rawing-room, with a lofty ceiling, and furnished with antique ebony
furniture. After passing through the Library, with its twenty thousand
volumes, we found ourselves in the Study, and I sat down in the same
chair where once sat the Poet; while before me was the table upon which
was written the "Lady of the Lake," "Waverley," and other productions of
this gifted writer. The clothes last worn by the Poet were shown to us.
There was the broad skirted blue coat, with its large buttons, the plaid
trousers, the heavy shoes, the black vest and white hat. These were all
in a glass case, and all looked the poet and novelist. But the inside of
the buildings had undergone alterations as well as the outside. In
passing through the Library, we saw a granddaughter of the Poet. She was
from London, and was only on a visit of a few days. She looked pale and
dejected, and seemed as if she longed to leave this secluded spot and
return to the metropolis. She looked for all the world like a hothouse
plant. I don't think the Scotch could do better than to purchase
Abbotsford, while it has some imprint of the great magician, and secure
its preservation; for I am sure that, a hundred years hence, no place
will be more frequently visited in Scotland than the home of the late
Sir Walter Scott. After sauntering three hours about the premises, I
left, but not without feeling that I had been well paid for my trouble
in visiting Abbotsford.

In the afternoon of the same day, in company with the Crafts, I took a
drive to Dryburgh Abbey. It is a ruin of little interest, except as
being the burial place of Scott. The poet lies buried in St. Mary's
Aisle. His grave is in the left transept of the cross, and close to
where the high altar formerly stood. Sir Walter Scott chose his own
grave, and he could not have selected a sunnier spot if he had roamed
the wide world over. A shaded window breaks the sun as it falls upon his
grave. The ivy is creeping and clinging wherever it can, as if it would
shelter the poet's grave from the weather. The author lies between his
wife and eldest son, and there is only room enough for one grave more,
and the son's wife has the choice of being buried here.

The four o'clock train took us to Hawick; and after a pleasant visit in
this place, and the people registering their names against American
Slavery, and the Fugitive Bill in particular, we set out for Carlisle,
passing through the antique town of Langholm. After leavi