ABBOTSFORD. 123 



spread its witches over the scene, — the legends slept 

 in oblivion. The stark moss-trooper, and the clanking 

 stride of the warrior, had not again started into life ; 

 nor had the light blazed gloriously in the sepulchre 

 of the wizard with the mighty book. The slogan 

 swelled not anew upon the gale, resounding through 

 the glens, and over the misty mountains; nor had the 

 minstrel's harp made music in the stately halls of 

 Newark*, or beside the lonely braes of Yarrow. 



Since that time I have seen the cottage of Abbots- 

 ford with its rustic porch, lying peacefully on the 

 haugh between the lone hills; and have listened to the 

 wild rush of the Tweed as it hurried beneath it. As 

 time progressed, and as hopes arose, I have seen that 

 cottage converted into a picturesque mansion, with 

 every luxury and comfort attached to it, and have par- 

 taken of its hospitality: the unproductive hills I have 

 viewed covered with thriving plantations, and the 

 whole aspect of the country civilised without losing its 

 romantic character. But, amidst all these revolutions, 

 I have never perceived any change in the mind of him 

 who made them, " the choice and master-spirit of the 

 age." There he dwelt in the hearts of the people, diffus- 

 ing life and happiness around him : he made a home 

 beside the border river, in a country and a nation that 

 have derived benefit from his presence, and consequence 

 from his genius. From his chambers he looked out upon 

 the grey ruins of the abbey, and the sun which set in 

 splendour beneath the Eildon Hills. Like that sun, his 



♦The tower of Newark stands near Bowhill. 



