Читать книгу Over the Ocean; or, Sights and Scenes in Foreign Lands - Curtis Guild - Страница 8

"Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street,

The bells they ring backward, the drums they are beat;

But the provost, deuce man! said, 'Just e'en let him be,

For the town is well rid of that de'il o' Dundee.'"

Dundee rode off towards Stirling, with the threat that,—

"If there's lords in the Southland, there's chiefs in the North;

There are wild dunnie vassals, three thousand times three,

Will cry, 'Hey for the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee!'"

From what is known as the Bomb Battery an excellent view of Edinburgh is obtained. Here is a curious piece of early artillery, of huge size, designated Mons Meg, made at Mons in Brittany, in 1476, of thick iron bars hooped together, and twenty inches diameter at the bore. Near this is the Chapel of Queen Margaret, a little Norman building eight hundred years old, used by Margaret, Queen of Malcolm III., daughter of Edward the Outlaw, and granddaughter of Edmund Ironside, who, it will be remembered, disputed the crown of England for so many years with Canute.

One of the most interesting, as well as one of the oldest rooms, was a little irregular-shaped apartment, known as Queen Mary's Room, being the room in which James VI. was born, in 1566. The original ceiling remains, with the initials J. R. and M. R., surmounted by a crown, and wrought into the panels. From the window of this little room, it is said, the infant king was let down to the street, two hundred and fifty feet below, by means of a rope and basket, and carried off secretly to Stirling Castle, to be baptized in the Roman Catholic faith. When James made his first visit to Scotland, in 1617, after his accession to the English throne, he caused the royal arms to be elaborately painted on the wall, and underneath his mother's prayer, which still remains in quaint old English letters, somewhat difficult to decipher:—

"Lord Jesu Chryst that crownit was with Thornse

Preserve the birth quhais Badyie heir is borne.

And send hir Sonne successive to reigne stille

Lang in this Realme, if that it be Thy will.

Als grant O Lord quhat ever of Hir proseed

Be to Thy Glorie, Honer and Prais sobied."

The view from the windows, here at the east and south sides of the old castle, is varied and romantic. The curious old houses in the Grass Market, far down below; the quaint, blackened old streets of the old city; the magnificent towers of Herriot's Hospital against the blue sky; and stretching beyond the city, the fine landscape, with the familiar Borough moor, where the Scottish hosts were wont to muster by clans and chieftains,—form a scene of picturesque beauty not soon forgotten.

The armory of the castle contains many interesting weapons of ancient warfare. Among the most notable was a coat of mail worn by one of the Douglases in Cromwell's time; Rob Roy's dagger; some beautiful steel pistols, used by some of the Highland followers of Prince Charles Stuart at the battle of Culloden; and cuirasses worn by the French cuirassiers at Waterloo. The crown room contains the regalia of Scotland, and the celebrated crown of Robert Bruce. The regalia of Scotland consist of a crown, sceptre, and sword of state, the latter a most beautiful piece of workmanship, the scabbard elegantly ornamented with chased and wrought work, representing oak leaves and acorns, and which was a present from Pope Julius II. to James IV. Particular interest attaches to these regalia, from the fact of their discovery through Scott's exertions, in 1818, after a disappearance of about one hundred and eleven years. The crown is the diadem that pressed the valiant brow of Robert the Bruce, and the devoted head of Mary, and was placed upon the infant brow of her son. Charles II. was the last monarch who wore this regal emblem, which is connected with so many stirring events in Scottish history.

From Edinburgh Castle, a gradually descending walk, through some of the most interesting portions of the old city, will take the visitor to Holyrood Palace and Abbey,—quite a distance, but which should be walked rather than rode, if the tourist is a pedestrian of moderate powers, as it is thronged with so many points of historic interest, to which I can only make a passing allusion. The High Street, as it is called, is one of the principal through which we pass, and in old times was considered very fine; but its glory departed with the building of the new portion of the city, and the curious old "closes," in the streets diverging from it, are the habitations of the lowest class of the population.

Bow Street, which, if I remember rightly, runs into Grass Market from High Street, was formerly known as West Bow, from an arch or bow in the city wall. We passed down this quaint old street, which used to be the principal avenue by which carriages reached the upper part of the city. It was a curve of lofty houses, filthy kennels, and noisy children, spirit-shops, groceries, and garbage; yet up this street had ridden, in old times, Anne of Denmark, James I., Charles I., Oliver Cromwell, Charles II., and James II. It was down this street that the Earl of Argyle and Marquis of Montrose were dragged, in the hangman's cart, to execution in the Grass Market, which is situated at its foot, and to which I have previously alluded. Porteous was also dragged down through this street to execution, by the rioters who took him from his jailers.

In the old city we visited a court called Dunbar's Close, where, after the victory of Dunbar, some of Cromwell's soldiers were quartered. Here remains a carved inscription, said to bear the oldest date in the city. It reads as follows:

St. Giles Church, in High Street, is a notable building, and was, in popish times, the cathedral of the city, named after St. Giles, Edinburgh's patron saint. I will not tire the reader with a visit to its interior; but it was here that took place that incident, which every school-boy recollects, of Jenny Geddes throwing her stool at the head of the officiating clergyman, upon his attempt to read the liturgy as prescribed by Archbishop Laud, and which it was proposed to introduce into Scotland.

The "Solemn League and Covenant" was sworn to and signed in this church, in 1643. Just within the railings surrounding the old church stands the shaft of the old cross of Edinburgh; and the site of the Tollbooth, which figures in Scott's novels, is marked, near by, by the figure of a heart in the pavement—"The Heart of Mid-Lothian." Numerous other points of historic interest might be enumerated, did space permit. We must, as we pass rapidly on, not forget to take a view of the quaint old rookery-looking mansion of John Knox, the Reformer, with a steep flight of steps, leading up to a door high above the sidewalk, and the inscription upon it, which I could not read, but which I was informed was

and the massive-looking old Canon Gate Tollbooth, erected in the reign of James VI. On we go through the Canon Gate, till we emerge in the open space in front of that ancient dwelling-place of Scottish royalty, Holyrood Palace.

Holyrood Palace is interesting from the numerous important events in Scottish history that have transpired within its walls. It is a great quadrangular building, with a court-yard ninety-four feet square. Its front is flanked with double castellated towers, the tops peaked, and looking something like the lid of an old-fashioned coffee-pot, or an inverted tin tunnel, with the pipe cut off. The embellishments in front of the entrance to the palace and the beautiful fountain were completed under the direction, and at the expense, of the late Prince Albert. The palace is said to have been founded by James IV., quite early in the year 1500, and it was his chief residence up to the time of his death, at Flodden, in 1513. Some of the events that give it its historic celebrity are those that transpired during the life of Mary, Queen of Scots, who made it her ordinary residence after her return to her native country, in 1561. It was here that Mary was married to Darnley, and we were shown the piece of stone flagging upon which they knelt during the ceremony, and which we profaned with our own knees, with true tourist fervor; here that Rizzio, or, as they spell it in Scotland, Riccio, was murdered in her very presence; here that she married Bothwell, endured those fiery discussions with the Scotch Reformers, and wept at the rude and coarse upbraidings of John Knox; here that James VI. brought his queen, Anne of Denmark, in 1590, and had her crowned in the chapel; here, also, was Charles I. crowned, and here, after the battle of Dunbar, in 1650, did Cromwell quarter a part of his forces.

In modern times, George IV. visited the palace in 1822, granting, after his departure, over twenty thousand pounds for repairs and improvements; and in 1850, Queen Victoria, Prince Albert, and the royal children made a visit there, and since that time she stops annually on her way to and from her Highland residence at the Castle of Balmoral, for a brief period here at old Holyrood.

To those familiar at all, from reading history or the romances and poems, with those events in which this old pile occupies a prominent position, it of course possesses a great interest.

In the broad, open space before the palace, the elaborate fountain, with its floriated pinnacles, figures, &c., will attract attention, although it ill accords with the old buildings. The most interesting apartments in the palace are those of Mary, Queen of Scots.

Passing in at the entrance gate, and buying tickets at a little office very much like a theatrical ticket office, we visited the more ancient part of the palace, and entered first Lord Darnley's rooms. These were hung with fine specimens of ancient tapestry, upon which Cupids are represented plucking fruit, and throwing it down to others; oak trees and leaves, Cupids plucking grapes, &c. Another scene was a lake and castle, with fruit trees and Cupids; also figures of nude youngsters, turning somersaults and performing different antics. Another room contains two pieces of tapestry, telling the story of the flaming cross that appeared to Constantine the Great, the motto, In hoc signo vinces, embroidered on the corner of the hangings; Darnley's elegant armor, &c. Other fine pieces of tapestry are in Darnley's bed-room and dressing-room. Portraits of Scottish kings also adorn the walls.

We were then shown Queen Mary's private staircase, that by which Darnley admitted the conspirators up from a little turret room to assassinate Rizzio. Mary's audience chamber is a room about twenty feet square, the ceiling divided into panelled compartments, adorned with initials and armorial bearings, and the walls hung with tapestry, upon which were wrought various scenes, now sadly faded by the withering breath of time. These tapestry hangings the curious traveller soon becomes accustomed to, and the more, I think, one sees of them, the more he admires them—the scenes of ancient mythology or allegorical design so beautifully wrought as to rival even oil paintings in beauty of color and design, and exciting a wonder at the skill and labor that were expended in producing with many colored threads these wondrous loom mosaics. In the audience chamber stands the bed of Charles I., and upon this couch Prince Charles, the unfortunate descendant of the former occupant, slept in September, 1745, and the Duke of Cumberland, his conqueror, rested upon the same couch. Cumberland, yes, we recollect him; he figured in Lochiel's Warning, Campbell's beautiful poem—

"Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain."

Some rich old chairs of the same period, and other furniture, are also in this room, which was the scene of Mary's altercation with Knox.

Looking upon the antique bed, one can see how, despite care, the hand of time leaves its indelible impress upon all that is of man's creation. You can scarcely imagine how time affects an old state bed. No matter what be the care or exclusion from sunlight, the breath of time leaves its mark; the canopy and hangings gradually fade and deaden, the very life seems to be extracted, and they look like an old piece of husk or dried toast, light, porous, and moulding; the wood-work, however, grows dark, and apparently as solid as iron; the quaint carving stands out in jetty polish, rich and luxuriant—a study and a wonder of curious and fantastic art and sculpture in wood.

Queen Mary's room is hung with a beautiful piece of tapestry, representing the fall of Phaeton; half hidden by this tapestry is the door opening upon the secret stair by which Rizzio's murderers entered; upon the wall hang portraits of Mary at the age of eighteen, portraits of Queen Elizabeth and King Henry VIII., presented her by Elizabeth; here also was furniture used by the queen, and the baby linen basket sent her by Elizabeth.

From here we enter that oft-described apartment so celebrated in Scottish history—the queen's supper room, where Rizzio was murdered. Its small size generally excites astonishment. Here, into this little room, which half a dozen persons would fill, rushed the armed conspirators, overturning the table and dragging their shrieking victim from the very feet of the queen, as he clung to her dress for protection, stabbing him as they went beneath her very eyes, forcing him out into the audience chamber, and left him with over fifty ghastly wounds, from which his life ebbed in a crimson torrent, leaving its ineffaceable stain, the indelible mark upon the oaken floor, not more indelible than the blackened stain which rests upon the names of the perpetrators of this brutal murder.

Adown the little staircase which the conspirators passed, we go through a low door into the court-yard. Over the top of this little door, a few years ago, in a crevice of the masonry, an antique dagger-blade was discovered by some workmen; and as the murderers escaped through this door, it was surmised that this was one of the very daggers used in the assassination.

But we leave the place behind, and enter the romantic ruins of the old abbey. How interesting are these picturesque ruined remains of the former glory and power of the church of Rome in England! Their magnificent proportions, beauty of architecture, and exquisite decoration bespeak the wealth of the church and the wondrous taste of those who reared these piles, which, in their very ruin, command our admiration. The abbey is immediately adjoining the palace,—its front a beautiful style of early English architecture, and the noble, high-arched door, with cluster pillars, elaborately sculptured with fret-work figures of angels, flowers, vines, &c.,—one of those specimens of stone carving that excite wonder at the amount of patient work, labor, and skill that must have been required in their production.

The abbey was founded in 1128, and the fragment which remains formed the nave of the ancient building. Here are the graves of David II., James II., Darnley, and that of the ill-starred Rizzio, and other eminent personages, some of whom, judging from the ornaments upon the marble slabs of their graves, were good Freemasons and Knights Templars,—the perfect ashler, setting maul, and square upon the former, and the rude-cut figures of reclining knights, with crossed feet and upraised hands, upon others, indicating the fact.

But the gairish sun shines boldly down into the very centre of what was once the dim-lighted, solemn old abbey, with its cool, quiet cloisters, that scarce echoed to the monk's sandalled footstep, and the gracefully-pointed arches, supported by clusters of stone pillars, throw their quaint shadows on the greensward, now, where was once the chapel's stone pavement; the great arched window through which the light once fell in shattered rainbows to the floor, stands now, slender and weird-like, with its tracery against the heaven, like a skeleton of the past; and the half-obliterated or undecipherable vain-glorious inscriptions upon the slabs, here and there, are all that remain of this monument of man's power and pride—a monument beautiful in its very ruins, and romantic from the halo of associations of the dim past that surround it.

The new city, to which I have referred, is a creation of the last hundred years, the plans of it being published in 1768. The two great streets are George Street and Princes Street, the former filled with fine stores, and adorned with statues of William Pitt, George IV., and many public buildings and beautiful squares.

Here, in Edinburgh, we began to hear the "burr" of the Scotch tongue. Many of the salesmen in the stores where tourists go to buy Scotch linen or Scotch pebble jewelry, the Scotch plaids which were temptingly displayed, or the warm under-clothing which New Englanders appreciate, seemed to have their tongues roughened, as it were, to a sort of pleasant whir-r in speaking the English language.

Up from one end of Princes Street rises Calton Hill, with its unfinished national monument, designed to represent the classical Parthenon at Athens; and in one respect it does, being a sort of ruin, or, I may say, a fragment of ruin, consisting of a dozen splendid Doric columns,—for the monument which was to commemorate the Scotchmen who fell at Waterloo was never finished. Here also is a round monument to Nelson, and a dome, supported by pillars, a monument to Professor Dugald Stewart; while a monument to Burns is seen upon the Regent's Road, close at hand. The view of the long vista of Princes Street from Calton Hill, in which the eye can take in at one sweep the Scott monument, the splendid classical-looking structures of the Royal Institution and National Gallery, the great castle on its rocky perch, and then turning about on the other side and viewing the square, solid old palace of Holyrood, with the fragment of ruined abbey attached, and rising high above them the eminence known as Arthur's Seat, and the winding cliffs of Salisbury Crags, forms a panoramic scene of rare beauty and interest.

Speaking of interest, I cannot leave Edinburgh without referring to the interesting collection of curious relics at the Antiquarian Museum. Think of standing in John Knox's pulpit, and thumping, with your curious, wonder-seeking hand, the same desk that had held his Bible, or been smitten by his indignant palm, as he denounced the church of Rome, nearly three hundred years ago; of looking upon the very stool that Jenny Geddes launched at the head of the Dean of St. Giles, when he undertook to introduce the liturgy into Scotland, in 1565; and seeing one of the very banners of the Covenanters that had been borne amid the smoke and fire of their battles; nay, there, in a glass case, we saw the old Scotch Covenant itself, with the signatures of Montrose, Lothian, and their associates. Here also were Gustavus Adolphus's spurs, Robert Burns's pistols, the very glass that Prince Charlie drank from before the disastrous battle of Culloden; the original draft of inquiry into the massacre of Glencoe, dated 1656, original autographic letters from Charles VI., Prince Charles Edward Stuart, Cromwell, and Mary, Queen of Scots. This was reading Scottish history from the original documents.

Here was the flag of Scotland that flouted the breeze at the battle of Dunbar, in 1650, the pikes of Charles II.'s pikemen, and the old Scottish six-ell spears; nails from the coffin and a portion of the very shroud of Robert Bruce, the blue ribbon of Prince Charlie, worn as Knight of the Garter, in 1745, and the very ring given to him by Flora Macdonald at parting. Among the horrors of the collection is "the Maiden," a rude guillotine of two upright posts, between which a loaded axe blade was hoisted by a cord, and let fall upon the devoted neck beneath. By this very instrument fell the Regent Morton, in 1581, Sir John Gordon, in 1644, the Earl of Argyle, in 1685, and many others—a bloody catalogue.

The collection of ancient implements, coins, seals, medallions, weapons, &c., was interesting as well as valuable and extensive, comprising many that have been exhumed from ancient ruins, and antique relics, more or less connected with the history of the country. The Free National Gallery contains a noble collection of elegant pictures by eminent artists of old and modern times, and a fine statue of Burns.

The ride up Salisbury Crags to the eminence known as Arthur's Seat, which rises behind Holyrood eight hundred feet high, is one of the great attractions to the tourist; the drive to it by the fine carriage road, known as "Queen's Drive," is delightful, and the view of the city and surrounding country from the elevated road very picturesque. There is a romantic little path here, on Salisbury Crags, running by the ruins of St. Anthony's Chapel, that Walter Scott used to walk when working out the plot of some of his novels, and the now broad road was then but a winding path up the crags; the chapel, it will be remembered, figures in the Heart of Mid-Lothian.

The elegant monument, nearly in front of the Royal Hotel, in the Princes Street Gardens, erected in memory of Walter Scott, and known as the Scott Monument, is familiar to most American readers, from engravings. It is a splendid Gothic tower, and said to be "a recollection of the architectural beauties of Melrose Abbey."

I cannot help reflecting here, in the native land of Scott, what the present generation owes to him for preserving the history, traditions, and romance of their country to undying fame; for investing them with new interest to the whole civilized world; for strengthening Scottish national traits, inculcating new pride to preserve the relics of their bravery and noble deeds among all classes, high and low.

Thousands and thousands of the Scotch people are to-day indebted to the labors of this indefatigable, industrious, and wonderful man for their daily bread. I have been through enormous publishing houses here, or, I might more appropriately style them, vast book factories, where editions of his works, in every conceivable style, are issued. Year after year the never-tiring press throws off the same sheets, and yet the public are unsatisfied, and call for more; new readers step yearly into the ranks vacated by those who went before them; and the rattle of the press readily beats to quarters, each season, a fresh army of recruits.

The poems, couplets, pictures, carved relics, guide-books, museums, ruins, &c., which his magic pen has made profitable property, are something marvellous. Fashions of brooches, jewelry, plaids, dress, and ornaments to-day owe their popularity to his pen, and what would be forgotten ruins, nameless huts, or uninviting wastes, it has made the Meccas of travellers from all nations.

As an illustration of the latter fact, I met a man upon the battlements of Edinburgh Castle, from Cape Town, Africa, whose parents were Scotch, but who for years had been an exile, who in far distant countries had read Scott's Waverley novels and Scott's poems till the one wish of his heart was to see old Scotland and those scenes with which the Wizard of the North had inflamed his imagination, and who now, at fifty years of age, looked upon his native land the first time since, when a boy of eight years, he

"ran about the braes,

And pu'd the gowans fine."

He was now realizing the enjoyment he had so many years longed for,—looking upon the scenes he had heard his father tell and his mother sing of, enjoying the reward of many years of patient toil, made lighter by the anticipation of visiting the home of his fathers; and I was gratified to find that, unlike the experiences of many who are so long in exile, the realization of his hopes was "all his fancy painted" it, and he enjoyed all with a keen relish and enthusiastic fervor.

It is a pleasant seven mile ride from Edinburgh out to Rosslyn Castle, and the way to go is to take Hawthornden, as most tourists do, en route. This place—a delightful, romantic old ivy-covered mansion—is perched upon a high precipice, eighty or one hundred feet above the River Esk ("where ford there was none"), in a most delightfully romantic position, commanding a view of the little stream in its devious windings in the deep, irregular gully below; the gardens and walks, for a mile about and above the river, are charmingly rural and tastefully arranged. One can well imagine that Drummond, the Scottish poet and historian, the friend of Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, and Drayton, drew inspiration from this charming retreat. Jonson is said to have walked all the way from London to make a visit here.

Under the mansion we visited a series of curious caves, hollowed from the solid rock, and connected with each other by dark and narrow passages, very much like those subterranean passages told of in old-fashioned novels, as existing beneath old castles. One of these rocky chambers had a little window cut through its side, half concealed by ivy, but commanding a view of the whole glen. Here, the guide told us, Robert Bruce hid for a long time from his enemies; and I was prepared to hear that this was the scene of the celebrated spider anecdote of the story-books. We got no such information, but were shown a long, two-handed sword, however, said to have belonged to the Scottish king, which I took pleasure in giving a brandish above my head, to the infinite disgust of the guide, who informed me, after I had laid down this formidable weapon, that visitors were not allowed to handle it.

It may be as well to state that the authenticity of this sword, and also the correctness of the story that Bruce ever hid there, are questioned. One of the chambers has regular shelves, like book-shelves, cut in the rock, and this is styled Bruce's Library. Passing out into the grounds of the house, we descended, by a pretty rustic pathway, to the valley, and along by the side of the Esk River, which babbled over its rocky bed at our feet. If this Esk is the same one that Young Lochinvar swam, he did not accomplish anything to boast of; for during a walk of over two miles at its side, I saw no part over twenty feet wide, and no very dangerous depth or current.

Our romantic walk brought us to the ruins of Rosslyn Castle, but little of which remains, except a triple tier of vaults and some masses of masonry, its position being on a sort of peninsular rock, overhanging the picturesque glen of the Esk we had just traversed; and the massive stone bridge which spans the ravine forms the only connection between the opposite bank and the castle.

Rosslyn Chapel, or Roslin,—for they spell it both ways here,—was founded by William, the third earl of Orkney, in 1446, who had conferred on him by James II. the office of Grand Master of the Scottish Freemasons, which continued hereditary in the family of his descendants till 1736, when it was resigned into the hands of the Scottish Lodges. The chapel is one of the most elaborately decorated specimens of architecture in the kingdom, and, besides its celebrity in history, and the interest that Scott has invested it with, is a building of peculiar interest to members of the fraternity of Freemasons. It is impossible to designate the architecture by any familiar term; it is distinguished, however, by its pointed Gothic arches and a profusion of ornament, the interior being a wonder of decoration in stone carving, particularly the pillars, which are pointed out to the visitor as its chief wonders, and some of which bear the mark master mason's "mark."

The interior of the chapel is divided into a centre and two side aisles, and the two rows of clustered pillars which support the roof are only eight feet in height. The capitals of these pillars are decorated with the most beautifully chiselled foliage, running vines, and ornaments, and on the friezes masonic brethren are represented feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, visiting the sick, &c.; there are also a number of allegorical figures, representing the seven deadly sins.

But the marvel of the whole is the Apprentices' Pillar, which, according to the familiar legend, was left unfinished by the master mason, while he went to Rome to study designs to enable him to perfect it in a suitable manner. During his absence, an "entered apprentice," fired with ambition, completed it after designs of his own, which so enraged the master on his return, that, in a fit of rage, he killed him with a blow on the head with a setting-maul. The pillar is a clustered column, surrounded by an exquisitely-wrought wreath of flowers, running from base to capital, the very poetry of carving. Above this pillar is the following inscription:—

Which is, "Wine is strong, the king is stronger, women are strongest; above all things, truth conquers."

We stood upon the ponderous slab that was the door to the vault beneath, in which slumber the barons of Roslin, all of whom, till the time of James VI., were buried uncoffined, but in complete armor—helm, corselet, and gauntlets. Scott's familiar lines came to mind,—

"Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffined lie,

Each baron, for a sable shroud,

Sheathed in his iron panoply."

It seems, however, that some of the descendants of the "barons" had a more modern covering than their "iron panoply;" for, about two years ago, upon the death of an old earl, it was decided to bury him in this vault; and it was accordingly opened, when two huge coffins were found at the very entrance, completely blocking it up, and which would have broken in pieces in the attempt to move them. The present earl, therefore, ordered the workmen to close the old vault, and his father's remains were interred in a new one in the chancel, built about eighty years ago, where the inscription above his remains tells us that "James Alexander, third Earl, died 16th June, 1866."

Bidding adieu to this exquisite little building, we will take a glance at another, or rather the ruins of another, that owes much of its fame also to the interest with which Walter Scott has invested it—one which he loved to visit, and much of whose beautiful architectural ornamentation he caused to be copied into his own Abbotsford. I refer to Melrose Abbey; and, as no tourist ever thinks of leaving Scotland without seeing it, a sketch of our visit may possibly be but a new version of an oft-told story; but now that I have seen it, I am never tired of thinking and reading of its wondrous beauty.

Melrose is thirty-five miles from Edinburgh by rail; and on arrival at the station, we were at once pounced upon by a number of drivers of vehicles in waiting, who were desirous of securing us, or of having us secure them, for a drive to Melrose Abbey, Abbotsford, or Dryburg Abbey, and if we had not been cautioned, we should have been warned by a card which was thrust into my hand, and which I give for the benefit of other tourists who may go that way, informing them that the "Abbey Hotel," herein mentioned, is less than five minutes' walk from the little railroad station.

"The Abbey Hotel, Abbey Gate, Melrose.

"This hotel is situated upon the abbey grounds, and at the entrance to the 'far-famed ruins.' Parties coming to the hotel, therefore, are cautioned against being imposed upon by cab-drivers at the railroad station and elsewhere, as this is the only house which commands the views of Melrose Abbey.

"An extensive addition having been lately built to this establishment, consisting of suites of sitting and bed-rooms, it is now the largest and most handsome hotel in Melrose.

"One-horse carriage to Abbotsford and back	6s. 6d.
"One-horse carriage to Dryburg and back	7s. 6d.

"These charges include everything."

Upon the reverse we were treated to a pictorial representation of this "most handsome hotel," an unpretending, two-story mansion, which, we were informed, was kept by Archibald Hamilton, who also kept various "horses, gigs, and phaetons for hire; wines and foreign and British spirits for sale." A rush of twenty visitors would have overrun the "establishment," to which "an extensive addition" had been made. The Abbey Hotel was a comfortable English inn, and we found, on arriving at it, that it almost joined on to the very abbey itself; while another little building, the dwelling of the widow and two daughters who showed the ruins, as we found, for a consideration, was close by—too close, it seemed to us, to this glorious old structure, which, even in its ruins, is an object of universal admiration, its magnificence and gracefulness entitling it to be ranked as one of the most perfect works of the best age of this description of ecclesiastical architecture.

Melrose was built in 1146, destroyed by the English in 1322, and rebuilt with two thousand pounds sterling, given by Robert Bruce, in 1326—a sum of money equal to about fifty thousand pounds at the present time. So much for its history. But let us pay the sexton's pretty daughter her shilling, for here she is with the key that unlocks the modern iron-railing gate that excludes strangers who do not pay for the privilege; and following her a few steps, we are in the midst of the grand and glorious ruins of the old abbey that we are familiar with in song and story, and from the many counterfeit presentments that we have, time and again, gazed upon in luxurious illustrated books, or upon the walls of art galleries at home.

"The darkened roof rose high aloof,

On pillars lofty, light, and small;

The key-stone that locked each ribbed aisle

Was a fleur-de-lis, or a quatre-feuille.

The corbels were carved grotesque and grim,

And the pillars with clustered shafts so trim,

With base and with capital flourished around,

Seemed bundles of lances which garlands had bound."

As we came into the midst of this glorious old structure, we actually stood silent for some time, so filled were we with admiration at its wondrous beauty. To be sure, the blue arch of the heavens is now its only roof, and from the shattered walls rooks or jackdaws fly noisily overhead; but, then, the majestic sweep of the great Gothic arches, that vista of beauty, a great Gothic aisle still standing, fifty feet long, and sixty feet from floor to key-stone, the superb columns, and the innumerable elegant carvings on every side, the graves of monarch, knight, and wizard, marked with their quaint, antique inscriptions at your feet, and

"The cloister galleries small,

Which at mid height thread the chancel wall,"

all form a scene of most charming and beautiful effects.

And we stood there, with the blue sky looking in through the shattered arches, the noisy rooks flying hither and thither on their morning calls, the turf, soft, green, and springy, sprinkled here and there with wild flowers, in the centre of the ruin, while festoons of ivy waved in the breeze, like tapestry hung about the shattered windows and crumbling columns.

Here was the place, and the day was one of those quiet, dreamy spring days, on which tourists could sit

"Them down on a marble stone,"

and read bold Deloraine's visit to the wizard's grave, as described by Scott in the Lay of the Last Minstrel. And here is his grave, an unpoetical-looking place enough now, and perhaps less wonderful since Branksome's knight wrenched it open, and took away the magic volume from Michael Scott's dead clasp. Here is the spot where Robert Bruce's heart was buried; here the grave of the Earl of Douglas, "the dark Knight of Liddesdale," and of Douglass, the hero of Chevy Chase; while quaint and Latin inscriptions on the walls and the time-worn slabs record the resting-place of once proud, but now extinct families and forgotten heroes, all now one common dust.

We must not forget the great windows of the abbey, more especially the east window. I write it in large letters, for it is an architectural poem, and it will live in my memory as a joy forever, it is such a thing of beauty. The lightness of its proportions and beauty of its tracery at once impress the beholder; and all around the sides and above it are quaint and wonderfully-executed sculptures in the stone-work—statues, chain and crown; figures on carved pedestals, beneath canopies of wrought stone, while wreaths and sculptured flowers are artistically wrought in various directions.

The exterior of the abbey presents remarkable symmetry, and a profusion of embellishment in sculptured stone-work, and is built in the usual form of such structures—a Latin cross. The nave, in its present ruined condition, is two hundred and fifty-eight feet long, by seventy-nine in breadth. The transept is one hundred and thirty feet long, and forty-four in breadth, which will give some idea of the size of these splendid old edifices of the Romish church. The ornamental carving, with which the whole edifice is so profusely decorated, would afford study for a month, and consists, besides delicately-chiselled flowers and plants, of grotesque and curious figures of monks, saints, nuns, demons, &c.

Among other sculptures is that of a man seated cross-legged, upholding a pedestal on his shoulders, his features expressing pain at the heavy weight; a group of musicians playing on various instruments and performing different antics; a man with his head in his hand; monks with rosaries, cooks with knife and ladle, grinning heads, and women with faces veiled and busts displayed; effigies of the apostles, rosettes, ribbed work, bouquets of flowers, scallop shells, oak leaves, acorns, lilies and plants; in fact, the faithfulness with which well-known plants have been represented by the sculptor has long been the subject of comment of the historian and antiquarian; and "in this abbey," says an historian, "there are the finest lessons and the greatest variety of Gothic ornaments that the island affords, take all the religious structures together."

What must it have been when nave, and transept, and aisle were perfect, when the great windows were perfect glories of colored glass, the carvings fresh from the sculptor's chisel, and the chant of a hundred monks floated through the lofty arches! In those times when these holy men gave their hearts and hands to the extending and embellishing of those temples erected to the great Architect of the Universe, by that wonderful order of men, the Freemasons, and did it with an enthusiasm and taste which proved that they deemed a love of the beautiful not incompatible with the love of religion! It was then that religious fervor expressed itself in grand creations, and all the arts of the age were controlled and made to contribute to the one great art of the age, Architecture, as evinced in these wondrous works of their hands that they have left behind—models of artistic skill and beauty unexcelled as yet by those who have come after them.

Melrose Abbey is a place that I would have enjoyed spending a week at instead of a single day, which was all too short for proper study and examination of the curious specimens of the sculptors' and builders' arts one encounters in every part of the ruins; but we must up and away.

A carriage to Abbotsford and back was chartered, and we were soon rattling over the pleasant road on our way to the home of Sir Walter Scott, about three miles distant. It is in some respects a curious structure, half country-seat, half castle, "a romance of stone and lime," as its owner used to call it. We did not catch sight of its castellated turrets, till, driving down a slight declivity from the main road, we were at the very gates; entering these, a beautiful walk of a hundred and fifty feet, along one aisle of the court-yard, and commanding a fine view of a portion of the grounds, the garden front, led us to the house itself.

At different points about the grounds and house are various stone antiquities, and curiosities gathered from old buildings, which one must have a guide-book to explain. Melrose Abbey and the old city of Edinburgh appear to have been laid under contribution for these mementos—the door of the old Tollbooth from the latter, and a stone fountain, upon which stood the old cross of Edinburgh, being conspicuous objects. Abbotsford is a lovely place, and seems to be situated in a sort of depression among the hills, and by them, in some degree, sheltered from any sweeping winds. Besides being of interest as the residence of Scott, it is a perfect museum of curiosities and relics identified with Scottish history.

The entrance hall is richly panelled in oak taken from the palace of Dunfermline, and the roof with the same. All along the cornice of the roof of this hall are the coats of arms of the different clans of the Border, painted in colors, on small armorial shields, an inscription stating,—

Here are also three or four complete suits of tilting armor, set up and looking as though still occupied by the stern warriors who once owned them: one grasps a huge two-handed sword, captured at the battle of Bosworth Field; another a broad claymore taken from the dead grasp of a Highlander, who fell with

"His back to the field and his feet to the foe,"

on the disastrous field of Culloden; the breastplates and trappings of two of Napoleon's celebrated French cuirassiers, whose resistless charge trampled down whole battalions, but who were swept from their saddles by hundreds, as these two were by the leaden hail of the English infantry squares at Waterloo. Here also were stout old lochaber axes, English steel maces, battle-axes, and other weapons, many with histories, and from the bloody fields whose horrors are a prominent feature on the pages of history.

But the most interesting rooms of all, to me, were the study and library of Sir Walter; and among the most interesting relics were the plain, unpretending suit of clothes last worn by him, his walking-sticks, his shoes, and his pipes; and in his study the writing-table at which he wrote, and the great leather-covered chair in which he sat. The library is quite a large apartment, some fifty or sixty feet in length, handsomely decorated, and with its deep, broad windows looking out upon the River Tweed. It is completely lined with books from floor to ceiling—in all, some twenty thousand.

Here are also many curiosities; among others, the silver urn presented by Lord Byron, which rests on a stand of porphyry; Marie Antoinette's clock; very curious and richly carved ebony arm-chairs, presented by George IV.; a glass case contained Rob Roy McGregor's purse, a piece of Robert Bruce's coffin, a purse wrought by Joanna Baillie, a small case by Miss Martineau, two gold bees, each as big as a hen's egg, taken from Napoleon's carriage, a portfolio that once belonged to Napoleon, miniature portrait of Prince Charlie, ("Wha'll be King but Charlie?"), snuff-box of George IV., the seal of Mary, Queen of Scots, a little box from Miss Edgeworth, and other relics and momentos.

In the armory, among other curiosities, we saw the musket of that redoubtable outlaw Rob Roy, Claverhouse's pistol, a sword that was given to the Marquis of Montrose by Charles I., James VI.'s hunting flask, pair of pistols found in Napoleon's carriage at the battle of Waterloo, the armor of one of the old Scottish kings, General Monk's pistols, keys of the old Tollbooth, &c.

Among the more striking pictures upon the walls of the different rooms were the portrait of the head of Mary, Queen of Scots, upon a charger, said to have been taken a few hours after her execution, the sad, pale features of which haunted my imagination for many an hour afterwards. Then there were the stern, heavily-moulded features of Cromwell, Charles XII., the lion of Sweden, and Claverhouse, Charles II., and a long-bearded old ancestor of Sir Walter's, who allowed his beard to grow after the execution of Charles I.; and a collection of original etchings by Turner and other artists, the designs for the "Provincial Antiquities of Scotland." But from all these we sauntered back reverentially to the little study, with its deep arm-chair, and its table and books of reference, and its subdued light from the single window; for here was the great author's work-room. A garrulous guide and three or four curious friends allow a dreamer, however, no time for thought and reflection while there is sight-seeing to be done; so we were escorted over a portion of the prettily laid-out grounds, and then took our leave, and our carriage, and soon left Abbotsford behind us.

Edinburgh, Melrose, and Abbotsford seen, we must next have a look at Stirling Castle. So, after a ride of thirty-six miles from Edinburgh, we are eating the well-cooked mutton chops that they serve at the Golden Lion, in Stirling, and, after being duly fortified with good cheer, wend our way up through the steep streets to the castle on its rocky perch. This strong old castle, standing directly upon the brow of a precipitous rock, overlooks one of the most extended and beautiful landscapes in the kingdom—the beautiful vale of Menteith, the Highland mountains in the distance, Ben Lomond, Benvenue, Ben Lodi, and several other "Bens;" the River Forth, winding its devious course through the fertile valley, the brown road, far below at our feet, running along to the faintly-marked ruins of Cambuskenneth Abbey, and the little villages and arched bridges, form a charming view.

The eye here takes in also, in this magnificent prospect, no less than twelve of Scotland's battle-fields, including one of Wallace's fierce contests, and Bannockburn, where Bruce gained the independence of Scotland in 1314.

James II. and James V. were born in Stirling; and I looked at the little narrow road which goes down behind the castle with some interest, when I was told it furnished King James V. the fictitious name, "Ballangeich," he was in the habit of assuming when he went among his subjects in disguise. Theatre-goers will remember the play of the "Gude Man of Ballangeich," and the "King of the Commons," and that he was the king who was hero in those plays, and also the "James Fitz-James" of Scott's Lady of the Lake. And, speaking of the Lady of the Lake, the beautiful view from the battlements of Stirling Castle, three hundred feet above the valley, recalled Roderic Dhu's reply to James:—