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coffin of Sir Walter Scott was set down on trestles placed outside the iron railing; and here that solemn service, beginning with those words, so cheering to the souls of Christians, 'I am the resurrection and the life,' was solemnly read. The manly, soldier-like features of the chief mourner, on whom the eyes of sympathy were most naturally turned, betrayed at intervals the powerful efforts which he had made to master his emotions, as well as the inefficiency of his exertions to do so. The other relatives who surrounded the bier were deeply moved; and amid the crowd of weeping friends, no eye, and no heart could be discovered that was not altogether occupied in that sad and impressive ceremonial, which was so soon to shut from them forever, him who had been so long the common idol of their admiration, and of their best affections. Here and there, indeed, we might have fancied that we detected some early and long tried friends of him who lay cold before us, who, whilst tears dimmed their eyes, and whilst their lips quivered, were yet partly engaged in mixing up and contrasting the happier scenes of days long gone by, with that which they were now witnessing, until they became lost in dreamy reverie, so that even the movement made when the coffin was carried under the lofty arches of the ruin, and when dust was committed to dust, did not entirely snap the thread of their visions. It was not until the harsh sound of the hammers of the workmen who were employed to rivet those iron bars covering the grave, to secure it from violation, had begun to
echo from the vaulted roof, that some of us were called to the full conviction of the fact, that the earth had forever closed over that form which we were wont to love and reverence; that eye which we had so often seen beaming with benevolence, sparkling with wit, or lighted up with a poet's frenzy; those lips which we had so often seen monopolizing the attention of all listeners, or heard rolling out, with nervous accentuation, those powerful verses with which his head was continually teeming; and that brow, the perpetual throne of generous expression, and liberal intelligence. Overwhelmed by the conviction of this afflicting truth, men moved away without parting salutation, singly, slowly, and silently. The day began to stoop down into twilight; and we, too, after giving a last parting survey to the spot where now repose the remains of our Scottish Shakspeare, a spot lovely enough to induce his sainted spirit to haunt and sanctify its shades, hastily tore ourselves away."
Melrose Abbey-The Eildon Hills-Thomas the RhymerDryburgh-Monuments to the Author of 'The Seasons' and Sir William Wallace-Kelso-Beautiful scenery-A Pleasant Evening--Biographical Sketch of Leyden, Poet, Antiquary, Scholar and Traveller-The Duncan Family--Journey Resumed-Twisel Bridge-Battle of Flodden--Norham Castle -Berwick upon Tweed-Biographical Sketch of Thomas Mackay Wilson, author of 'The Border Tales'-Conclusion'Auld Lang Syne.'
AFTER visiting "fair Melrose," whose ruins, rising in the centre of a rich landscape, and rendered immortal by the exquisite descriptions of Sir Walter Scott, are the most interesting and beautiful of any in Scotland ;-wandering over the Eildon Hills, the Trimontium of the Romans, from the summits of which some thirty miles of wild and varied scenery can be surveyed; gazing on the ruins of Ercildoune, the manor-house of Thomas the Rhymer, whose real name was Thomas Learmont, author of "The Romance of Tristan," a poem of the thirteenth century, in the language of antique Chaucer; lingering in Dryburgh Abbey, embosomed in a richly wooded haugh on the banks of the Tweed; and especially gazing, in reverent homage, on the grave of "the Great Magician of 'the North," in St. Mary's Aisle, so sad and yet so fair; crossing the Tweed, and pausing a few moments, to examine a circular temple on the banks
of the river, dedicated to the Muses, and surmounted by a bust of Thomson, author of "The Seasons," and a little further on the colossal statue of Sir William Wallace, the hero of Scotland, which stands upon a rocky eminence and overlooks the river, and a fine prospect of "wood and water, mountain and rock scenery," we pass along the banks of the Tweed, till we come to the handsome town of Kelso, on the margin of the river, with its ancient Abbey and delightful environs.
As the day is far spent, we will stay here for the night. But, before the sun goes down, let us wander over the neighborhood, which is singularly beautiful, and redolent with the genius of Scott and of Leyden, who has described it in his "Scenes of Infancy."
"Bosom'd in woods where mighty rivers run,
And fringed with hazel, winds each flowery dell,
And copse-clad isles amid the water rise."
As the view from the bridge which spans the river is said to be one of the richest in Scotland, we linger there till the sun goes down. 'Tis a soft, still, summer afternoon, beginning to glide into the long and beautiful twilight. The rays of the sun are yet upon the mountains, and tinge the summits of the woods, the rocks, and the castellated edifices, which adorn the landscape. The Tweed is gliding, in shadow, through the wooded vale, and
the songs of the mavis and blackbird are echoing among the trees. A little above the bridge the clear waters of the Teviot and the Tweed flow together, as if attracted by each other's beauty. Beyond are the picturesque ruins of Roxburgh Castle, and somewhat nearer the ducal palace of Fleurs, rising amid a rich expanse of wooded decorations, sloping down to the very margin of the river; in front are gleaming two green islets of the Tweed, and between that river and the Teviot reposes the beautiful peninsula of Friar's Green, with the soft meadow in its foreground. On the south bank of the river are the mansion and woods of Springwood Park, and the bridge across the Teviot, on which are reposing the mellow rays of the setting sun. On the right the town lies along the bank of the river, with its elegant mansions and venerable abbey. There too is Ednam House, near which the poet Thomson had his birth. Far beyond these, the eye rests pleasantly on "the triple summits" of the Eildon Hills, looking down protectingly upon the vale of Tweed, the hills of Stitchell and Mellerstain, and the striking ruin of Home Castle, still arrayed in the purple and gold of departing day. Intermingled with all these are the windings and rippling currents of the river, clumps of rich green foliage, orchards laden with fruit, tufted rocks, verdant slopes, single trees of lofty stature, standing out from the rest, in the pride and pomp of their "leafy umbrage," cattle browsing peacefully on the banks of the stream, here and there a sylvan cottage, and an infinite