cient female relations, who, in watching by his side, were never weary of chaunting, to the sad music of the Border, the scattered relics of that Minstrelsy of Love and War, which he himself has since gathered and preserved with so pious veneration. The situation of the Tower must be charming. I remember of no poet whose infancy was passed in so poetical a scene. But he has touched all this most gracefully himself:

"He passed the court-gate, and he oped the tower-grate,
And he mounted the narrow stair,

To the bartizan seat, where with maids that on her wait,
He found his Lady fair.

"That Lady sat in mournful mood,

Looked over hill and vale,

O'er Tweed's fair flood, and Mertoun's wood,

And all down Teviotdale."

Turning again to the left, Mr. Scott pointed out to me an opening in the hills, where the Leader comes down to mingle with the Tweed-by whose side the remains of the Rhymer's old castle are yet, I believe, to be seen; although, in conformity with one of the Rhymer's own prophecies, the hall is deserted, and the land has passed to other blood.* The whole scene has been embraced by Mr. Scott himself, in the opening of one of his finest ballads :-

"When seven years more were come and gone,
Was war through Scotland spread;

And Ruberslaw shewed high Dunyon
His beacon blazing red.

"Then all by bonny Colding Know,
Pitched pallions took their room;
And crested helms and spears a-rowe,
Glanced gaily through the broom.

"The Leader, rolling to the Tweed,
Resounds the enzenzie;

They roused the deer from Caddenhead,
To distant Torwoodlee.

"The feast was spread in Ercildoune,
In Learmont's high and ancient hall;
And there were knights of high renown,
And ladies laced in pall," &c. &c.

But if I were to quote all the poetry connected with the scenes

*"The hare sall kittle on my hearth-ane,
And there never sall be Laird Learmont again."

among which I now stood-in truth, my letter might easily become a volume.

After we had fairly descended the hill, we found that much more time had passed than we had thought of-and with me, indeed, I know not that time ever passed more delightfullyso we made haste and returned at a high trot—the chiding echoes of the dinner-bell coming to us long ere we reached Ad,

"Swinging slow with sullen roar."

The evening passed as charmingly as the preceding. The younger part of the company danced reels to the music of the bag-pipe, and I believe I would have been tempted to join them, but for some little twitches I had in my left foot. Indeed, I still fear the good cheer of the North is about to be paid for in the usual way; but Heaven send the reckoning may not be a long one. At all events, I am glad the fit did not overtake me in the country, for I should have been sorry to give my company to any body but Mr. Oman during the visitation.

P.M.

LETTER LIII.

TO THE SAME.

ANOTHER morning was devoted to visiting, under the same best of all Cicerones, the two famous ruins of Melrose and Dryburgh, which I had seen from a distance, when on the top of the Eildon. The Abbey of Melrose has been so often the subject of the pencil of exquisite artists-and of late, above all, so much justice has been done to its beauties by Mr. Blore, that I need not trouble you with any description of its general effect. The glorious Oriel Window, on which the moon is made to stream in the Lay of the Last Minstrel, is almost as familiar to you as if yourself had seen it--and so, indeed, must be the whole of the most striking outlines of this venerable pile. But there is one thing about it of which you can have no idea-at least, I had none till I came to the spot-I mean the unrivalled richness and minuteness of all the decorations. Every where, without and within, the doors and windows are surrounded with specimens of sculp

ture, at once so delicately conceived, and so beautifully executed, that it would be quite ridiculous to compare them with any thing I ever saw, even in the most magnificent remains of Gothic architecture in England or Normandy. There is one cloister, in particular, along the whole length of which there runs a cornice of flowers and plants, entirely unrivalled, to my mind, by any thing elsewhere extant-I do not say in Gothic architecture merely, but in any architecture whatever. Roses, and lilies, and thistles, and ferns, and heaths, in all their varieties, and oak-leaves, and ash-leaves, and a thousand beautiful shapes besides, are chiselled with such inimitable truth, and such grace of nature, that the finest botanist in the world could not desire a better hortus siccus, so far as they go. The wildest productions of the forest, and the most delicate ones of the garden, are represented with equal fidelity and equal taste---and they are all arranged and combined in such away, that it is evident they were placed there under the eye of some most skilful admirer of all the beauties of External Nature. Nay, there is a human hand in another part, holding a garland loosely in the fingers, which, were it cut off, and placed among the Elgin Marbles, would, I am quite sure, be kissed by the cognoscenti as one of the finest of them all. Nothing can be more simply-more genuinely easy-more full of expression. It would shame the whole gallery of the Boisserees. And yet all this was the work of an age, which the long-headed Presbyterians round about are pleased to talk of in a tone of contempt, scarcely compatible even with pity. Alas! how easy it is to be satisfied with ourselves, when there is no capacity to understand the works of others.

The ruin has been sadly disfigured in former times, by the patch-work repairs of some disciples of the Covenant, who fitted up part of the nave for a place of worship, long after the arches that supported the original roof had given way in that quarter. Such was the perfection of their barbarity, that they sprung new arches in the midst of this exquisite church, entirely devoid, not only of correspondence with that which they were meant to repair, but of conformity with any of the most simple rules of the art-rude clumsy circles, deforming with their sacrilegious intrusion, one of the most airy canopies of stone that was ever hung on high by the hand of human skill-memorable trophies of the triumph of self-complacent ignorance. Surely it was beneath the shadow of

some such outrage as this, that the bones of John Knox would have found their most grateful repose! But the Presbyterians have now removed from the precincts of the old sanctuary; and the miserable little kirk they have erected at the distance of a few fields, does not disturb the impression of its awful beauty. The Abbey itself stands on the ground of the Duke of Buccleuch, who has enclosed it carefully, so that what yet remains is likely to remain long as beautiful as it is.

It must have been, in its perfect days, a building of prodigious extent for even the church (of which only a part is standing) stretches over a larger space than that of Tintern and there is no question, the accommodations of the lordly Abbot and his brethren must have been in a suitable style of magnificence. All about the walls and outskirts of the place, may yet be seen scattered knots of garden-flowers, springing up among the tall grass-and the old apple-trees that cluster the village around, are equally the relics of monastic cultivation. The long flat burial-ground to the east and south, receives the shadows of the shattered pillars and arches, as quietly as it did when all their beauty was entire-it is the only accompaniment of the scene, which remains in use and appearance such as it ever was. Within, too, the ancient families of the Forest still preserve the same resting-places, to which the piety of their fore-fathers established their right. Kers, Scotts, Pringles, Elliots,-they all sleep here each in their own antique aisle--the same venerable escutcheon carved or molten above the dust of every succeeding generation.

After I had seen as much of this grand Abbey as one visit would admit of, we mounted our horses again, and rode to Dryburgh, (a distance of four or five miles only,) all the way keeping close to the windings of the Tweed. This edifice stands on a peninsula, the river making a circuit almost quite round its precincts, and behind its towers the whole slope of the hills is covered with oaks, pines, and elms, that shed a solemn groom upon the ruin-quite different from the soft, undisturbed, unshaded loveliness of Melrose. We passed the river by means of a bridge of chain-work, very elegant in itself, I dare say, but not quite in taste so near such a scene as Dryburgh. The bridge is one of the many devices of the Earl of Buchan, who is proprietor of the ground, and indeed bas his seat close to the Abbey-walls. A huge colossal statue of Sir William Wallace, executed in staring red free-stone, is another of his devices. This monument of the Earl's

patriotism is perched very magnificently on the brink of a rock above the river--and must undoubtedly appear a very grand and appropriate thing in the eyes of Cockney visitants; but my admiration, small as it originally was, suffered much further diminution, when I was informed that the base of the statue is made to serve as a pot-house, where a rhyming cobler, one of the noble Lord's many protegées, vends odes, elegies, and whisky, for bis own behoof, and the few remain ing copies of that charming collection, "the Anonymous and Fugitive Pieces of the Right Honourable the Earl of Buchan," for beboof of his patron.

The ruins are in themselves very superb-although not to be compared in any respect with those I had just been seeing; and the Earl is virtuoso enough to keep them in the main in excellent order. But I confess the way in which he has ornamented certain parts of them, was enough to weaken not a little the serious impression which the general view of the whole produced upon my mind. In the midst of one of the desolate courts of the Abbey, he has constructed a spruce little flower-garden, with trim gravel-walks and box-wood edgings; a few jargonelle pear-trees display their well-clipped branches, nailed in regular lines upon the mouldering walls around, and in the midst of them a tall sign-post lifts its head, and (whether it lies or not I cannot say) proclaims to all whom it may concern, the presence of a less inviting crop"Man-traps and spring-guns set in these premises." A large bust is placed at one extremity of this cultivated spot, which, at first, I took it for granted, must be Faunus, or Pomona, or Priapus, at the least; but, on drawing near, I'recognized at once the fine features of the noble proprietor himself, hewn by some village Phidias, with a measure of resemblance alike honourable to the charms of the subject, and the skill of the artist. A long inscription around the pedestal of the bust, informs us in plain Latin, (but I have forgot the precise words,) that "The great Author of our being sends now and then bright spirits among mankind, to vindicate his own power, and the dignity of our nature from the scoffs of the impious." I wish I had taken a nemorandum of the ipsissima verba. After wandering through all the labyrinth of towers and courts, the attendant conducted us into an immense vault, which has been set apart in the true Dilettanti taste, for the reception of Plaster-of-Paris casts of some others of these bright spirits. The sober religious light of the place did not