LETTERS FROM THE OLD WORLD.

Number XXII.

EDINBURGH, May 24th, 1856.

MY DEAR FRIEND:—Yesterday was devoted to what I should more peculiarly call the land of Scott; for although the great Northern Magician has waved his want over Scotland, transforming by his ever fertile, genial hoe lovely lakes, her mountain glens, her castle crags, her sleepy hills, her very cities into classic ground—yet it is,

"Where fair Tweed flows round holy Melrose,
And Eildon slopes to the plain!"

where the murmurs, and the winds its silvery way, and above all, where Abbotsford ("a romance in stone and lime" as the owner fancifully termed it,) rears its castel-[illegible] turrets and we look upon each curious device, and favorite nook of the poet, the winding walks planned by himself, the trees, planted by his own hand, the picturesque oddities, and strange curiosities he gathered together from the utmost ends of the earth—that we feel imbued with his spirit; for , every bird that sings every flower that blooms— his dearly loved stream, as it gently ripples beneath his windows—all speak his name.

"His spirit wraps the dusky mountains,
His spirit warbles in the fountain."
[illegible] The meanest river
Flows mingled with his fame for ever."

The very air is full of him; and WALTER SCOTT is echoed everywhere.

Dull and cloudy was the morning on which we started by the train to Melrose. Whirling rapidly along, we pass Portobello, Muselburg, and Eskbank, crossing our old friend, the Esk, several times. Next come we to Dalhousie, Bertwick, with its castle and Stow; getting glimpses of silvery threading mountain streams—one of which, we are told is the Gala—this [furtive?] streamlet we cross, and recross six or seven times—now the large and thriving town of Galashiels appears in sight. "The next station is Melrose!" I exclaim, with suppressed excitement; for one of my childhood's dreams is about to be realized, and I am, indeed, to look on fair Melrose."

Fortunately for me, my early visions of the solemn Abbey rising up to meet my gaze, far from the haunts of men, is solitude unbroken,

"Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign."

had long since been dispelled; I was not, there fore, disappointed to see the neat, pretty little village of Melrose open to view, as the train stopped, and the far-famed ruins of the once [illegible] [illegible] Abbey of Melrose [come?] up before me in the immediate vicinity.

By ten o'clock we were on our way to Abbotsford and as it did not rain, we had an open carriage, that we might might miss nothing of interest. The Abbotsford guide, (an old retainer of Sir Walter,) was in the village; so he asked permission to ride on the coach box which we readily seconded, and were amply repaid by the many interesting narrations he gave us by the way of the saying and doings of his old master. Abbotsford is distant three miles form Melrose—the drive is pleasant, the country is rich and fertile, gently sloping hills, with wood-crowned heights, appear on all sides and far above them, the three conical summits of the tower aloft. An extensive plantation attracted my attention, by the peculiarity of its outline. The guide told me it was devised by Sir Walter; and the trees were planted under his especial superintendent to represent soldiers, in order of battle, and in commemoration of a signal victory by the Scotch over the English. On this very slope the battle is said to have been fought, and the spot is pointed out where times they advanced, and times were driven back—the Scotch practically saying to their Southern neighbors, hitherto shall thou come; but not farther." The place is called . Brave men were those sons of Caledonia! and one can easily picture that he who has so often sung their deeds of martial arms, pleasantly amused himself in marking out the battlefield, and planting his men in order of battle. there they stand, by hundreds where he placed them—larger and fuller , but as fresh and green as . But where is he who planted them? Gone, hence; and the place that once knew him, knows him more. I felt sad at heart, as I called to mind his beautiful lines in Marmion, on the trio of departed great men:

Yes, prattlers, yes. The daisy’s flower
Again shall paint your summer bower;
Again the hawthorn shall supply
The garlands you delight to tie;
The lambs upon the lea shall bound,
The wild birds carol to the round,
And while you frolic light as they,
short shall seem the summer day.

"To mute and to material things
life revolving summer brings;
The genial call dead Nature hears,
And in her glory reappears.
But oh! my Country’s wintry state
What second spring shall renovate?
What powerful call shall bid arise
The buried warlike and the wise?"

I was roused from my reverie by our arrival at the entrance of Abbotsford. We did not pass in by the usual entrance, since, (sad to say,) all is confusion in the exterior of the place. Extensive additions are being made to the house by the present owner, (Mr. Hope Scott, who married the only surviving grand-daughter of the poet,) and the clang of the workman's happier resounds through a domain that should have remained as he who built it left it, without addition or enlargement, until its once honored walls yielded to Time. So thinks not Mr. Hope Scott, it seems, so he is hammering away, as desirous to make his own impress on Abbotsford.

A short avenue, with a gentle declivity leads from the public road to the seat of the Scottish bard. This declivity is thickly planted with trees and shrubs, so that the road is quite shut out from view—but this objection disappears when you see the grounds behind the house, slope gradually down to the Tweed, that ripples through them. Passing through a ponderous gateway we entered a court yard which extends the length of the house, about a hundred and fifty feet; opposite the gateway, a screen of Gothic stone work, filled with an iron work affords a glimpse at the garden. I know not how to describe the exterior of the mansion—it is itself entirely different from any other I ever saw, —irregular in every way, and shape, and form; partly Gothic, partly Flemish, partly Moorish, partly Elizabethan, and most of all, . It is build of blue whinstone, with sandstone doorways, windows, cornices and ornaments. Stones carved with armorial bearings and pious inscriptions have been collected from their ancient abodes, and [illegible] hither and thither, according to the original fancies of the poet. It looks somewhat comic to see a door, half way up the wall, which leads nowhere, and opens not at all. This door was a favorite relic of antiquity with Scott; it used, in olden times, to close the portals of the Old of Edinburgh, and has inscribed upon it the words, 'The Lord of armies is my protector—blissit ar they that trust in the Lord: 1575." One of the door-ways in the house is built of the stones which formed the actual portal of the Tolbooth. They were given to Sir Walter when the building was pulled down in 1817.

We entered the house by a handsome porchway copied from one in Linlithgow Palace, and adorned with a huge pair of stags horns; but ere I passed the threshhold, the marble effigy of Scott's favorite dog, , which stands to the right of the door-way, arrested my attention. It is thus inscribed:

"Maidae marmorea dormis sub imagine Maida
Ad [illegible] domini; sit tibi terra levis"

Literally, "Oh! Maida, you sleep under the form of a marble Maida, at the gate of your master; let the earth be light on thee." A valued friend of mine thus renders it:

"The marble form of Maida
As her lord's door doth rest;
Light be the earth that lies
On Maida's faithful breast."

Passing through the porch, we stood in the entrance Hall of the Mansion, which is filled with curiosities, chiefly of an ancient and warlike kind, arrayed along the walls. The floor is composed of black and white marble, from the Hebridies. Between the painted arches of the roof are shields, presenting armorial bearings of Scott's father, his maternal ancestors, and the families with which he claimed kindred.—Three of the shields (of which there are, in all, sixteen) contain no armorial bearings, but are decorated with clouds and the words, "" A row of escritcheons, runs round the cornicle of the ceiling, containing the heraldic distinctions of the Scotts, the Douglasses, and the other noble families, and the following inscription, in old German Character:— "These be the coat armories of the clans and men of name who keepit the marchys of Scotland in the auld time for the kynge. Trewe men war they in their tyme, and in their defence God them defendyt."

The hall is lighted by windows of painted glass; the fire-place is designed from a niche in Melrose Abbey. The greater part of the panelling of the walls, consists of old and richly carved wainscot, from the Palace of Dunfermline; and there are elegant caryings, in imitation of objects at Roslin and Melrose. Figures in armor, crossed swords, ponderous battle axes, and stags horns, which combine to render the hall of Abbotsford very interesting to the lovers of the antique.

We next passed into Scott's study, which opens out of the hall at the east end.—The walls are lined with books, chiefly of reference; a writing table stands in the centre, before which the vacant study chair, covered with black leatehr, is set. A light gallery runs around the rooms, leading to a door, which opens to the poet's bed room, and communicating with the poet's inspiration came upon him, he could pass form his sleeping apartment to his study, without meeting any of the household, or having his thoughts broken in upon. I looked with intense interest on , , and .

In the glass case, in the study, the suit of clothes he last wore as a member of Celtic Society, and of Yeomanry Corps. The study communicates with the spacious Library—a princely apartment, and evidently the one on which he bestowed the greatest care. It is surrounded with book cases, containing about twenty thousand volumes. The roof is carved in oak, after teh models from Roslin. Above the fire-place is a picture of the poet's eldest son, a fine looking man.

A copy of the bust of graces one end of the Library, and a bust, by , of himself stands at the other end. This valuable bust was a present, made by the Sculptor to the poet, and is deemed an admirable likeness. A richly chased silver urn, the gift of Lord Byron, rests in one corner. The windows look out upon the Tweed, and on gently sloping verdant hills.

We passed on to the drawing room, which is not large, but lofty, with its woodwork of cedar, and its furniture of ebony. A splendid and richly inlaid cabinet of ebony, the gift of George the 4th, I should value much,, but not at all on account of the giver. We next came to the armory, a narrow, low arched room, lighted by a blazoned window, and filled, like the entrance Hall, with countless curiosities.

A musket, used by ROB ROY, and marked with his initials, R. M. C.—a pistol of Graham of Cleaverhouse—a sword presented to Charles 1st to Montrose—instruments of war, from many nations—a curious iron box, found in the Chapel of Many of Guise, in the Castle Hill, Edinburgh—a blunderbuss of Lieutenant—the hunting flask of James the 6th, found in carriage at Waterloo, are among this large assemblage of curiosities, all arrayed in beautiful order, by the poet himself.

The armory communicates with the dining room, into which we next passed. This is a plain apartment, chaste in style and contains a number of family and other portraints. I looked with interest on the representation of the poet's father and mother, grandfather and grandmother, and dicto. They were fine, intellignet looknig people, if they resembled their pictures. In the drawing room is a lovely, portrait of his dear daughter, Anne Scott.—also one of his wife, and some other fine pictures. It was in the apartment, once appropriated as his dining room, the Sir Walter Scott breathed his last, on the 21st of September, 1832, after his return form Italy. He used to be wheeled to one of the windows, where he could look upon his favorite Tweed, and listen to the gentle murmuring of its waters. He prayed not to die on foreign shores. Home——take me HOME, was the cry; and the poet had his wish. He died in "his own—his native land."

By this time [illegible] the entrance Hall, by an opposite door to the one through which we went out—so we passed all round the house, by a suite of apartments opening into one another. The serving man, who acted as our guide, and who seemed to be devotedly attached to the memory of Sir Walter, told us " was his last day there;" "he was to quit

on the morrow;" "there was not now one in the establishment."

We wandered a little way through the grounds, but, became more and more and as we thought of the past and the present of Abbotsford, and of the passing away, one by one, of the poet's family. His gallant sons, his gentle daughters, his gifted son-in-law, and all his grand children, save , and she is an alien form the faith of her fathers. As with Rome's faith, is closely allied Rome's despotism, the old Protestant retainer of the family have disappeared one by one, and foreign Roman Catholic servants fill the vacant niches.

We next drove to Dryburgh, (which lies about half a mile from the banks of the Tweed, and eight miles from Abbotsford.) We passed again through Melrose, as Dryburgh is on the opposite side of the village from Abbotsford, and had now a magnificent view of Eildon Hill, whose picturesque cones rose before us.—After gaining the banks of the river, we alighted and were ferried, by a boy, in a small skiff, over the clear and bright waters of the Tweed. A melancholy, -looking youth, officiated as guide at Dryburgh. It seemed to me that he deemed the of was much wanted by guides in general— so silent was he, except when we asked him questions, or he said, "follow me." The picturesque and venerable ruins of the Abbey of Dryburgh stand in the midst of fruit trees, and shrubs, and fine plantations. The Abbey was, evidently, originally of vast extent. All is verdent here; the walls are covered with ivy' masses of foliage overhang the pointed arches; and as art decays, nature becomes doubly exuberant in this green spot. Various styles of architecture may be seen among the ruins. The Norman, the Roman, and early English Gothic are visible here. It is not know positively who founded the Monastery. Some attribute it to David 1st, and other to Hugh de Morville, Constable of Scotland; but of its great antiquity there is no doubt.

In his "," Sir Walter tells of an unhappy female wanderer, who took up her residencein a dark vault, among the ruins of the Abbey, which during the day she never quitted. At nightfall she went forth to some of the houses in the neighborhood, obtaining such necessaries as she would accept from the inhabitants. At twelve each night, she lighted her lamp, and returned to her vault, telling the people that, during her absence, her habitation had been arranged by a spirit. She never would explain the real cause of her adopting this mode of life; but it is believed she had made a vow that, during the absence of the man she loved, she would never look on the sun. Her lover never returned.—He fell in the civil war of 1745-6, and she never more would behold the light of day.—She lived and died in that vault. Our silent guide told us the story briefly; but Sir Walter had told it to us before. The closing stanzasof his Ballad of "the Eve of St. John," are

suggested by this circumstance, (which was not , but , since it was to the house of the poet's great grandfather, Mr. Haliburton, of Newmains, that the lady often went in the gloamin,)

"There is a nun in Dryburgh bower,
Ne'er looks upon the sun;
There is a monk in Melrose tower,
He speaketh word to none.
That nun, who ne'er beholds the day,
That monk who speaks to none—
That nun was Smaylho' me's Lady gay,
That monk the old Baron."

The burial place of the is within the [illegible] of the Abby, and here within that portion of the Chapel, called , just where the beautiful remains of and fresh luxuriant nature are entwined most picturesquely—where the ivy green creeps around the old Gothic arches, and forest flowers mingle their soft and lovely tints, and the pine, the yew, and the alder's lofty branches o'ersahdow the whole, lie the mortal remains of Sir Walter Scott. It is a meet resting place for the poet. But the heavy, ponderous tomb itself, together with the massive, iron railings in from of it, are not in keeping with the scene. Another huge mass of stone, close by, marks where Mrs. Scott is buried; and a broad flag of stone points us to the resting place of the poet's eldest son, "," as the guide called him, and grave is not far off. In St. Mary's Aisle they

"softly, be, and sweetly sleep,
Low in the ground.

The storm that wrecks the winter's sky,
No more disturbs their deep repose,
Than summer evening's latest sigh,
That shuts the rose."

Poor Sir Walter! sighed we, as we slowly turned away. "Man that is in honor abideth not." "He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down; he fleeth alos as a shadow, and continueth not." "As the waters fall from the sea, and the flood decayeth and drieth up; so man lieth down, and riseth not, 'til the heavens be no more they shall not awake nor be raised out of their sleep." I felt very sad as I pondered on that . will it bring those who have bestowed all their brilliant talents, "to gild the fleeting enjoyments of earth?" I repeated Scott's own beautiful hymn, form , as we returned to the Tweed.

"The day of wrath, that dreadful day,
When heaven and earth shall pass away!
What power shall be the sinnner's stay?
How shall he meet that dreadful day?

When, shrivelling like a parched scroll,
The flaming heavens together roll;
When louder yet, and yet more dread,
Swells the high trump that waked the dead.

Oh! on that day, that wrathful day,
When man to judgement wakes from clay,
be Thou the trembling sinner's stay,
Though heaven and earth shall pass away."

We recrossed the Tweed, and drove back to Melrose, deciding to postpone visiting the Abbey until later in the day. It is too much to go over Abbotsford, Dryburgh and Melrose, one after the other, without an interval of repose; the mind is on the sketch all the time, and the body needs rest.

"Over there is Smailholm Tower," said our driver. We looked where he pointed, and dimly discerned a deserted border fort, which stands on high ground, about seven miles form Melrose, and is rendered memorable by its connection with the childhood of Sir Walter, who was sent in very early life to reside with his grandfather, Robert Scott, at the farm-steading of in the vicinity of the tower.—In he was thus graphically describes the scenery:

"It was a barren scene, and wild.
When naked cliffs were rudely piled;
But ever and anon between,
Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green,
And well the lonely infant knew
Recesses where the wall-flower grew,
And honeysuckle loved to crawl
Up the low crag and ruin'd wall.
I deem'd such nooks the sweetest shade
The sun in all its round surveyed;
And still I thought that shatter'd tower
The mightiest work of human power."

Smailholm Tower is (it will be remembered) the scene of Scott's celebrated Balled, 'The Eve of St. John."

We drove on a little farther, and the driver said, "Over the hill there is the ." An amusing mistake was here made, by one of our party, which set some of us to laughing, and I am inclined to think did us good, for our thoughts had taken a sombre hue, and each one had become silent and meditative; but "the ," and the little scene which followed, (that I tell, but not,) wakened us all up. It seems that "over the hill" is a valley of Allian or Elwand water, through which the runs; this is the GLENDEARO of Scott's "Monastery"—and at a ford, below the bridge that spans the stream, the poor was ducked by .

We soon reach Melrose, and the neat little inn, which we can cordially recommend to our friends who may visit that locality. The bright fire, the good cheer, and the kind attention of our hostess dwells pleasantly in our memory, and will long cause us to remember "," and good . After enjoying our rest together with the feats of William of Deloraine, and "the Monk of St. Mary's Aisle," we walked towards the Abbey. As we were to return to Edinburgh that evening and could not see Melrose by moonlight, I did not now regret that no sun shone upon its exquisitely beautiful ruins. All was cold and grey, and still, and in harmony. We wanted no sunshine there. You know what Scott says on this?

"If thou woulds't view fair Melrose aright,
Go visit it by the pale moon-light;
For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray.
When the broken arches are black in night,
And each shafted oriel glimmers white;
When the cold light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruined central tower;
When buttress and buttress, alternately,
Seem framed of ebon and ivory;
When silver edges the imagery,
And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;
When distant Tweed is heard to rave,
And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave;
Then go--but go alone the while--
The view St David's ruined pile;
And, home returning, soothly swear,
Was never scene so sad and fair!

It is utterly impossible to do any manner of justice to Melrose Abbey, or rather to any any thing new on the subject. Thousands of people make pilgrimage annually to its ruined shrines; and yet I never heard of one being disappointed, or at any rate of venturing to express his disappointment.

Melrose is one of the many monasteries, founded by David 1st, King of Scotland 1136 is theh date. It occupied then years in building, and was then dedicated, with great pomp and solemnity, to the Virgin Mary. it became the residence of a community of monks, of the Cistercian order; these monks are supposed to have possessed an agricultural characteristic; so they usually settled themselves in remarkably fertile, pleasant spots—and a quiet nook, or sequestered valley, is often the site of their beautiful Abbey ruins, with a murmuring stream in the vicinity. As the profuse piety of the King transferred many of the Crown lands to the monasteries, the monks became patrons of the fine arts, and, with the assistance of lay brethren, they greatly enriched and embellished their church, erected by that wonderful order of chivalry, free-masonry. A love of the beautiful, doubtless pervaded many among them—their devotion partook of this love, and expressed itself in every possible adornment of their religious houses; all the arts being made subservient to the , viz: Ecclesiastical architecture. The monks of Melrose suffered much during the wars of the succession, but, one peace being restored, a large sum of money was granted, by King Robert the Bruce, to aid in restoring the monastery and Church of Melrose, and this was accordingly done. The Monastery of Melrose swore fealty to Edward 3rd, and in 1340, we read of his keeping his Christmas there, [illegible] [illegible] from the [Ettrick?] forest.

But the habits of the clergy gradually underwent change during the 15th century. Monastic discipline relaxed; the primitive simplicity in the habits of the monks departed; confusion reigned; ambition and luxury superseded industry and [illegible]; and the Abbey of Melrose shared in the degeneracy of the Church—indeed, so glorious were the errors of the Cistercian friars, that a Commissioner was appointed to enquire into them, and convinced of the truth of the evil reports in circulation, the

Abbot of Melrose was deposed by him, and a number of others. Matters were bad enough in the 15th century—they became worse in the 16th; and it is said that the iniquity of the order effected its own destruction. Men of learning and piety were gone—and their places were filled by men of inferior abilites and low morality. Queen Margaret, widow of James 4th, used all her influence with her brother Henry 8th, to procure the Abbey for one of her favorites, but the Pope appointed Andrew Durie to the vacant Monastery, and a faint attempt was made to restore the ancient discipline but it failed. King James deposed Abbot Durie, and caused his infant natural son, James Stewart, to be appointed Abbot in his stead. The King died soon after, and the country was in confusion. There were the factions of the church and the disatisfied nobles. Mary of Guise and Cardinal Beaton, (of terrible memory,) headed the church party. The Regent Arran wavered. Bluff King Henry 8th, displeased that his proposal to effect a marriage between the heir apparent of England, Princess Mary of Scotland, sent an invading army into Scotland, conducted by the Earl of Hertford. Inroads were made upon the borders; the whole of Teviotdale was laid waste, and the beautiful Abbey of Melrose suffered materially. After many skirmishes, during the year 1545, Melrose again shared in the general havoc, and never afterwards recovered her ancient splendor. Whatever escaped theses wars was destroyed during the Reformation. "Pull down the nests," cried the stern Reformer, "and the rooks will fly away." Large portions of the ruins were taken away at various periods after the Reformation. The nave was at once time fitted up as a parish church; but it ceased to be occupied in 1810. Portions of the old building were used in constructing the necessary additions; indeed the Abbey was, for many years, looked upon as a sort of stone quarry, from which materials were employed for repairing the neighboring houses. The people know better now, and the ruins of the Abbey of Melrose are most carefully kept.

Such is a sight sketch of the rise and fall of Melrose, but give you any idea of the exquisite and touching beauty of the ruin, I cannot. It must be seen; it cannot be described.

We had an intelligent, enthusiastic, old guide, who seemed very proud of doing the honors of Melrose, and pointed out every minute portion of especial interest or eccentricity; but, as I cannot do this, I will give you some of Scott's descriptions, which for architectural accuracy, and minuteness, is unequalled:

"They enter'd now the chancel tall;
This darken'd roof rose high aloof,
On pillars lofty, light, and small;
The key stone that lock'd each ribbed aisle
Was a fleur-de-lys, or a quatre-feuille
That corbels were carved grotesque and grim;
And the pillars, with cluster'd shafts so trim,
With base and with capital flourish'd around,
Seem'd bundles of lances which garlands had bound."

The Church was built originally, (the guide told us,) in the form of a Latin cross, and must have been one of a large size. Nave, transepts, tower, pillars, buttresses, stand there, more or less, in ruins; but enough remains entire to show that the conception of the whole must have been grand and magnificent, at the same time that the carving of the minutest ornament

is most exquisitely light and delicate. The east window claimed our especial administration, on account of the exceeding beauty of its tracery. A circular window in one of the transepts representing a crown of thorns, is peculiarly attractive and the windows, above the south door, divided by four mullions, terminating in a pointed arch, is truly magnificent. Highly ornamented niches are everywhere, but most of them vacant—the figures having been broken; the few that remain are finely carved.

Our guide conducted us to the cloisters, which once formed a large quadrangle, but are now reduced to one angle. These are covered with Gothic arches, most richly ornamented, with wreaths of flowers, scallop shells, oakleaves, and countless devices of the finest carving—

"Spreading herbs, and flowerets bright
Glistened with the dew of night;
Nor herb, nor floweret glistened there,
But was carved in the cloister arches as fair."

At the arched doorway, leading from the cloister, is that through which the aged "," is led by , (in the Lady of the Last Minstrel,) in the tomb of the reputed wizard —

"The pillared arched were over their head,
And beneath their feet were the bones of the dead."

I felt strangely as I stood by the grave; it seemed as if fiction had become fact, and that I lingered for a vision yet to come.

But the most beautiful view, (to my thinking,) that I had of the Abbey, was form a little gallery, (to which I mounted by an old staircase,) which was round one portion of the edifice.—The guide considerately told us to take out time; so, we meditated and conjectured all manner of strange things about the reverend fathers; we took comfort in the certainty that they could no all have been noisy boisterous monks, as that though the song has it,

"What Baron or Squire,
Or Knight of the Shire,
Lives half so well as a holy Friar,"

still there must have been Scottish , and , and , with solemn pace, walking up and down those cloisters, meditating on the transitory nature of earthly joys—rejoicing in the blessed truth, that "when our earthly house of this tabernacle is dissolved, we have a building of God; a house, not made with hands, eternal in the heavens." We must not forget that the great LUTHER himself was once "," and trod the cloisters of a convent.

* * * * * * *

I have omitted to mention that, while we were (in the early part of our visit to Melrose) examining the exterior of the Abbey, I was greatly startled by the tolling of a —one—two—three—four—it went solemnly and slow. At that moment, the supernatural became predominant, and my mind conjured up the old monks marching in order to vespers. The guide smiled. It was the very loud clock, which is heard in the belfry, striking four; but St. Paul's bell, when it tolls, could not sound louder in my ears, than did the clock of Melrose Abbey.

This is a long letter: yet the half has not been told of the visit to the .

Your friend,

JULIA GRIFFITHS.