ome much more difficult
in these times of rapidly growing population. It is a pleasant sight to
see the weavers spending their afternoons beside the Tweed; it is such a
sight as could not be witnessed by the closely preserved rivers of
England. But the weavers have taught the trout caution, and the dyes and
various pollutions of trade have thinned their numbers. Mr. Ruskin sees
no hope in this state of things; he preaches, in the spirit of old
Hesiod, that there is no piety in a race which defiles the "holy waters."
But surely civilization, even if it spoil sport and degrade scenery, is
better than a state of things in which the laird would hang up his foes
to an iron ring in the roof. The hill of Cowden Knowes may be a less
eligible place for lovers' meetings than it was of old. But in those
times the lord of Cowden Knowes is said by tradition to have had a way of
putting his prisoners in barrels studded with iron nails, and rolling
them down a brae. This is the side of the good old times which should
not be overlooked. It may not be pleasant to find blue dye and wool yarn
in Teviot, but it is more endurable than to have to encounter the bandit
Barnskill, who hewed his bed of flint, Scott says, in Minto Crags. Still,
the reading of the "Rivers of Scotland" leaves rather a sad impression on
the reader, and makes him ask once more if there is no way of reconciling
the beauty of rude ages with the comforts and culture of civilization.
This is a question that really demands an answer, though it is often put
in a mistaken way. The teachings of Mr. Ruskin and of his followers
would bring us back to a time when printing was not, and an engineer
would have been burned for a wizard. {8} But there is a point at which
civilization and production must begin to respect the limits of the
beautiful, on which they so constantly encroach. Who is to settle the
limit, and escape the charge of being either a _dilettante_ and a
sentimentalist on the one hand, or a Philistine on the other?

SALMON-FISHING.

Salmon-fishing for this season is over, and, in spite of the fresh and
open weather, most anglers will feel that the time has come to close the
fly-book, to wind up the reel, and to consign the rod to its winter
quarters. Salmon-fishing ceases to be very enjoyable when the _snaw
broo_, or melted snow from the hilltops, begins to mix with the brown
waters of Tweed or Tay; when the fallen leaves hamper the hook; and when