NIMROHS NORTHERN TOUR. in 



for most things, save fox-hunting until a walk in the country 

 was proposed by Mr. Callander, the ladies following us in his 

 carriage, to inspect the house of a gentleman* in the neighbour- 

 hood, conspicuous for his classical taste in books, pictures, and 

 statues. 



Tuesday, 25th. The frost disappeared as suddenly"as it came, 

 and the duke's hounds met this clay at a place called Rutherford, 

 distant from Kelso about four miles ; but I have very little to 

 say of sport. The ground was hard and slippery, the country 

 bad, and the fox worse than all, for although he was found in, 

 and broke from, a large wood, he suffered himself to be coursed 

 in view by the pack, and died after a short run of somewhere 

 about three miles. There was, in fact, but one redeeming clause 

 in the operations of this day, which was the peculiarity of the 

 spot on which the who-whoop took place in a deeply seques- 

 tered and finely timbered glen, through which the Tweed 

 meanders with more than its usual habits, also nearly oppo- 

 site to the famous Abbey of Dryburgh, and from whence the 

 venerable beauty of its ruin is exhibited to great advantage. To 

 Scotchmen, this abbey is rendered interesting from sundry his- 

 torical recollections ; to all men by the fact that the remains of 

 a man who 



" velut inter ignes luna minores " 



delighted the world by his literary talents, and astounded it by 

 his literary labours, are interred within its walls. It is hardly 

 necessary to add to whom I allude to the immortal author of 

 " Marmion? and when listening to the baying of the hounds 

 previously to their breaking up their fox, which resounded mag- 

 nificently through the glades and windings of this deep ravine, I 

 doubted not but that within its sepulchral walls -where echo, it 

 is said, delights to dwell it might also have been repeated to 

 the listening ear. Knowing then, as I did know, that this de- 

 parted poet was a sportsman and had so often made such scenes 

 as this his theme, I could not but lament that that ear was deaf 

 to the soul-enchanting sound. But I believe I am wrong here. 

 The sepulchre of the poet is no longer the residence of Echo. 

 It has been elegantly said, that, on the death of Bion, the dis- 

 consolate nymph roved among the rocks, listening, as* it were, 

 to catch the last murmuring of his notes ; but listening in vain 

 she became melancholy and mute. 



Not far from this ancient monastery, and within our sight this 



* Mr. Waldie, then absent at Bath. 



