Of Abbotsford itself, the best description ever given, at least the briefest, was “A Romance in stone and lime.”  It would require a volume to describe all the curiosities, ancient and modern, living and dead, which are here gathered together;—­I say living, because a menagerie might be formed out of birds and beasts, sent as presents from distant lands.  A friend told me he was at Abbotsford one evening, when a servant announced, “A present from”—­I forget what chieftain in the North.—­“Bring it in,” said the poet.  The sound of strange feet were soon heard, and in came two beautiful Shetland ponies, with long manes and uncut tails, and so small that they might have been sent to Elfland, to the Queen of the Fairies herself.  One poor Scotsman, to show his gratitude for some kindness Scott, as sheriff, had shown him, sent two kangaroos from New Holland; and Washington Irving lately told me, that some Spaniard or other, having caught two young wild Andalusian boars, consulted him how he might have them sent to the author of “The Vision of Don Roderick.”

This distinguished poet and novelist is now some sixty years old—­hale, fresh, and vigorous, with his imagination as bright, and his conceptions as clear and graphic, as ever.  I have now before me a dozen or fifteen volumes of his poetry, including his latest—­“Halidon Hill”—­one of the most heroically-touching poems of modern times—­and somewhere about eighty volumes of his prose:  his letters, were they collected, would amount to fifty volumes more.  Some authors, though not in this land, have been even more prolific; but their progeny were ill-formed at their birth, and could never walk alone; whereas the mental offspring of our illustrious countryman came healthy and vigorous into the world, and promise long to continue.  To vary the metaphor—­the tree of some other men’s fancy bears fruit at the rate of a pint of apples to a peck of crabs; whereas the tree of the great magician bears the sweetest fruit—­large and red-cheeked—­fair to look upon, and right pleasant to the taste.  I shall conclude with the words of Sir Walter, which no man can contradict, and which many can attest:  “I never refused a literary person of merit such services in smoothing his way to the public as were in my power; and I had the advantage—­rather an uncommon one with our irritable race—­to enjoy general favour, without incurring permanent ill-will, so far as is known to me, among any of my contemporaries.”

* * * * *

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.—­IN HONOUR OF MAGA. (BLACKWOOD.)

SUNG BY THE CONTRIBUTORS.

Noo—­hearken till me—­and I’ll beat Matthews or Yates a’ to sticks wi’ my impersonations.

          TICKLER.

When Kit North is dead,
What will Maga do, sir? 
She must go to bed,
And like him die too, sir! 
Fal de ral, de ral,
Iram coram dago;
Fal de ral, de ral,
Here’s success to Maga.