ABBOTSFORD.

By WASHINGTON IRVING.

I sit down to perform my promise of giving you an account of a visit

made many years since to Abbotsford. I hope, however, that you do not

expect much from me, for the travelling notes taken at the time are so

scanty and vague, and my memory so extremely fallacious, that I fear I

shall disappoint you with the meagreness and crudeness of my details.

Late in the evening of August 29, 1817, I arrived at the ancient little

border town of Selkirk, where I put up for the night. I had come down

from Edinburgh, partly to visit Melrose Abbey and its vicinity, but

chiefly to get sight of the "mighty minstrel of the north." I had a

letter of introduction to him from Thomas Campbell, the poet, and had

reason to think, from the interest he had taken in some of my earlier

scribblings, that a visit from me would not be deemed an intrusion.

On the following morning, after an early breakfast, I set off in a

postchaise for the Abbey. On the way thither I stopped at the gate of

Abbotsford, and sent the postilion to the house with the letter of

introduction and my card, on which I had written that I was on my way

to the ruins of Melrose Abbey, and wished to know whether it would be

agreeable to Mr. Scott (he had not yet been made a Baronet) to receive

a visit from me in the course of the morning.

While the postilion was on his errand, I had time to survey the

mansion. It stood some short distance below the road, on the side of a

hill sweeping down to the Tweed; and was as yet but a snug gentleman's

cottage, with something rural and picturesque in its appearance. The

whole front was overrun with evergreens, and immediately above the

portal was a great pair of elk horns, branching out from beneath the

foliage, and giving the cottage the look of a hunting lodge. The huge

baronial pile, to which this modest mansion in a manner gave birth was

just emerging into existence; part of the walls, surrounded by

scaffolding, already had risen to the height of the cottage, and the

courtyard in front was encumbered by masses of hewn stone.

The noise of the chaise had disturbed the quiet of the establishment.

Out sallied the warder of the castle, a black greyhound, and, leaping

on one of the blocks of stone, began a furious barking. His alarum

brought out the whole garrison of dogs:

"Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,

And curs of low degree;"

all open-mouthed and vociferous.--I should correct my quotation;--not a

cur was to be seen on the premises: Scott was too true a sportsman, and

had too high a veneration for pure blood, to tolerate a mongrel.

In a little while the "lord of the castle" himself made his appearance.

I knew him at once by the descriptions I had read and heard, and the

likenesses that had been published of him. He was tall, and of a large

and powerful frame. His dress was simple, and almost rustic. An old

green shooting-coat, with a dog-whistle at the buttonhole, brown linen

pantaloons, stout shoes that tied at the ankles, and a white hat that

had evidently seen service. He came limping up the gravel walk, aiding

himself by a stout walking-staff, but moving rapidly and with vigor. By

his side jogged along a large iron-gray stag-hound of most grave

demeanor, who took no part in the clamor of the canine rabble, but

seemed to consider himself bound, for the dignity of the house, to give

me a courteous reception.

Before Scott had reached the gate he called out in a hearty tone,

welcoming me to Abbotsford, and asking news of Campbell. Arrived at the

door of the chaise, he grasped me warmly by the hand: "Come, drive

down, drive down to the house," said he, "ye're just in time for

breakfast, and afterward ye shall see all the wonders of the Abbey."

I would have excused myself, on the plea of having already made my

breakfast. "Hout, man," cried he, "a ride in the morning in the keen

air of the Scotch hills is warrant enough for a second breakfast."

I was accordingly whirled to the portal of the cottage, and in a few

moments found myself seated at the breakfast-table. There was no one

present but the family, which consisted of Mrs. Scott, her eldest

daughter Sophia, then a fine girl about seventeen, Miss Ann Scott, two

or three years younger, Walter, a well-grown stripling, and Charles, a

lively boy, eleven or twelve years of age. I soon felt myself quite at

home, and my heart in a glow with the cordial welcome I experienced. I

had thought to make a mere morning visit, but found I was not to be let

off so lightly. "You must not think our neighborhood is to be read in a

morning, like a newspaper," said Scott. "It takes several days of study

for an observant traveller that has a relish for auld world trumpery.

After breakfast you shall make your visit to Melrose Abbey; I shall not

be able to accompany you, as I have some household affairs to attend

to, but I will put you in charge of my son Charles, who is very learned

in all things touching the old ruin and the neighborhood it stands in,

and he and my friend Johnny Bower will tell you the whole truth about

it, with a good deal more that you are not called upon to

believe--unless you be a true and nothing-doubting antiquary. When you

come back, I'll take you out on a ramble about the neighborhood. To-morrow

we will take a look at the Yarrow, and the next day we will drive over

to Dryburgh Abbey, which is a fine old ruin well worth your seeing"--in

a word, before Scott had got through his plan, I found myself committed

for a visit of several days, and it seemed as if a little realm of

romance was suddenly opened before me.

* * * * *

After breakfast I accordingly set oft for the Abbey with my little

friend Charles, whom I found a most sprightly and entertaining

companion. He had an ample stock of anecdote about the neighborhood,

which he had learned from his father, and many quaint remarks and sly

jokes, evidently derived from the same source, all which were uttered

with a Scottish accent and a mixture of Scottish phraseology, that gave

them additional flavor.

On our way to the Abbey he gave me some anecdotes of Johnny Bower to

whom his father had alluded; he was sexton of the parish and custodian

of the ruin, employed to keep it in order and show it to strangers;--a

worthy little man, not without ambition in his humble sphere. The death

of his predecessor had been mentioned in the newspapers, so that his

name had appeared in print throughout the land. When Johnny succeeded

to the guardianship of the ruin, he stipulated that, on his death, his

name should receive like honorable blazon; with this addition, that it

should be from, the pen of Scott. The latter gravely pledged himself to

pay this tribute to his memory, and Johnny now lived in the proud

anticipation of a poetic immortality.

I found Johnny Bower a decent-looking little old man, in blue coat and

red waistcoat. He received us with much greeting, and seemed delighted

to see my young companion, who was full of merriment and waggery,

drawing out his peculiarities for my amusement. The old man was one of

the most authentic and particular of cicerones; he pointed out

everything in the Abbey that had been described by Scott in his "Lay of

the Last Minstrel:" and would repeat, with broad Scottish accent, the

passage which celebrated it.

Thus, in passing through the cloisters, he made me remark the beautiful

carvings of leaves and flowers wrought in stone with the most exquisite

delicacy, and, notwithstanding the lapse of centuries, retaining their

sharpness as if fresh from the chisel; rivalling, as Scott has said,

the real objects of which they were imitations:

"Nor herb nor flowret glistened there

But was carved in the cloister arches as fair."

He pointed out, also, among the carved work a nun's head of much

beauty, which he said Scott always stopped to admire--"for the shirra

had a wonderful eye for all sic matters."

I would observe that Scott seemed to derive more consequence in the

neighborhood from being sheriff of the county than from being poet.

In the interior of the Abbey Johnny Bower conducted me to the identical

stone on which Stout "William of Deloraine" and the monk took their seat

on that memorable night when the wizard's book was to be rescued from

the grave. Nay, Johnny had even gone beyond Scott in the minuteness of

his antiquarian research, for he had discovered the very tomb of the

wizard, the position of which had been left in doubt by the poet. This

he boasted to have ascertained by the position of the oriel window, and

the direction in which the moonbeams fell at night, through the stained

glass, casting the shadow to the red cross on the spot; as had all been

specified in the poem. "I pointed out the whole to the shirra," said

he, "and he could na' gainsay but it was varra clear." I found

afterward that Scott used to amuse himself with the simplicity of the

old man, and his zeal in verifying every passage of the poem, as though

it had authentic history, and that he always acquiesced in his

deductions. I subjoin the description of the wizard's grave, which

called forth the antiquarian research of Johnny Bower.

"Lo warrior! now the cross of red,

Points to the grave of the mighty dead;

Slow moved the monk to the broad flag-stone,

Which the bloody cross was traced upon:

He pointed to a sacred nook:

An iron bar the warrior took;

And the monk made a sign with his withered hand,

The grave's huge portal to expand.

"It was by dint of passing strength,

That he moved the massy stone at length.

I would you had been there to see,

How the light broke forth so gloriously,

Streamed upward to the chancel roof,

And through the galleries far aloof!

And, issuing from the tomb,

Showed the monk's cowl and visage pale,

Danced on the dark brown warrior's mail,

And kissed his waving plume.

"Before their eyes the wizard lay,

As if he had not been dead a day:

His hoary beard in silver rolled,

He seemed some seventy winters old;

A palmer's amice wrapped him round;

With a wrought Spanish baldrie bound,

Like a pilgrim from beyond the sea;

His left hand held his book of might;

A silver cross was in his right:

The lamp was placed beside his knee."

The fictions of Scott had become facts with honest Johnny Bower. From

constantly living among the ruins of Melrose Abbey, and pointing out

the scenes of the poem, the "Lay of the Last Minstrel" had, in a

manner, become interwoven with his whole existence, and I doubt whether

he did not now and then mix up his own identity with the personages of

some of its cantos.

He could not bear that any other production of the poet should be

preferred to the "Lay of the Last Minstrel." "Faith," said he to me,

"it's just e'en as gude a thing as Mr. Scott has written--an' if he

were stannin' there I'd tell him so--an' then he'd lauff."

He was loud in his praises of the affability of Scott. "He'll come here

sometimes," said he, "with great folks in his company, an' the first I

know of it is his voice, calling out 'Johnny!--Johnny Bower!'--and

when I go out, I am sure to be greeted with a joke or a pleasant word.

Hell stand and crack and lauff wi' me, just like an auld wife--and to

think that of a man who has such an awfu' knowledge o' history!"

One of the ingenious devices on which the worthy little man prided

himself, was to place a visitor opposite to the Abbey, with his back to

it, and bid him bend down and look at it between his legs. This, he

said, gave an entire different aspect to the ruin. Folks admired the

plan amazingly, but as to the "leddies," they were dainty on the

matter, and contented themselves with looking from under their arms. As

Johnny Bower piqued himself upon showing everything laid down in the

poem, there was one passage that perplexed him sadly. It was the

opening of one of the cantos:

"If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright,

Go visit it by the pale moonlight:

For the gay beams of lightsome day,

Gild but to flout the ruins gray." etc.

In consequence of this admonition, many of the most devout pilgrims to

the ruin could not be contented with a daylight inspection, and

insisted it could be nothing unless seen by the light of the moon. Now,

unfortunately, the moon shines but for a part of the month; and, what

is still more unfortunate, is very apt in Scotland to be obscured by

clouds and mists. Johnny was sorely puzzled, therefore, how to

accommodate his poetry-struck visitors with this indispensable

moonshine. At length, in a lucky moment, he devised a substitute. This

was a great double tallow candle stuck upon the end of a pole, with

which he could conduct his visitors about the ruins on dark nights, so

much to their satisfaction that, at length, he began to think it even

preferable to the moon itself. "It does na light up a' the Abbey at

since, to be sure," he would say, "but then you can shift it about and

show the auld ruin bit by bit, whiles the moon only shines on one

side."

Honest Johnny Bower! so many years have elapsed since the time I treat

of, that it is more than probable his simple head lies beneath the

walls of his favorite Abbey. It is to be hoped his humble ambition has

been gratified, and his name recorded by the pen of the man he so loved

and honored.

* * * * *

After my return from Melrose Abbey, Scott proposed a ramble to show me

something of the surrounding country. As we sallied forth, every dog in

the establishment turned out to attend us. There was the old stag-hound

Maida, that I have already mentioned, a noble animal, and a great

favorite of Scott's, and Hamlet, the black greyhound, a wild,

thoughtless youngster, not yet arrived to the years of discretion; and

Finette, a beautiful setter, with soft, silken hair, long pendent ears,

and a mild eye, the parlor favorite. When in front of the house, we

were joined by a superannuated greyhound, who came from the kitchen

wagging his tail, and was cheered by Scott as an old friend and

comrade.

In our walks, Scott would frequently pause in conversation to notice

his dogs and speak to them, as if rational companions; and indeed there

appears to be a vast deal of rationality in these faithful attendants

on man, derived from their close intimacy with him. Maida deported

himself with a gravity becoming his age and size, and seemed to

consider himself called upon to preserve a great degree of dignity and

decorum in our society. As he jogged along a little distance ahead of

us, the young dogs would gambol about him, leap on his neck, worry at

his ears, and endeavor to tease him into a frolic. The old dog would

keep on for a long time with imperturbable solemnity, now and then

seeming to rebuke the wantonness of his young companions. At length he

would make a sudden turn, seize one of them, and tumble him in the

dust; then giving a glance at us, as much as to say, "You see,

gentlemen, I can't help giving way to this nonsense," would resume his

gravity and jog on as before.

Scott amused himself with these peculiarities. "I make no doubt," said

he, "when Maida is alone with these young dogs, he throw's gravity

aside, and plays the boy as much as any of them; but he is ashamed to

do so in our company, and seems to say, 'Ha' done with your nonsense,

youngsters: what will the laird and that other gentleman think of me if

I give way to such foolery?'"

Maida reminded him, he said, of a scene on board an armed yacht in

which he made an excursion with his friend Adam Ferguson. They had

taken much notice of the boatswain, who was a fine sturdy seaman, and

evidently felt flattered by their attention. On one occasion the crew

were "piped to fun," and the sailors were dancing and cutting all kinds

of capers to the music of the ship's band. The boatswain looked on with

a wistful eye, as if he would like to join in; but a glance at Scott

and Ferguson showed that there was a struggle with his dignity, fearing

to lessen himself in their eyes. At length one at his messmates came

up, and seizing him by the arm, challenged him to a jig. The boatswain,

continued Scott, after a little hesitation complied, made an awkward

gambol or two, like our friend Maida, but soon gave it up. "It's of no

use," said he, jerking up his waistband and giving a side glance at us,

"one can't dance always nouther."

Scott amused himself with the peculiarities of another of his dogs, a

little shamefaced terrier, with large glassy eyes, one of the most

sensitive little bodies to insult and indignity in the world. If ever

he whipped him, he said, the little fellow would sneak off and hide

himself from the light of day, in a lumber garret, whence there was no

drawing him forth but by the sound of the chopping-knife, as if

chopping up his victuals, when he would steal forth with humble and

downcast look, but would skulk away again if any one regarded him.

While we were discussing the humors and peculiarities of our canine

companions, some object provoked their spleen, and produced a sharp and

petulant barking from the smaller fry, but it was some time before

Maida was sufficiently aroused to ramp forward two or three bounds and

join in the chorus, with a deep-mouthed bow-wow!

It was but a transient outbreak, and he returned instantly, wagging his

tail, and looking up dubiously in his master's face; uncertain whether

he would censure or applaud.

"Aye, aye, old boy!" cried Scott, "you have done wonders. You have

shaken the Eildon hills with your roaring; you may now lay by your

artillery for the rest of the day. Maida is like the great gun at

Constantinople," continued he; "it takes so long to get it ready, that

the small guns can fire off a dozen times first, but when it does go

off it plays the very d----l."

These simple anecdotes may serve to show the delightful play of Scott's

humors and feelings in private life. His domestic animals were his

friends; everything about him seemed to rejoice in the light of his

countenance; the face of the humblest dependent brightened at his

approach, as if he anticipated a cordial and cheering word. I had

occasion to observe this particularly in a visit which we paid to a

quarry, whence several men were cutting stone for the new edifice; who

all paused from their labor to have a pleasant "crack wi' the laird."

One of them was a burgess of Selkirk, with whom Scott had some joke

about-the old song:

"Up with the Souters o' Selkirk,

And down with the Earl of Horne."

Another was precentor at the Kirk, and, besides leading the psalmody on

Sunday, taught the lads and lasses of the neighborhood dancing on week

days, in the winter time, when out-of-door labor was scarce.

Among the rest was a tall, straight old fellow, with a healthful

complexion and silver hair, and a small round-crowned white hat. He had

been about to shoulder a nod, but paused, and stood looking at Scott,

with a slight sparkling of his blue eye, as if waiting his turn; for

the old fellow knew himself to be a favorite.

Scott accosted him in an affable tone, and asked for a pinch of snuff.

The old man drew forth a horn snuff-box. "Hoot, man," said Scott, "not

that old mull: where's the bonnie French one that I brought you from

Paris?" "Troth, your honor," replied the old fellow, "sic a mull as

that is nae for week-days."

On leaving the quarry, Scott informed me that when absent at Paris, he

had purchased several trifling articles as presents for his dependents,

and among others the gay snuff-box in question, which was so carefully

reserved for Sundays, by the veteran. "It was not so much the value of

the gifts," said he, "that pleased them, as the idea that the laird

should think of them when so far away."

The old man in question, I found, was a great favorite with Scott. If I

recollect right, he had been a soldier in early life, and his straight,

erect person, his ruddy yet rugged countenance, his gray hair, and an

arch gleam in his blue eye, reminded me of the description of Edie

Ochiltree. I find that the old fellow has since been introduced by

Wilkie, in his picture of the Scott family.

* * * * *

We rambled on among scenes which had been familiar in Scottish song,

and rendered classic by pastoral muse, long before Scott had thrown the

rich mantle of his poetry over them. What a thrill of pleasure did I

feel when first I saw the broom-covered tops of the Cowden Knowes,

peeping above the gray hills of the Tweed: and what touching

associations were called up by the sight of Ettrick Vale, Galla Water,

and the Braes of Yarrow! Every turn brought to mind some household

air--some almost forgotten song of the nursery, by which I had been lulled

to sleep in my childhood; and with them the looks and voices of those

who had sung them, and who were now no more. It is these melodies,

chanted in our ears in the days of infancy, and connected with the

memory of those we have loved, and who have passed away, that clothe

Scottish landscape with such tender associations. The Scottish songs,

in general, have something intrinsically melancholy in them; owing, in

all probability, to the pastoral and lonely life of those who composed

them: who were often mere shepherds, tending their flocks in the

solitary glens, or folding them among the naked hills. Many of these

rustic bards have passed away, without leaving a name behind them;

nothing remains of them but their sweet and touching songs, which live,

like echoes, about the places they once inhabited. Most of these simple

effusions of pastoral poets are linked with some favorite haunt of the

poet; and in this way, not a mountain or valley, a town or tower, green

shaw or running stream, in Scotland, but has some popular air connected

with it, that makes its very name a key-note to a whole train of

delicious fancies and feelings.

Let me step forward in time, and mention how sensible I was to the

power of these simple airs, in a visit which I made to Ayr, the

birthplace of Robert Burns. I passed a whole morning about "the banks

and braes of bonnie Doon," with his tender little love verses running

in my head. I found a poor Scotch carpenter at work among the ruins of

Kirk Alloway, which was to be converted into a school-house. Finding

the purpose of my visit, he left his work, sat down with me on a grassy

grave, close by where Burns' father was buried, and talked of the poet,

whom he had known personally. He said his songs were familiar to the

poorest and most illiterate of the country folk, "_and it seemed to

him as if the country had grown more beautiful, since Burns had written

his bonnie little songs about it._"

I found Scott was quite an enthusiast on the subject of the popular

songs of his country, and he seemed gratified to find me so alive to

them. Their effect in calling up in my mind the recollections of early

times and scenes in which I had first heard them, reminded him, he

said, of the lines of his poor Mend, Leyden, to the Scottish muse:

"In youth's first morn, alert and gay,

Ere rolling years had passed away,

Remembered like a morning dream,

I heard the dulcet measures float,

In many a liquid winding note,

Along the bank of Teviot's stream.

"Sweet sounds! that oft have soothed to rest

The sorrows of my guileless breast,

And charmed away mine infant tears;

Fond memory shall your strains repeat,

Like distant echoes, doubly sweet,

That on the wild the traveller hears."

Scott went on to expatiate on the popular songs of Scotland. "They are

a part of our national inheritance," said he, "and something that we

may truly call our own. They have no foreign taint; they have the pure

breath of the heather and the mountain breeze. All genuine legitimate

races that have descended from the ancient Britons; such as the Scotch,

the Welsh, and the Irish, have national airs. The English have none,

because they are not natives of the soil, or, at least, are mongrels.

Their music is all made up of foreign scraps, like a harlequin jacket,

or a piece of mosaic. Even in Scotland, we have comparatively few

national songs in the eastern part, where we have had most influx of

strangers. A real old Scottish song is a cairngorm--a gem of our own

mountains; or rather, it is a precious relic of old times, that bears

the national character stamped upon it--like a cameo, that shows what

the national visage was in former days, before the breed was crossed."

While Scott was thus discoursing, we were passing up a narrow glen,

with the dogs beating about, to right and left, when suddenly a

blackcock burst upon the wing.

"Aha!" cried Scott, "there will be a good shot for Master Walter; we

must send him this way with his gun, when we go home. Walter's the

family sportsman now, and keeps us in game. I have pretty nigh resigned

my gun to him; for I find I cannot trudge about as briskly as

formerly."

Our ramble took us on the hills commanding an extensive prospect.

"Now," said Scott, "I have brought you, like the pilgrim in the

Pilgrim's Progress, to the top of the Delectable Mountains, that I may

show you all the goodly regions hereabouts. Yonder is Lammermuir, and

Smalholme; and there you have Gallashiels, and Torwoodlie, and

Gallawater; and in that direction you see Teviotdale, and the Braes of

Yarrow; and Ettrick stream, winding along, like a silver thread, to

throw itself into the Tweed."

He went on thus to call over names celebrated in Scottish song, and

most of which had recently received a romantic interest from his own

pen. In fact, I saw a great part of the border country spread out

before me, and could trace the scenes of those poems and romances which

had, in a manner, bewitched the world. I gazed about me for a time with

mute surprise, I may almost say with disappointment. I beheld a mere

succession of gray waving hills, line beyond line, as far as my eye

could reach; monotonous in their aspect, and so destitute of trees,

that one could almost see a stout fly walking along their profile; and

the far-famed Tweed appeared a naked stream, flowing between bare

hills, without a tree or thicket on its banks; and yet, such had been

the magic web of poetry and romance thrown over the whole, that it had

a greater charm for me than the richest scenery I beheld in England.

I could not help giving utterance to my thoughts. Scott hummed for a

moment to himself, and looked grave; he had no idea of having his muse

complimented at the expense of his native hills. "It may be

partiality," said he, at length; "but to my eye, these gray bills and

all this wild border country have beauties peculiar to themselves. I

like the very nakedness of the land; it has something bold, and stern,

and solitary about it. When I have been for some time in the rich

scenery about Edinburgh, which is like ornamented garden land, I begin

to wish myself back again among my own honest gray hills; and if I did

not see the heather at least once a year, _I think I should die!_"

The last words were said with an honest warmth, accompanied with a

thump on the ground with his staff, by way of emphasis, that showed his

heart was in his speech. He vindicated the Tweed, too, as a beautiful

stream in itself, and observed that he did not dislike it for being

bare of trees, probably from having been much of an angler in his time,

and an angler does not like to have a stream overhung by trees, which

embarrass him in the exercise of his rod and line.

I took occasion to plead, in like manner, the associations of early

life, for my disappointment in respect to the surrounding scenery. I

had been so accustomed to hills crowned with forests, and streams

breaking their way through a wilderness of trees, that all my ideas of

romantic landscape were apt to be well wooded.

"Aye, and that's the great charm of your country," cried Scott. "You

love the forest as I do the heather--but I would not have you think I

do not feel the glory of a great woodland prospect. There is nothing I

should like more than to be in the midst of one of your grand, wild,

original forests with the idea of hundreds of miles of untrodden forest

around me. I once saw, at Leith, an immense stick of timber, just

landed from America. It must have been an enormous tree when it stood

on its native soil, at its full height, and with all its branches. I

gazed at it with admiration; it seemed like one of the gigantic

obelisks which are now and then brought from Egypt, to shame the pigmy

monuments of Europe; and, in fact, these vast aboriginal trees, that

have sheltered the Indians before the intrusion of the white men, are

the monuments and antiquities of your country."

The conversation here turned upon Campbell's poem of "Gertrude of

Wyoming," as illustrative of the poetic materials furnished by American

scenery. Scott spoke of it in that liberal style in which I always

found him to speak of the writings of his contemporaries. He cited

several passages of it with great delight. "What a pity it is," said

he, "that Campbell does not write more and oftener, and give full sweep

to his genius. He has wings that would bear him to the skies; and he

does now and then spread them grandly, but folds them up again and

resumes his perch, as if he was afraid to launch away. He don't know or

won't trust his own strength. Even when he has done a thing well, he

has often misgivings about it. He left out several fine passages of his

Lochiel, but I got him to restore some of them." Here Scott repeated

several passages in a magnificent style. "What a grand idea is that,"

said he, "about prophetic boding, or, in common parlance, second sight--

'Coming events cast their shadows before.'

"It is a noble thought, and nobly expressed, And there's that glorious

little poem, too, of 'Hohenlinden;' after he had written it, he did not

seem to think much of it, but considered some of it'd--d drum and

trumpet lines.' I got him to recite it to me, and I believe that the

delight I felt and expressed had an effect in inducing him to print it.

The fact is," added he, "Campbell is, in a manner, a bugbear to

himself. The brightness of his early success is a detriment to all his

further efforts. _He is afraid of the shadow that his own fame casts

before him_."

While we were thus chatting, we heard the report of a gun among the

hills. "That's Walter, I think," said Scott; "he has finished his

morning's studies, and is out with his gun. I should not be surprised

if he had met with the blackcock; if so, we shall have an addition to

our larder, for Walter is a pretty sure shot." I inquired into the

nature of Walter's studies. "Faith," said Scott, "I can't say much on

that head. I am not over bent upon making prodigies of any of my

children. As to Walter, I taught him, while a boy, to ride, and shoot,

and speak the truth; as to the other parts of his education, I leave

them to a very worthy young man, the son of one of our clergymen, who

instructs all my children."

I afterward became acquainted with the young man in question, George

Thomson, son of the minister of Melrose, and found him possessed of

much learning, intelligence, and modest worth. He used to come every

day from his father's residence at Melrose to superintend the studies

of the young folks, and occasionally took his meals at Abbotsford,

where he was highly esteemed. Nature had cut him out, Scott used to

say, for a stalwart soldier, for he was tall, vigorous, active, and

fond of athletic exercises, but accident had marred her work, the loss

of a limb in boyhood having reduced him to a wooden leg. He was brought

up, therefore, for the Church, whence he was occasionally called the

Dominie, and is supposed, by his mixture of learning, simplicity, and

amiable eccentricity, to have furnished many traits for the character

of Dominie Sampson. I believe he often acted as Scott's amanuensis,

when composing his novels. With him the young people were occupied in

general during the early part of the day, after which they took all

kinds of healthful recreations in the open air; for Scott was as

solicitous to strengthen their bodies as their minds.

We had not walked much further before we saw the two Miss Scotts

advancing along the hillside to meet us. The morning studies being

over, they had set off to take a ramble on the hills, and gather

heather blossoms, with which to decorate their hair for dinner. As they

came bounding lightly like young fawns, and their dresses fluttering in

the pure summer breeze, I was reminded of Scott's own description of

his children in his introduction to one of the cantos of Marmion--

"My imps, though hardy, bold, and wild,

As best befits the mountain child,

Their summer gambols tell and mourn,

And anxious ask will spring return,

And birds and lambs again be gay,

And blossoms clothe the hawthorn spray?

"Yes, prattlers, yes, the daisy's flower

Again shall paint your summer bower;

Again the hawthorn shall supply

The garlands you delight to tie;

The lambs upon the lea shall bound.

The wild birds carol to the round,

And while you frolic light as they,

Too short shall seem the summer day."

As they approached, the dogs all sprang forward and gambolled around

them. They played with them for a time, and then joined us with

countenances full of health and glee. Sophia, the eldest, was the most

lively and joyous, having much of her father's varied spirit in

conversation, and seeming to catch excitement from his words and looks.

Ann was of quieter mood, rather silent, owing, in some measure, no

doubt, to her being some years younger.

* * * * *

At dinner Scott had laid by his half-rustic dress, and appeared clad in

black. The girls, too, in completing their toilet, had twisted in their

hair the sprigs of purple heather which they had gathered on the

hillside, and looked all fresh and blooming from their breezy walk.

There was no guest at dinner but myself. Around the table were two or

three dogs in attendance. Maida, the old stag-hound, took his seat at

Scott's elbow, looking up wistfully in his master's eye, while Finette,

the pet spaniel, placed herself near Mrs. Scott, by whom, I soon

perceived, she was completely spoiled.

The conversation happening to turn on the merits of his dogs, Scott

spoke with great feeling and affection of his favorite, Camp, who is

depicted by his side in the earlier engravings of him. He talked of him

as of a real friend whom he had lost, and Sophia Scott, looking up

archly in his face, observed that Papa shed a few tears when poor Camp

died. I may here mention another testimonial of Scott's fondness for

his dogs, and his humorous mode of showing it, which I subsequently met

with. Rambling with him one morning about the grounds adjacent to the

house, I observed a small antique monument, on which was inscribed, in

Gothic characters--

"Cy git le preux Percy." (Here lies the brave Percy.)

I paused, supposing it to be the tomb of some stark warrior of the

olden time, but Scott drew me on. "Pooh!" cried he, "it's nothing but

one of the monuments of my nonsense, of which you'll find enough

hereabouts." I learnt afterward that it was the grave of a favorite

greyhound. Among the other important and privileged members of the

household who figured in attendance at the dinner, was a large gray

cat, who, I observed, was regaled from time to time with tit-bits from

the table. This sage grimalkin was a favorite of both master and

mistress, and slept at night in their room; and Scott laughingly

observed, that one of the least wise parts of their establishment was,

that the window was left open at night for puss to go in and out. The

cat assumed a kind of ascendancy among the quadrupeds--sitting in state

in Scott's arm-chair, and occasionally stationing himself on a chair

beside the door, as if to review his subjects as they passed, giving

each dog a cuff beside the ears as he went by. This clapper-clawing was

always taken in good part; it appeared to be, in fact, a mere act of

sovereignty on the part of grimalkin, to remind the others of their

vassalage; which they acknowledged by the most perfect acquiescence. A

general harmony prevailed between sovereign and subjects, and they

would all sleep together in the sunshine.

Scott was full of anecdote and conversation during dinner. He made some

admirable remarks upon the Scottish character, and spoke strongly in

praise of the quiet, orderly, honest conduct of his neighbors, which

one would hardly expect, said he, from the descendants of moss

troopers, and borderers, in a neighborhood famed in old times for brawl

and feud, and violence of all kinds. He said he had, in his official

capacity of sheriff, administered the laws for a number of years,

during which there had been very few trials. The old feuds and local

interests, and rivalries, and animosities of the Scotch, however, still

slept, he said, in their ashes, and might easily be roused. Their

hereditary feeling for names was still great. It was not always safe to

have even the game of foot-ball between villages, the old clannish

spirit was too apt to break out. The Scotch, he said, were more

revengeful than the English; they carried their resentments longer, and

would sometimes lay them by for years, but would be sure to gratify

them in the end.

The ancient jealousy between the Highlanders and the Lowlanders still

continued to a certain degree, the former looking upon the latter as an

inferior race, less brave and hardy, but at the same time, suspecting

them of a disposition to take airs upon themselves under the idea of

superior refinement. This made them techy and ticklish company for a

stranger on his first coming among them; ruffling up and putting

themselves upon their mettle on the slightest occasion, so that he had

in a manner to quarrel and fight his way into their good graces.

He instanced a case in point in a brother of Mungo Park, who went to

take up his residence in a wild neighborhood of the Highlands. He soon

found himself considered as an intruder, and that there was a

disposition among these cocks of the hills, to fix a quarrel on him,

trusting that, being a Lowlander, he would show the white feather.

For a time he bore their flings and taunts with great coolness, until

one, presuming on his forbearance, drew forth a dirk, and holding it

before him, asked him if he had ever seen a weapon like that in his

part of the country. Park, who was a Hercules in frame, seized the

dirk, and, with one blow, drove it through an oaken table:--"Yes,"

replied he, "and tell your friends that a man from the Lowlands drove

it where the devil himself cannot draw it out again." All persons were

delighted with the feat, and the words that accompanied it. They drank

with Park to a better acquaintance, and were staunch friends ever

afterwards.

After dinner we adjourned to the drawing-room, which served also for

study and library. Against the wall on one side was a long writing-table,

with drawers; surmounted by a small cabinet of polished wood,

with folding doors richly studded with brass ornaments, within which

Scott kept his most valuable papers. Above the cabinet, in a kind of

niche, was a complete corslet of glittering steel, with a closed

helmet, and flanked by gauntlets and battle-axes. Around were hung

trophies and relics of various kinds: a cimeter of Tippoo Saib; a

Highland broadsword from Flodden Field; a pair of Rippon spurs from

Bannockburn; and above all, a gun which had belonged to Rob Roy, and

bore his initials, R.M.G., an object of peculiar interest to me at the

time, as it was understood Scott was actually engaged in printing a

novel founded on the story of that famous outlaw.

On each side of the cabinet were book-cases, well stored with works of

romantic fiction in various languages, many of them rare and

antiquated. This, however, was merely his cottage library, the

principal part of his books being at Edinburgh.

From this little cabinet of curiosities Scott drew forth a manuscript

picked up on the field of Waterloo, containing copies of several songs

popular at the time in France. The paper was dabbled with blood--"the

very life-blood, very possibly," said Scott, "of some gay young

officer, who had cherished these songs as a keepsake from some lady-love

in Paris."

He adverted, in a mellow and delightful manner, to the little half-gay,

half-melancholy, campaigning song, said to have been composed by

General Wolfe, and sung by him at the mess table, on the eve of the

storming of Quebec, in which he fell so gloriously:

"Why, soldiers, why,

Should we be melancholy, boys?

Why, soldiers, why,

Whose business 'tis to die!

For should next campaign

Send us to him who made us, boys

We're free from pain:

But should we remain,

A bottle and kind landlady

Makes all well again."

"So," added he, "the poor lad who fell at Waterloo, in all probability,

had been singing these songs in his tent the night before the battle,

and thinking of the fair dame who had taught him them, and promising

himself, should he outlive the campaign, to return to her all glorious

from the wars."

I find since that Scott published translations of these songs among

some of his smaller poems.

The evening passed away delightfully in this quaint-looking apartment,

half study, half drawing-room. Scott read several passages from the old

romance of "Arthur," with a fine, deep sonorous voice, and a gravity of

tone that seemed to suit the antiquated, black-letter volume. It was a

rich treat to hear such a work, read by such a person, and in such a

place; and his appearance as he sat reading, in a large armed chair,

with his favorite hound Maida at his feet, and surrounded by books and

relics, and border trophies, would have formed an admirable and most

characteristic picture.

While Scott was reading, the sage grimalkin, already mentioned, had

taken his seat in a chair beside the fire, and remained with fixed eye

and grave demeanor, as if listening to the reader. I observed to Scott

that his cat seemed to have a black-letter taste in literature.

"Ah," said he, "these cats are a very mysterious kind of folk. There is

always more passing in their minds than we are aware of. It comes no

doubt from their being so familiar with witches and warlocks." He went

on to tell a little story about a gude man who was returning to his

cottage one night, when, in a lonely out-of-the-way place, he met with

a funeral procession of cats all in mourning, bearing one of their race

to the grave in a coffin covered with a black velvet pall. The worthy

man, astonished and half-frightened at so strange a pageant, hastened

home and told what he had seen to his wife and children. Scarce had he

finished, when a great black cat that sat beside the fire raised

himself up, exclaimed "Then I am king of the cats!" and vanished up the

chimney. The funeral seen by the gude man, was one of the cat dynasty.

"Our grimalkin here," added Scott, "sometimes reminds me of the story,

by the airs of sovereignty which he assumes; and I am apt to treat him

with respect from the idea that he may be a great prince incog., and

may some time or other come to the throne."

In this way Scott would make the habits and peculiarities of even the

dumb animals about him subjects for humorous remark or whimsical story.

Our evening was enlivened also by an occasional song from Sophia Scott,

at the request of her father. She never wanted to be asked twice, but

complied frankly and cheerfully. Her songs were all Scotch, sung

without any accompaniment, in a simple manner, but with great spirit

and expression, and in their native dialects, which gave them an

additional charm. It was delightful to hear her carol off in sprightly

style, and with an animated air, some of those generous-spirited old

Jacobite songs, once current among the adherents of the Pretender in

Scotland, in which he is designated by the appellation of "The Young

Chevalier."

These songs were much relished by Scott, notwithstanding his loyalty;

for the unfortunate "Chevalier" has always been a hero of romance with

him, as he has with many other staunch adherents to the House of

Hanover, now that the Stuart line has lost all its terrors. In speaking

on the subject, Scott mentioned as a curious fact, that, among the

papers of the "Chevalier," which had been submitted by government to

his inspection, he had found a memorial to Charles from some adherents

in America, dated 1778, proposing to set up his standard in the back

settlements. I regret that, at the time, I did not make more particular

inquiries of Scott on the subject; the document in question, however,

in all probability, still exists among the Pretender's papers, which

are in the possession of the British Government. In the course of the

evening, Scott related the story of a whimsical picture hanging in the

room, which had been drawn for him by a lady of his acquaintance. It

represented the doleful perplexity of a wealthy and handsome young

English knight of the olden time, who, in the course of a border foray,

had been captured and carried off to the castle of a hard-headed and

high-handed old baron. The unfortunate youth was thrown into a dungeon,

and a tall gallows erected before the castle gate for his execution.

When all was ready, he was brought into the castle hall where the grim

baron was seated in state, with his warriors armed to the teeth around

him, and was given his choice, either to swing on the gibbet or to

marry the baron's daughter. The last may be thought an easy

alternative, but unfortunately, the baron's young lady was hideously

ugly, with a mouth from ear to ear, so that not a suitor was to be had

for her, either for love or money, and she was known throughout the

border country by the name of Muckle-mouthed Mag!

The picture in question represented the unhappy dilemma of the handsome

youth. Before him sat the grim baron, with a face worthy of the father

of such a daughter, and looking daggers and ratsbane. On one side of

him was Muckle-mouthed Mag, with an amorous smile across the whole

breadth of her countenance, and a leer enough to turn a man to stone;

on the other side was the father confessor, a sleek friar, jogging the

youth's elbow, and pointing to the gallows, seen in perspective through

the open portal.

The story goes, that after long laboring in mind, between the altar and

the halter, the love of life prevailed, and the youth resigned himself

to the charms of Muckle-mouthed Mag. Contrary to all the probabilities

of romance, the match proved a happy one. The baron's daughter, if not

beautiful, was a most exemplary wife; her husband was never troubled

with any of those doubts and jealousies which sometimes mar the

happiness of connubial life, and was made the father of a fair and

undoubtedly legitimate hue, which still flourishes on the border.

I give but a faint outline of the story from vague recollection; it

may, perchance, be more richly related elsewhere, by some one who may

retain something of the delightful humor with which Scott recounted it.

When I retired for the night, I found it almost impossible to sleep;

the idea of being under the roof of Scott; of being on the borders of

the Tweed, in the very centre of that region which had for some time

past been the favorite scene of romantic fiction; and above all, the

recollections of the ramble I had taken, the company in which I had

taken it, and the conversation which had passed, all fermented in my

mind, and nearly drove sleep from my pillow.

* * * * *

On the following morning, the sun darted his beams from over the hills

through the low lattice window. I rose at an early hour, and looked out

between the branches of eglantine which overhung the casement. To my

surprise Scott was already up and forth, seated on a fragment of stone,

and chatting with the workmen employed on the new building. I had

supposed, after the time he had wasted upon me yesterday, he would be

closely occupied this morning, but he appeared like a man of leisure,

who had nothing to do but bask in the sunshine and amuse himself.

I soon dressed myself and joined him. He talked about his proposed

plans of Abbotsford; happy would it have been for him could he have

contented himself with his delightful little vine-covered cottage, and

the simple, yet hearty and hospitable style, in which he lived at the

time of my visit. The great pile of Abbotsford, with the huge expense

it entailed upon him, of servants, retainers, guests, and baronial

style, was a drain upon his purse, a tax upon his exertions, and a

weight upon his mind, that finally crushed him.

As yet, however, all was in embryo and perspective, and Scott pleased

himself with picturing out his future residence, as he would one of the

fanciful creations of his own romances. "It was one of his air

castles," he said, "which he was reducing to solid stone and mortar."

About the place were strewed various morsels from the ruins of Melrose

Abbey, which were to be incorporated in his mansion. He had already

constructed out of similar materials a kind of Gothic shrine over a

spring, and had surmounted it by a small stone cross.

Among the relics from the Abbey which lay scattered before us, was a

most quaint and antique little lion, either of red stone, or painted

red, which hit my fancy. I forgot whose cognizance it was; but I shall

never forget the delightful observations concerning old Melrose to

which it accidentally gave rise. The Abbey was evidently a pile that

called up all Scott's poetic and romantic feelings; and one to which he

was enthusiastically attached by the most fanciful and delightful of

his early associations. He spoke of it, I may say, with affection.

"There is no telling," said he, "what treasures are hid in that

glorious old pile. It is a famous place for antiquarian plunder; there

are such rich bits of old time sculpture for the architect, and old

time story for the poet. There is as rare picking in it as a Stilton

cheese, and in the same taste--the mouldier the better."

He went on to mention circumstances of "mighty import" connected with

the Abbey, which had never been touched, and which had even escaped the

researches of Johnny Bower. The heart of Robert Bruce, the hero of

Scotland, had been buried in it. He dwelt on the beautiful story of

Bruce's pious and chivalrous request in his dying hour, that his heart

might be carried to the Holy Land and placed in the Holy Sepulchre, in

fulfilment of a vow of pilgrimage; and of the loyal expedition of Sir

James Douglas to convey the glorious relic. Much might be made, he

said, out of the adventures of Sir James in that adventurous age; of

his fortunes in Spain, and his death in a crusade against the Moors;

with the subsequent fortunes of the heart of Robert Bruce, until it was

brought back to its native land, and enshrined within the holy walls of

old Melrose.

As Scott sat on a stone talking in this way, and knocking with his

staff against the little red lion which lay prostrate before him, his

gray eyes twinkled beneath his shagged eyebrows; scenes, images,

incidents, kept breaking upon his mind as he proceeded, mingled with

touches of the mysterious and supernatural as connected with the heart

of Bruce. It seemed as if a poem or romance were breaking vaguely on

his imagination. That he subsequently contemplated something of the

kind, as connected with this subject, and with his favorite ruin of

Melrose, is evident from his introduction to "The Monastery;" and it is

a pity that he never succeeded in following out these shadowy, but

enthusiastic conceptions.

A summons to breakfast broke off our conversation, when I begged to

recommend to Scott's attention my friend the little red lion, who had

led to such an interesting topic, and hoped he might receive some niche

or station in the future castle, worthy of his evident antiquity and

apparent dignity. Scott assured me, with comic gravity, that the

valiant little lion should be most honorably entertained; I hope,

therefore, that he still flourishes at Abbotsford.

Before dismissing the theme of the relics from the Abbey, I will

mention another, illustrative of Scott's varied humors. This was a

human skull, which had probably belonged of yore to one of those jovial

friars, so honorably mentioned in the old border ballad:

"O the monks of Melrose made gude kale

On Fridays, when they fasted;

They wanted neither beef nor ale,

As long as their neighbors lasted."

This skull he had caused to be cleaned and varnished, and placed it on

a chest of drawers in his chamber, immediately opposite his bed; where

I have seen it, grinning most dismally. It was an object of great awe

and horror to the superstitious housemaids; and Scott used to amuse

himself with their apprehensions. Sometimes, in changing his dress, he

would leave his neck-cloth coiled round it like a turban, and none of

the "lasses" dared to remove it. It was a matter of great wonder and

speculation among them that the laird should have such an "awsome fancy

for an auld girning skull."

At breakfast that morning Scott gave an amusing account of a little

Highlander called Campbell of the North, who had a lawsuit of many

years' standing with a nobleman in his neighborhood about the

boundaries of their estates. It was the leading object of the little

man's life; the running theme of all his conversations; he used to

detail all the circumstances at full length to everybody he met, and,

to aid him in his description of the premises, and make his story "mair

preceese," he had a great map made of his estate, a huge roll several

feet long, which he used to carry about on his shoulder. Campbell was a

long-bodied, but short and bandy-legged little man, always clad in the

Highland garb; and as he went about with this great roll on his

shoulder, and his little legs curving like a pair of parentheses below

his kilt, he was an odd figure to behold. He was like little David

shouldering the spear of Goliath, which was "like unto a weaver's

beam."

Whenever sheep-shearing was over, Campbell used to set out for

Edinburgh to attend to his lawsuit. At the inns he paid double for all

his meals and his night's lodgings, telling the landlords to keep it in

mind until his return, so that he might come back that way at free

cost; for he knew, he said, that he would spend all his money among the

lawyers at Edinburgh, so he thought it best to secure a retreat home

again.

On one of his visits he called upon his lawyer, but was told he was not

at home, but his lady was. "It's just the same thing," said little

Campbell. On being shown into the parlor, he unrolled his map, stated

his case at full length, and, having gone through with his story, gave

her the customary fee. She would have declined it, but he insisted on

her taking it. "I ha' had just as much pleasure," said he, "in telling

the whole tale to you, as I should have had in telling it to your

husband, and I believe full as much profit."

The last time he saw Scott, he told him he believed he and the laird

were near a settlement, as they agreed to within a few miles of the

boundary. If I recollect right, Scott added that he advised the little

man to consign his cause and his map to the care of "Slow Willie

Mowbray," of tedious memory, an Edinburgh worthy, much employed by the

country people, for he tired out everybody in office by repeated visits

and drawling, endless prolixity, and gained every suit by dint of

boring.

These little stories and anecdotes, which abounded in Scott's

conversation, rose naturally out of the subject, arid were perfectly

unforced; though, in thus relating them in a detached way, without the

observations or circumstances which led to them, and which have passed

from my recollection, they want their setting to give them proper

relief. They will serve, however, to show the natural play of his mind,

in its familiar moods, and its fecundity in graphic and characteristic

detail.

His daughter Sophia and his son Charles were those of his family who

seemed most to feel and understand his humors, and to take delight in

his conversation. Mrs. Scott did not always pay the same attention, and

would now and then make a casual remark which would operate a little

like a damper. Thus, one morning at breakfast, when Dominie Thomson,

the tutor, was present, Scott was going on with great glee to relate an

anecdote of the laird of Macnab, "who, poor fellow," premised he, "is

dead and gone--" "Why, Mr. Scott," exclaimed the good lady, "Macnab's

not dead, is he?" "Faith, my dear," replied Scott, with humorous

gravity, "if he's not dead they've done him great injustice--for

they've buried him."

The joke passed harmless and unnoticed by Mrs. Scott, but hit the poor

Dominie just as he had raised a cup of tea to his lips, causing a burst

of laughter which sent half of the contents about the table. After

breakfast, Scott was occupied for some time correcting proof-sheets

which he had received by the mail. The novel of Rob Roy, as I have

already observed, was at that time in the press, and I supposed them to

be the proof-sheets of that work. The authorship of the Waverley novels

was still a matter of conjecture and uncertainty; though few doubted

their being principally written by Scott. One proof to me of his being

the author, was that he never adverted to them. A man so fond of

anything Scottish, and anything relating to national history or local

legend, could not have been mute respecting such productions, had they

been written by another. He was fond of quoting the works of his

contemporaries; he was continually reciting scraps of border songs, or

relating anecdotes of border story. With respect to his own poems, and

their merits, however, he was mute, and while with him I observed a

scrupulous silence on the subject.

I may here mention a singular fact, of which I was not aware at the

time, that Scott was very reserved with his children respecting his own

writings, and was even disinclined to their reading his romantic poems.

I learnt this, some time after, from a passage in one of his letters to

me, adverting to a set of the American miniature edition of his poems,

which, on my return to England, I forwarded to one of the young ladies.

"In my hurry," writes he, "I have not thanked you, in Sophia's name,

for the kind attention which furnished her with the American volumes. I

am not quite sure I can add my own, since you have made her acquainted

with much more of papa's folly than she would otherwise have learned;

for I have taken special care they should never see any of these things

during their earlier years."

To return to the thread of my narrative. When Scott had got through his

brief literary occupation, we set out on a ramble. The young ladies

started to accompany us, but they had not gone far, when they met a

poor old laborer and his distressed family, and turned back to take

them to the house, and relieve them.

On passing the bounds of Abbotsford, we came upon a bleak-looking farm,

with a forlorn, crazy old manse, or farmhouse, standing in naked

desolation. This, however, Scott told me, was an ancient hereditary

property called Lauckend, about as valuable as the patrimonial estate

of Don Quixote, and which, in like manner, conferred an hereditary

dignity upon its proprietor, who was a laird, and, though poor as a

rat, prided himself upon his ancient blood, and the standing of his

house. He was accordingly called Lauckend, according to the Scottish

custom of naming a man after his family estate, but he was more

generally known through the country round by the name of Lauckie Long

Legs, from the length of his limbs. While Scott was giving this account

of him, we saw him at a distance striding along one of his fields, with

his plaid fluttering about him, and he seemed well to deserve his

appellation, for he looked all legs and tartan.

Lauckie knew nothing of the world beyond his neighborhood. Scott told

me that on returning to Abbotsford from his visit to France,

immediately after the war, he was called on by his neighbors generally

to inquire after foreign parts. Among the number came Lauckie Long Legs

and an old brother as ignorant as himself. They had many inquiries to

make about the French, whom they seemed to consider some remote and

semi-barbarous horde--"And what like are thae barbarians in their own

country?" said Lauckie, "can they write?--can they cipher?" He was

quite astonished to learn that they were nearly as much advanced in

civilization as the gude folks of Abbotsford.

After living for a long time in single blessedness, Lauckie all at

once, and not long before my visit to the neighborhood, took it into

his head to get married. The neighbors were all surprised; but the

family connection, who were as proud as they were poor, were grievously

scandalized, for they thought the young woman on whom he had set his

mind quite beneath him. It was in vain, however, that they remonstrated

on the misalliance he was about to make; he was not to be swayed from

his determination. Arraying himself in his best, and saddling a gaunt

steed that might have rivalled Rosinante, and placing a pillion behind

his saddle, he departed to wed and bring home the humble lassie who was

to be made mistress of the venerable hovel of Lauckend, and who lived

in a village on the opposite side of the Tweed.

A small event of the kind makes a great stir in a little quiet country

neighborhood. The word soon circulated through the village of Melrose,

and the cottages in its vicinity, that Lauckie Long Legs had gone over

the Tweed to fetch home his bride. All the good folks assembled at the

bridge to await his return. Lauckie, however, disappointed them; for he

crossed the river at a distant ford, and conveyed his bride safe to his

mansion without being perceived. Let me step forward in the course of

events, and relate the fate of poor Lauckie, as it was communicated to

me a year or two afterward in letter by Scott. From the time of his

marriage he had no longer any peace, owing to the constant

intermeddling of his relations, who would not permit him to be happy in

his own way, but endeavored to set him at variance with his wife.

Lauckie refused to credit any of their stories to her disadvantage; but

the incessant warfare he had to wage in defence of her good name, wore

out both flesh and spirit. His last conflict was with his own brothers,

in front of his paternal mansion. A furious scolding match took place

between them; Lauckie made a vehement profession of faith in favor of

her immaculate honesty, and then fell dead at the threshold of his own

door. His person, his character, his name, his story, and his fate,

entitled him to be immortalized in one of Scott's novels, and I looked

to recognize him in some of the succeeding works from his pen; but I

looked in vain.

* * * * *

After passing by the domains of honest Lauckie, Scott pointed out, at a

distance, the Eildon stone. There in ancient days stood the Eildon

tree, beneath which Thomas the Rhymer, according to popular tradition,

dealt forth his prophecies, some of which still exist in antiquated

ballads.

Here we turned up a little glen with a small burn or brook whimpering

and dashing along it, making an occasional waterfall, and overhung in

some places with mountain ash and weeping birch. We are now, said

Scott, treading classic, or rather fairy ground. This is the haunted

glen of Thomas the Rhymer, where he met with the queen of fairy land,

and this the bogle burn, or goblin brook, along which she rode on her

dapple-gray palfrey, with silver bells ringing at the bridle.

"Here," said he, pausing, "is Huntley Bank, on which Thomas the Rhymer

lay musing and sleeping when he saw, or dreamt he saw, the queen of

Elfland:

"'True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank;

A ferlie he spied wi' his e'e;

And there he saw a ladye bright,

Come riding down by the Eildon tree.

"'Her skirt was o' the grass-green silk,

Her mantle o' the velvet fyne;

At ilka tett of her horse's mane

Hung fifty siller bells and nine.'"

Here Scott repeated several of the stanzas and recounted the

circumstance of Thomas the Rhymer's interview with the fairy, and his

being transported by her to fairy land--

"And til seven years were gone and past,

True Thomas on earth was never seen."

"It's a fine old story," said he, "and might be wrought up into a

capital tale."

Scott continued on, leading the way as usual, and limping up the wizard

glen, talking as he went, but, as his back was toward me, I could only

hear the deep growling tones of his voice, like the low breathing of an

organ, without distinguishing the words, until pausing, and turning his

face toward me, I found he was reciting some scrap of border minstrelsy

about Thomas the Rhymer. This was continually the case in my ramblings

with him about this storied neighborhood. His mind was fraught with the

traditionary fictions connected with every object around him, and he

would breathe it forth as he went, apparently as much for his own

gratification as for that of his companion.

"Nor hill, nor brook, we paced along,