by George IV.; a retina confused, and a tympanum fretted with the petulance of the guide; a few maledictions on the shameful and disgusting manner in which so much that could inspire respect for the memory of the wonderful' Wizard of the North' is displayed; and we are en route for a more delightful and a holier spot-the burial-place of the great bard and novelist at Dryburgh Abbey.

Ettrick and Yarrow, made known far and wide as the English tongue travels, by the songs of Hogg and the sonnets of Wordsworth, lie contiguous with their wild hills, and are plainly seen from Abbotsford. Before we reach Dryburgh, the Tweed, which is here a trout stream, swift and clear, must be crossed. As we rowed over, we observed, an odd anchor in the midst of the stream, staying by its human grip a skiff, in which a nobleman who owned the fishery was standing, swishing his pole and letting out his gossamer line after the most approved custom of Izaak Walton, and totally unconscious of the shivering servant, nearly up to his arms in the cold water, who moved the boat at the pleasure of his lord. But did not that servant watch anxiously for glorious nibbles or sundown?

The abbey at Dryburgh is hid in a wood, and is approached through an orchard. It is very ancient, having been founded during the reign of David I., by the Lord of Lauderdale. The spot was once a worship-grove of the Druids. Lying near the border, it has been subject to the harshest vicissitudes of border war. Its ruins are very extensive. It has one charm which no other ruin possesses: a large star-window perfectly preserved, high up in a wall which is entirely clad in ivy, and leaving only this gem of stone and sky, like a sapphire brooch, clasping the glistening drapery of green investing the ruin, all too beautiful for the corrosion of Time.

On the twenty-sixth of September, 1832, a solemn procession moved over this eminently beautiful spot, and under these verdurous arches, bearing the remains of the greatest of the name which appears so frequently upon the grave-stones of the

abbey. Mourning no common loss, they heavily carry the bier down the grassy aisle of St. Mary; and soon, with holy rite and sad hearts, the body of WALTER SCOTT is committed to the earth to mingle with the common mould, surrounded by his ancestry and the ancient proprietors of the abbey. But Marmion, Waverley, Ivanhoe and Old Mortality were not interred in Dryburgh upon that day. They form a part of the deathless spirit and creative mind of him who shed at once so much lustre upon his country's legends and history, and so much benignity upon mankind. We gathered a twig of ivy near his tomb, and added one more link to the chain of kindred thoughts, which already contains the resting-places of Shelley, Keats, Virgil, and the kings and princes of song who rule from the urns of Westminster Abbey.

The ruins of Dryburgh are fast decaying. But the granite slab which covers the remains of Sir Walter looks fresh and new. On either side are his wife and only son, and the tombs of all three are inclosed in an iron railing. They are ivy-clad, and deeply embowered in a shade which is worthy of its Druidical dedication in the olden time.

Dryburgh was the refuge of Edward II., after his unsuccessful invasion of Scotland. The vault once haunted by the familiar spirit known as Fatlips, that attended the female wanderer who once sought refuge here, is still shown. She had made a vow that she never would see the light of day until her lover returned. She only left her vault by night to procure the means of subsistence. A statue of Wallace occupies a prominent spot in the wood above the abbey. As we cross the stream again, the fine monument on the battle-field of Penuelheugh appears, which, like the triple-topped mountain cleft by the wizard Michael Scott, follows us far toward Kelso. Our ride down sweet Teviotdale during the setting of the sun (and a lustrous setting it was, gorgeous in cloud-gold !) was by many ancient seats of power and pleasure, and over many spots rich in legendary lore and historic interest. The meagre remnant

of Roxburgh castle, upon a commanding hill near the road, overlooked the romantic river. A holly tree near, still marks the spot where James II. was killed, while besieging the castle. The Duke of Roxburgh resides in the splendid palace of Fleurs, a stately specimen of the Tudor style, which rises from a sloping lawn that runs up from the opposite bank of the stream, not far from where the Teviot mingles with the Tweed.

Castles and abbeys become common before we reach Berwick, and even after we leave it for Newcastle, upon the 'coaly Tyne.' Between Newcastle and Thirsk, amid the country of coal-pits, an apparition strange, yet beautiful, appeared upon a distant hill. It was a Grecian temple, not far from Aycliffe. How finely its rounded columns and proportionate entablature rested against the sky! An extended ride still kept its classic elegance in view; and it will be a long, long time before the vision of that temple will fade from our memory of northern England. That temple in the smoky landscape became a reminder of the classic lands. It was like what was it like? A jewel in an Ethiop's ear; an hexameter from Virgil in the dry black-letter of an old law tome.

We have unavoidably omitted much of the descriptive belonging to the valley of the Tweed, which cultivated hills and dimpled lawns, great bridges and time-gnarled forests, combine to diversify and grace. The railroad hurries us to Ripon, through a country where monuments to England's material greatness arise in the form of tall chimneys, and locomotives. dash, with a white scarf floating behind, almost at every point of the compass. We frequently counted six or eight playing over the land at once. What will not iron and coal do for a little island? Our object in coming to Ripon was to see the most extensive abbey-ruin in Great Britain.

It is upon

the property of Earl Grey, and accessible to strangers. It is like those I have described, but with a difference. It is approached through an extensive park, in which profuse art has adorned nature, by changing her trees into vaulted aisles, her

waters into swan-peopled lakes, and her lawns into spreads of loveliest verdure. Statues are seen ranged through vistas. Laurel banks, neatly trimmed, line the paths. Water-falls murmur in the quiet air. Soon the extensive ruins are seen, of course ivy-garlanded, with towers of immense size and altitude, and arches under ground, between which the stream sullenly complains. Dungeons with iron fastenings are visible, not far from the long range of cloisters where the monks studied and walked. It requires no heavy draft on the imagination, to evoke from the tombs over which we tread, the forms of those monkish clerks and copyists, whose enthusiastic zeal led to such manual dexterity, that the art of printing has not been able, with all its refinement, to excel their manuscripts. The ancient Bibles which were shown to us in Rome, and the snowy vellum missals in the British Museum, illustrated with gold, blue, and carmine, with their shining black letters, each one able to bear a microscopic scrutiny,-speak of a quietude and seriousness which must have reigned in these walls where so much study and care were given. The forms of the Venerable Bede, of Friar Bacon, Theodore of Canterbury, and others who loved to reproduce and pore over the select and precious gems of the monkish library, rise with solemn air, and read us lessons of patience and perseverance which our age, with its acquisitiveness and hurry cannot teach.

Why is it that all religions have had a system of asceti cism? Is it consistent with the ordination of God, that His ministers should be set apart from the world, which they ought to teach? Yet, Mahometanism had, and has even yet, its Soofies and Dervishes, from the Mediterranean to the Ganges; the Jews had their Essenes, who lived in the desert and held their property in common, and their Therapeuts, who sought happiness in solitary contemplation of the Divine essence; the religions of the East, Boodhism and Braminism, have had their monastic orders, their Yooges and Fakirs; the Pythagoreans in Greece, imitating the sects of Egypt, from which they learned

their mysteries, dwelt apart from the haunts of men; and Catholicism has had its monasticism, under various names and forms, Anchorets, Cenobites, Benedictines, Carthusians, Cistercians, Mendicants; and these had their subdivisions. It must be confessed that much good has emanated from these recluses. Giant minds have been nursed in the solitary cell. Civilization in its intellectual and industrious phases, received advancement from these holy orders; and even yet, if there be a spot where the light cannot be kept burning in the fitful gusts of human passion and ignorance, these sequestered homes of thought and piety might be of service. But in this century, when light has gone forth among the nations, no one can praise a fugitive and cloistered virtue, that shuns the dust and heat of active life.

Other parts of Fountain Abbey bear evidence of other employments besides the intellectual and devotional. The great chimneys and fireplaces, yet showing marks of the culinary caloric, are to be seen; while near by, upon a portal stone, are carved the arms of the abbey, which are three horseshoes-emblems of good luck, and talismanic to keep the witches away. The nave and transept were very extensive, and finely preserved. But every where the hand of sacrilegious decay is at work, despoiling window and niche of figure and strength; while time has sown his grass-seed gently over the tessellated floor, which now yields to the traveller's tread, as he passes through this great home of the monkish multitude, and in fancy re-peoples it with singing choir and praying priests, all ruled by the baronial abbot and his men-at-arms.

By Knaresborough, and the Dropping Well, we seek this capital of Yorkshire, and have spent our Sabbath in enjoying its repose and pencilling our journeyings. We are ready once more to gather our robes about us, and trudge on to other scenes. But the three abbeys, and Abbotsford, must ever be our landmarks by which to tell the high tide of our pleasure and our progress through the Borders.

What is the influence which remains, now that our eyes have