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by a guest !-a theft as siily as it was outrageous. It would take months to examine every thing to one's satis. faction in this intensely interesting spot. The gardens, grounds, walks, etc., are beautiful exceedingly, and made so entirely, it is said, by the late proprietor—the site being, twenty years ago, barren and uninviting. I took leave reluctantly, and with feelings which those who have been there only know. The only relic I could obtain, was a twig or two from the bush under the study window.

Having seen Abbottsford, it is meet that one should visit Dryburgh-Abbey. This picturesque ruin is niuch more beautifully situated than Melrose, being in a retired and lovely spot, on the banks of the river, in the midst of gardens and groves of trees, and thus obscured, like Ab. bottsford, until you tumble upon it. It is covered with ivy, and is in a state to please the most romantic. The ruins are scattered over several acres, and show that the Abbey must have been immensely large, and the architecture very noble, though not so rich and delicate as Melrose. St. Mary's aisle is now covered with turf. Scott sleeps in a retired corner, near the graves of his wife and his ancestors, the Haliburtons. The arch above the

grave

is

repre. sented in the pictures, but as yet there is no monument or stone 'to mark the spot.' Do you recollect Scott's owa lines in the fifth canto of the Lay of the Last Minstrel ?

“Call it not vain; they do not err,

Who say that when the poet dies,
Mute Nature mourns her worshipper,

And celebrates his obsequies :

Who say tall cliff and cavern lone
For the departed bard make moan;
That mountains weep in crystal rill,
That flowers in tears of balm distil ;
Through his loved groves, that breezes sigh,
And oaks in deeper groan reply :
And rivers teach their rushing wave
To murmur dirges round his grave.

“Not that in sooth o'er mortal urn,

Those things inanimate can mourn,
But that the stream, the wood, the gale,
Is vocal with the plaintive wail
Of those who, else forgotton long,
Lived in the poet's faithful song;
And with the poet's parting breath,
Whose memory feels a second death.
The maid's pale shade who wails her lot,
That love, true love, should be forgot,
From rose and hawthorn shakes the tear
Upon the gentle minstrel's bier.
The phantom knight, his glory fled,
Mourns o'er the field he heap'd with dead:
Mounts the wild blast that sweeps amain,
And shrieks along the battle plain.
The chief whose antique crownlet long
Still sparkled in the feudal song,
Now from the mountain's misty throne
Sees in the thanedom once his own
His ashes undistinguished lie,
His place, his power, his memory die;
His groans the lonely caverns fill,
His tears of rage impel the rill :
All mourn the minstrel's harp unstrung,
Their names unknown, their praise unsung."

How strikingly appropriate seem these lines, as one stands on the spot where the minstrel that shall strike the lyre no more, is mouldering to dust!

Two miles above Dryburgh, are the ruins of Smail).

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holme Tower, where Scott spent his boyhood; the scene of his ballad, 'The Eve of St. John,' and the Avenel Castle of. The Monastery.'

The same party I met at Abbottsford had preceded me to Dryburgh. A young lady-a very pretty oneClimbed with me to the top of one of the highest tottering towers, which threatened to tumble over with us, some hundred feet or so. As we returned toward the Temple of the Muses,' a pretty bower on the grounds, we met Sir George Ascot, son of the late Earl of Buchan, and propri. etor of the Abbey and its vicinity. He stopped and tipped his beaver very courteously, “hoped every attention had been paid to us at the Abbey,' inquired if we noticed this and that part, and especially the busts of eminent characters, an eccentric collection made by the earl, in one of the remaining halls. His residence is near the ruins, and he has built a picturesque suspension bridge across the Tweed from his estate. The river is fordable, however, in most places, and clear as crystal, the pebbly bottom being easily seen, even from a distance.

VI.

SCOTLAND.

Edinburgh-Calton-hill-Castle, etc.Scott--Sir D. Brewster

Holyrood--Jeffrey--Slavery--Excursion to Roslyn, Dalkeith, etc. --High Church--Politics Effect of Scott's Works on Scotland.

EDINBURGH, Wednesday evening.-Had a fine ride from Melrose. Set off at ten, crossed the bridge just above Abbottsford, took a last farewell of tható romance in stone and lime,' and for twenty miles kept along the banks of Gala Water, (a nice little brook for trout,) enjoying a variety of pretty views. Twelve miles from Edinburgh, the dim outline of Arthur's Seat is discovered, above the nearer hills. The environs are level and highly cultivated. We passed several noble mansions, among others Dalhousie Castle, At a turn of the road, the city suddenly comes in View, and a splendid view it is. On the right, the Frith of Forth, studded with sails and steam. boats ; Arthur's Seat and Salisbury Crags flank the city on the north-east, and its strong hold, the castle, on the opposite side. Beyond, rises Calton-Hill, and its noble monuments. Nothing can be more imposing than the approach to Edinburgh, We entered a fine street of neat modern houses, of stone, shaded with trees, crossed the bridge over the gulf between the old and new towns,

Edinburgh: Calton-hill-Castle.

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turned into Princes.street, and were set down before the granite buildings of Waterloo-Place.

Walked up Calton-Hill. The splendor of the prospect in which one here revels, cannot be imagined. It is said to be unequalled in Europe, even by the glorious view of the Bay of Naples. Appropriately is Edinburgh styled the modern Athens ; it is at least very like my ideal of the ancient : and, as if to heighten the resemblance, they are building on the top of this model of Mars-Hill a superb monumental temple, copied from the Acropolis. The massive Doric pillars of the front portico only are finished, and from a distance they look like the ruins of the Parthenon. The view from this eminence on all sides, is rich and varied. No combination of nature and art could produce a more magnificent panorama.

It was sunset when I went up to the Castle—the scene of so many chivalrous exploits. Passing three or four outward walls,' on which no • banner' of defiance was now.waving, the sentinels admitted me to the battle. ments. From these there is another extensive and interesting prospect. The interior of the castle is very queerly constructed. The towers, batteries, and barracks rise one above another, till you almost despair of reaching the highest. At nine, the band perambulated the whole, playing the evening salute. The fortress is at present garri. soned by the Royal Highlanders,' and I met them at every turn in the street, with their ponderous bushy black caps, plaid kilts, bare knees, and buskins, as in the days of Rob Roy and Fergus McIvor,

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