the Solway viaduct seems a very trumpery affair. In the old days, when communication was slow and costly, and when, maybe, folk were bolder, how strong the temptation to make a dash for it across the sand! And yet how dangerous! Dense fogs would arise of a sudden, quicksands abounded, and had a nasty trick of shifting their place ever and anon. How easy to miscalculate time or distance! Imagine the feeling of the unfortunate traveller, midway across, when there fell on his ear the sullen roar of the advancing tide! Fatal accidents were frequent, especially to those returning from Cumberland fairs with their brains heated and their judgment confused by hours of rustic dissipation. You remember the graphic account in "Redgauntlet" of Darsie Latimer's mishap on the northern shore, and his rescue by the Laird of the Lakes on his great black steed. Scott in his novel gives a vivid account of the salmon-fishing on the Solway: how horsemen with barbed spears dashed at full gallop into the receding tide, and speared the fish with wondrous skill. This picturesque mode is long out of date, and stake nets, which, when the tide is out, stretch like huge serpents over the sand, are now the principal engines of capture. The Solway has somewhat dwindled of late epochs; geologists report it as receding seaward at the rate of a mile a century, which is lightning speed for that species of alteration--but 'twas ever a hasty Firth! * * * * * The /Eden/ is our first river. During its course of thirty-five miles it has much variety of pleasant scenery; whereof let Wordsworth tell:-- "Eden! till now thy beauty had I viewed By glimpses only, and confess with shame That verse of mine, whate'er its varying mood, Repeats but once the sound of thy sweet name: Yet fetched from Paradise, that honour came, Rightfully borne; for Nature gives thee flowers That have no rival among British bowers, And thy bold rocks are worthy of their fame."