344 A Walk from 



last got out of these dark fastnesses and ascended a 

 range of lofty hills where I found a good carriage road. 

 This elevation commanded the most magnificent view 

 that I ever saw in Scotland, excepting, perhaps, the 

 one from Stirling Castle only for the feature which the 

 Forth supplies. It was truly beautiful beyond descrip- 

 tion, and it would be useless for me to attempt one. 



After dinner in Melrose, I resumed my walk north- 

 ward and came suddenly upon Abbotsford. Indeed, 

 I should have missed it, had I not noticed a wooden 

 gate open on the roadside, with some directions upon 

 it for those wishing to visit the house. As it stands 

 low down towards the river, and as all the space above 

 it to the road is covered with trees and shrubbery, it 

 is entirely hidden from view in that direction. The 

 descent to the house is rather steep and long. And 

 here it is ! Abbotsford ! It is the photograph of Sir 

 Walter Scott. It is brim full of him and his histories. 

 No author's pen ever gave such an individuality to a 

 human home. It is all the coinage of thoughts that 

 have flooded the hemispheres. Pages of living litera- 

 ture built up all these lofty walls, bent these arches, 

 panelled these ceilings, and filled the whole edifice with 

 these mementoes of the men and ages gone. Every 

 one of these hewn stones cost a paragraph ; that carved 

 and gilded crest, a column's length of thinking done on 



