had given the charm to all, seemed to settle itself down like a melancholy mist.  To how little purpose seemed the few, short years of his life, compared with the capabilities of such a soul!  Brilliant as his success had been, how was it passed like a dream!  It seemed sad to think that he had not only passed away himself, but that almost the whole family and friendly circle had passed with him—­not a son left to bear his name!

Here we were in the region of the Ettrick, the Yarrow, and the Tweed.  I opened the Lay of the Last Minstrel, and, as if by instinct, the first lines my eye fell upon were these:—­

  “Call it not vain:  they do not err
    Who say, that when the poet dies,
  Mute nature mourns her worshipper,
    And celebrates his obsequies;
  Who say, tall cliff and cavern lone
  For the departed bard make moan;
  That mountains weep in crystal rill;
  That flowers in tears of balm distil;
  Through his loved groves that breezes sigh,
  And oaks, in deeper groan, reply;
  And rivers teach their rushing wave
  To murmur dirges round his grave.”

“Melrose!” said the loud voice of the conductor; and starting, I looked up and saw quite a flourishing village, in the midst of which rose the old, gray, mouldering walls of the abbey.  Now, this was somewhat of a disappointment to me.  I had been somehow expecting to find the building standing alone in the middle of a great heath, far from all abodes of men, and with no companions more hilarious than the owls.  However, it was no use complaining; the fact was, there was a village, and what was more, a hotel, and to this hotel we were to go to get a guide for the places we were to visit; for it was understood that we were to “do” Melrose, Dryburgh, and Abbotsford, all in one day.  There was no time for sentiment; it was a business affair, that must be looked in the face promptly, if we meant to get through.  Ejaculations and quotations of poetry could, of course, be thrown in, as William, of Deloraine pattered his prayers, while riding.

We all alighted at a very comfortable hotel, and were ushered into as snug a little parlor as one’s heart could desire.

[Illustration:  East Window of Melrose Abbey.]

The next thing was to hire a coachman to take us, in the rain,—­for the mist had now swelled into a rain,—­through the whole appropriate round.  I stood by and heard names which I had never heard before, except in song, brought into view in their commercial relations; so much for Abbotsford; and so much for Dryburgh; and then, if we would like to throw in Thomas the Rhymer’s Tower, why, that would be something extra.

“Thomas the Rhymer?” said one of the party, not exactly posted up.  “Was he any thing remarkable?  Well, is it worth while to go to his tower?  It will cost something extra, and take more time.”