egularly
sent to him by his son. The old gentleman was as intimately acquainted
with Hogg as with Scott, and my host remembers both these personages,
though he was but a boy when they died.

Early one September morning Mr. Laidlaw was kind enough to take me about
the grounds of Ashestiel, where 'Sir Walter' (they never add the name of
Scott, in speaking of him here) passed thirteen of the best years of his
life, and where he wrote the greater parts of 'Marmion' and the 'Lay.'
We walked over the dewy fields (romantic but damp), and down to the
banks of the Tweed, where I was shown a large outspreading oak, under
which Sir Walter was wont to sit and frame his ideas into fitting words.
Under this tree, with Tweed rippling at his feet, he spent many an hour
in communion with himself, quietly weaving those strains that have
immortalized him. From this place we passed on to the house
itself--Ashestiel--now the residence of Sir William Johnstone, from
whose family Sir Walter had leased it during the building of Abbotsford.
It is a fine old building; but much altered and improved since it was
occupied by Scott. Lockhart says of this place: 'No more beautiful
situation, for the residence of a poet, could be imagined. The house was
then a small one; but, compared with the cottage of Lasswade, its
accommodations were amply sufficient. The approach was through an
old-fashioned garden, with holly hedges, and broad, green terrace walks.
On one side, close under the windows, is a deep ravine, clothed with
venerable trees, down which a mountain rivulet is heard, more than seen,
on its progress to the Tweed. The river itself is separated from the
high bank, on which the house stands, only by a narrow meadow, of the
richest verdure; while opposite, and all around are the green hills. The
valley there is narrow, and the aspect in every direction is that of
perfect pastoral repose.' This picture still holds good, with the
exception of the 'old-fashioned garden,' which has made way for a new
lawn and carriage road. The proprietor was an intimate friend of Walter
Scott, and an India officer of merit, who has now returned to his old
home, having bidden farewell to the neighing steed and all the pomp and
circumstance of war.

From the house I was conducted to another of Scott's haunts--a little
wooded grassy knoll, still known by the name of 'Wattie's Knowe,' or
'Sheriff's Knowe,' for Scott enjoyed both the familiar title of 'Wattie'
and the