July 11th.--We left Edinburgh, where we had found at Addison's, 87
Prince's Street, the most comfortable hotel in Great Britain, and went to
Melrose, where we put up at the George. This is all travelled ground
with me, so that I need not much perplex myself with further description,
especially as it is impossible, by any repetition of attempts, to
describe Melrose Abbey. We went thither immediately after tea, and were
shown over the ruins by a very delectable old Scotchman, incomparably the
best guide I ever met with. I think he must take pains to speak the
Scotch dialect, he does it with such pungent felicity and effect, and it
gives a flavor to everything he says, like the mustard and vinegar in a
salad. This is not the man I saw when here before. The Scotch dialect
is still, in a greater or less degree, universally prevalent in Scotland,
insomuch that we generally find it difficult to comprehend the answers to
our questions, though more, I think, from the unusual intonation than
either from strange words or pronunciation. But this old man, though he
spoke the most unmitigated Scotch, was perfectly intelligible,--perhaps
because his speech so well accorded with the classic standard of the
Waverley Novels. Moreover, he is thoroughly acquainted with the Abbey,
stone by stone; and it was curious to see him, as we walked among its
aisles, and over the grass beneath its roofless portions, pick up the
withered leaves that had fallen there, and do other such little things,
as a good housewife might do to a parlor. I have met with two or three
instances where the guardian of an old edifice seemed really to love it,
and this was one, although the old man evidently had a Scotch
Covenanter's contempt and dislike of the faith that founded the Abbey.
He repeated King David's dictum that King David the First was "a sair
saint for the crown," as bestowing so much wealth on religious edifices;
but really, unless it be Walter Scott, I know not any Scotchman who has
done so much for his country as this same St. David. As the founder of
Melrose and many other beautiful churches and abbeys, he left magnificent
specimens of the only kind of poetry which the age knew how to produce;
and the world is the better for him to this day,--which is more, I
believe, than can be said of any hero or statesman in Scottish annals.
We went all over the ruins, of course, and saw the marble stone of King
Alexander, and the spot where Bruce's heart is said to be buried, and the
slab of Michael Scott, with the cross engraved upon it; also the
exquisitely sculptured kail-leaves, and other foliage and flowers, with
which the Gothic artists inwreathed this edifice, bestowing more minute
and faithful labor than an artist of these days would do on the most
delicate piece of cabinet-work. We came away sooner than we wished, but
we hoped to return thither this morning; and, for my part, I cherish a
presentiment that this will not be our last visit to Scotland and
Melrose. . . . . J----- and I then walked to the Tweed, where we saw two
or three people angling, with naked legs, or trousers turned up, and
wading among the rude stones that make something like a dam over the wide
and brawling stream. I did not observe that they caught any fish, but
J----- was so fascinated with the spectacle that he pulled out his poor
little fishing-line, and wished to try his chance forthwith. I never
saw the angler's instinct stronger in anybody. We walked across the
foot-bridge that here spans the Tweed; and J----- observed that he did
not see how William of Deloraine could have found so much difficulty in
swimming his horse across so shallow a river. Neither do I. It now
began to sprinkle, and we hastened back to the hotel.
It was not a pleasant morning; but we started immediately after breakfast
for