flies is almost a pure accident. Every one believes in the fly with
which he has been successful. These strange combinations of blues, reds,
golds, of tinsel and worsted, of feathers and fur, are purely fantastic
articles. They are like nothing in nature, and are multiplied for the
fanciful amusement of anglers. Nobody knows why salmon rise at them;
nobody knows why they will bite on one day and not on another, or rather,
on many others. It is not even settled whether we should use a bright
fly on a bright day, and a dark fly on a dark day, as Dr. Hamilton
advises, or reverse the choice as others use. Muscles and patience,
these, I repeat, are the only ingredients of ultimate success.

However, one does do at Rome as the Romans do, and fishes for salmon in
Tweed when the nets are off in October, when the yellowing leaves begin
to fall, and when that beautiful reach of wooded valley from Elibank to
the meeting of Tweed and Ettrick is in the height of its autumnal charm.
Why has Yarrow been so much more besung than Tweed, in spite of the
greater stream's far greater and more varied loveliness? The fatal duel
in the Dowie Dens of Yarrow and the lamented drowning of Willie there
have given the stream its 'pastoral melancholy,' and engaged Wordsworth
in the renown of the water. For the poetry of Tweed we have chiefly,
after Scott, to thank Mr. Stoddart, its loyal minstrel. "Dearer than all
these to me," he says about our other valleys, "is sylvan Tweed."

Let ither anglers choose their ain,
And ither waters tak' the lead
O' Hieland streams we covet nane,
But gie to us the bonny Tweed;
And gie to us the cheerfu' burn,
That steals into its valley fair,
The streamlets that, at ilka turn,
Sae saftly meet and mingle there.

He kept his promise, given in the following verse:

And I, when to breathe is a labour, and joy
Forgets me, and life is no longer the boy,
On the labouring staff, and the tremorous knee,
Will wander, bright river, to thee!

Life is always "the boy" when one is beside the Tweed. Times change, and
we change, for the worse. But the river changes little. Still he
courses through the keen and narrow rocks beneath the bridge of Yair.

From Yair, which hills so closely bind,
Scarce can the Tweed his passage find,
Though much he fret, and chafe, and toil,
Till all his eddying currents boil.

Still the water loiters by the long boat-pool of Yair,