d fiery corns. The train just in will shortly leave with a new
load of passengers. A rush is made for the vacated seats: in tumbles the
surging crowd without regard for the class of ticket they have
purchased. A score of occupants per carriage is about the average; many
swarm into the guard's van, where they are regaled with pandemoniac
odours of ancient fish and decaying vegetables. The heavy train at
length steams out into the open, and in an hour's time Lanark is
reached. "_God made the country and man made the town_" is the
involuntary reflection of the city man as he steps out of the train and
breathes the fresh air of the hills.

From Lanark to Peebles, by road, is thirty miles. The track is
excellent, and if the wind is not adversely strong the joy of cycling
the distance is difficult to parallel.

On this route, no lumbering vehicles, laden with heavy merchandise, tear
up the soil into ruts. No cab-drivers cast sarcastic remarks at you from
their high perch. The only annoyance comes from the cast-off nail of a
horse-shoe or the sharp splinter of a macadamised stone. The air is as
fresh as on Creation's morn. Up hill and down again one can hurry on
without ever touching the brake. For the first ten miles, the stately
bulk of Tinto dominates the landscape. What a splendid range of scenery
the eye could grasp from the high vantage-ground of its summit in clear
weather! As one approaches the base of the big hill, the road turns
sharply to the east, and you feel about your ears innumerable breezes
that blow along from the little glens leading down from Tinto's breast.
By and by, the clean, trim, little town of Biggar appears. (The
inhabitants are proud of the fact that John Brown, author of the
beautiful story, _Rab and his Frien's_, was a native of the town.) One
notices the name of Gladstone prominent above the shops, and it is a
fact that the ancestors of the Grand Old Man were, in the days of yore,
denizens of those quiet hamlets. After a short rest here, we (for you
are with me, _ami lecteur_) shoot on and pass the sleepy street of
Broughton, lying clear and radiant in the slanting rays of the sun. Here
is the ideal spot for a country clergyman in love with Hebrew roots and
gardening and quiet contemplation. Soon we strike the tiny waters of the
infant Tweed, prattling and gushing up and bubbling clear over its
snow-white pebbles. Now the breeze of gloaming blows more snell. Away
low in the west the sun begins