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OCT. 11. 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
329 
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[Special Correspondence of Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
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LETTER VIII—SCOTLAND. 
BY GLEZEN F. WILCOX. 
CROSSING THE CHEVIOTS. 
Monday morning we resumed our march 
along the valley of the Red Water. The sky 
was dark with clouds, which presently de¬ 
scended in misty rain, and wrapped the round 
Cheviots in obscurity. Shortly after noon we 
stopped at the solitary inn of Whitelee and ob¬ 
tained dinner. There were a couple of men 
sitting by the fire drinking ale, and they invited 
us to join them, but we could scarcely un¬ 
derstand their Northumbrian speech. Upon 
emerging from the inn we encountered in our 
faces a driving storm of wind and rain. We 
kept on, however, and toiled up the two miles 
of ascending road which intervenes between 
Whitelee and the summit of the Carter Fell.— 
The road wound among the hills, and upon the 
slopes which were clothed with coarse grass 
and heather, immense flocks of sheep were 
feeding. There were no fences or dwellings, 
and but few trees to relieve the landscape.— 
The storm shrouded the distant summits, and 
rainy billows rolled along the far-extending 
slopes, and broke over the desolate hill-tops. I 
was glad when we arrived at the highest part 
of the road, and saw the Carter House just be¬ 
low us,— a solitary, low, stone building, with 
not a tree or a shrub around,— standing by the 
wayside, and commanding, in a favorable clay, 
an extensive and varied prospect. As there 
was another walk of ten miles to the next vil¬ 
lage, we concluded to remain here till morning. 
While sitting by the fire, I took out my jour¬ 
nal and commenced writing. Presently several 
men entered, and among them our recent ac¬ 
quaintances at Whitelee. They seated them¬ 
selves around the fire, and after drinking seve¬ 
ral bottles of ale, became boisterously merry and 
talkative, pressed us to drink and questioned me 
about my traveling. When they found I was 
an American, their good humor and familiarity 
did not decrease, and we had to answer many 
questions about our country. We called for 
some supper, and the landlady, according to 
the custom, asked us what we would have. I 
was tired of giving orders for every meal, and 
desired her to prepare just fell at she would for 
her own family. In a short time she set before 
us some excellent fried mutton, boiled eggs, 
bread and butter and tea. For that, together 
with a similar meal in the morning, and our 
lodgings, we were charged seventy-five cents 
a-piece. Before going to bed they sung several 
mournful ballads, and leaning out of the win¬ 
dow, I gazed into the mist and darkness, and 
listened to the wild music as it mingled with 
the moanings of the tempest which was scourg¬ 
ing the dreary hills. 
The sun was up before us in the morning ; for 
the prospect of a clear sunrise and extensive 
view, were not sufficiently encouraging to in¬ 
duce us to break suddenly from the refreshing 
sleep which the previous day’s labors had in¬ 
duced. When we looked out, however, the 
storm was broken, and the heavy masses of 
clouds, ragged and irregular, like the fragments 
of a defeated army, were flying away to the 
eastward, and chequered the landscape into 
shadows. The remnants of the storm, hanging 
on the distant hills, shut in the prospect; but 
to the eastward the round, smooth hills were 
rolled up like ocean billows. We commenced 
our day’s journey in high spirits, laughing and 
shouting as we rapidly descended the winding 
road into the valley. In three or four miles 
hedges again appeared along the road-side, and 
farm houses and cultivated fields. The scenery 
along the road to Jedburgh was different from 
any we had seen—consisting of deep valleys 
and high hills, but all fertile and highly culti¬ 
vated, and plenty of timber scattered over the 
whole. There w r as a continual succession of 
gorgeous and picturesque scenes, which, under 
the influence of a warm and sunny day, im¬ 
pressed me the more deeply, perhaps, by their 
striking contrast with what I had so lately wit¬ 
nessed among the stormy Cheviots. Descrip¬ 
tion cannot convey a just idea of the surpassing 
beauty of the scenery around Jedburgh as it ap¬ 
peared to us with that deep blue sky about, and 
the warm sunshine streaming on it. Jedburgh 
is situated in the valley of the Jed, which 
continues on between hills whose slopes are cov¬ 
ered with cultivated fields intermingled with 
forests. We approached it down a devious 
road which was overshadowed by magnificent 
trees, and crossed limpid brooks by mossy 
stone bridges. Passing through the town with 
our knapsacks on our backs, and our rough pil¬ 
grim staffs in our hands, we attracted consider¬ 
able attention, and were amused to see knots of 
people gathered at the corners, and numerous 
and inquisitive faces appearing at the doors and 
windows. 
MELROSE ABBEY. 
I inquired the road to Melrose of a young 
man, and he offered to accompany us part of the 
way—saying that he had some business in that 
direction. He conducted us by a foot-path 
across the hills, from whence we beheld the 
fertile valley of the Teviot, stretching away to 
the eastward. Upon nearing Melrose, three 
hills are observed rising from the plain. They 
are the Eildon Hills, renowned in poetry and 
history. A rugged thunder-cloud hung over 
their summits, and veiled their outlines in a 
misty shroud, while in the beautiful valley of 
the Teviot rested the arching bow of promise. 
We stopped that night three miles short of 
Melrose, and the next morning, followed the 
road which led round the hills, and soon sighted 
the venerable Abbey. An old Scotchman ad¬ 
mitted us into the enclosure, and guided us 
through the ruins. The Abbey is built of red 
freestone, and was founded more than seven 
hundred years ago; but so capable is the ma¬ 
terial of withstanding the wear of the elements, 
that many of the corners look as fresh and sharp 
as though recently constructed, and portions of 
the delicate ornamental carving are yet nearly 
as perfect as when first chiseled. The interior is 
mostly floored with compact turf, and ivy has 
clambered over the walls. The rooks and 
jackdaws build their nests in the crevices, and 
fly about the building, keeping up a continual 
chattering. In one corner is the tomb of 
Michael Scott, from which the magic book was 
taken. The slab is broken, and one part out of 
place, as though it had been raised. At the 
head is a rude figure of the magician. But a 
few feet from it is the shattered pillar whereon 
Walter Scott used to sit when he came to 
muse in the Abbey. In another place is a small 
stone, beneath which, according to tradition, the 
heart of Robert Bruce was deposited. By a 
stairway we climbed to the top of the ruins, 
and I could look down on the broken pillars 
and tombs and the crumbling walls and the 
church-yard, heaped with grassy mounds, while 
beyond the village the Eildon Hills rose above 
the trees, and formed a splendid background to 
the picture. 
ABBOTSFORD. 
From Melrose w r e went to Abbotsford, a dis¬ 
tance of three miles. The estate is now the 
property of Mr. Hope Scott, who married the 
daughter of Lockhart. After the marriage, he 
added “ Scott” to his name. When the family 
are absent, Abbotsford is open for the inspec¬ 
tion of visitors. We rang the bell at the portal, 
and were admitted and shown through the 
rooms by an old servant of Sir Walter’s. The 
ceilings are of heavy carved oak, and the hall 
and waiting-room are profusely adorned with 
ancient armor, and trophies collected in the 
chase. Like the hall of the Douglas in the Isle, 
“ For all around the walls to grace. 
Hung trophies of the fight and chase. 
A target there, a bugle here, 
A battle ax, a hunting spear, 
And broad swords, bows, and arrows store, 
With the tusked trophies of the boar.” 
In a glass case is the last suit of clothes worn 
by Sir Walter. The coat is threadbare, and 
many of the buttons appeared just ready to 
drop off. There is the white hat and checkered 
pantaloons, and the heavy shoes shine brightly 
as if recently polished. We entered the study. 
In the center stands his writing table, with his 
inkstand upon it, and behind it the great arm¬ 
chair in which he used to sit. The table and 
chair have never been moved from the position 
in which he last used them. The chair is cov¬ 
ered with black leather, and is devoid of orna¬ 
ment. It is large and extremely easy to sit in, 
and well adapted for the occupant to fall back 
in a reclining position when tired. There is 
also a chair, constructed from the only remain¬ 
ing wood of the building in which William 
Wallace was betrayed. His favorite books 
stood on the shelves, and solemn silence was in 
the room. His presence has hallowed the spot, 
and #nade it a sacred shrine to which the liter¬ 
ary pilgrim will come, with willing and grate¬ 
ful homage, such as exalted genius ever exacts. 
It seemed to me that I had approached the 
fountain, frohi whence flowed that stream of 
song and romance, whose murmuring and widen¬ 
ing waters all the nations have quaffed and been 
invigorated. 
In another room we were shown his bust by 
Chantry, and a portrait of his son who died on 
the passage home from the East Indies. In 
the armory we looked at Rob Roy’s gun and 
purse, Napoleon’s pistols, and a candlestick 
which once belonged to Bruce. Scott’s pas¬ 
sion for collecting curious armor and relics was 
insatiable. Before leaving the house we in¬ 
scribed our names in a book, where I noticed 
that a large proportion of the visitors were 
American. We then strolled through the 
grounds, along the winding walks, shaded by 
overhanging trees, which were planted by the 
hand of Scott, and listened to the dreamy 
murmurings of the silvery Tweed. Finally 
we tore ourselves away, and retracing our steps 
for a mile, crossed the river and took the road 
for Edinburg. After walking a dozen miles, it 
blackened overhead and threatened rain, and 
at the Stow Station we entered the cars, and by 
dark had traversed the remaining twenty- 
five miles, and stood in the Northern Athens. 
THE MIGHTY CALIFORNIA CEDARS. 
Rev. Dr. Bushnell, of Hartford, writes from 
California to the New York Independent a 
graphic account of the immense cedars of Cali¬ 
fornia, the greatest trees in the world. One of 
them which had been felled, he ascertained, by 
counting the grains of the stump, to be twelve 
hundred and eighty years old. When Mahomet 
was at nurse, this tree was sprouting. Says 
the Rev. gentleman : 
It is forest, yet nothing that we mean by 
forest. There is no undergrowth, scarcely any¬ 
where a rock; the surfaces are beautifully turn¬ 
ed, as if shaped by a landscape gardener, and 
dotted all over by myriads of flowers, more 
delicate, if not more various, than any garden 
ever grew. Moving along these surfaces, round¬ 
ing over a hill, or galloping through some si¬ 
lent valley, winding here among the native 
oaks casting their native shadows, and here 
among tall pines and cedars drawing their huge 
conical shapes on the ground, we seem, in fact, 
to be riding through some vast park. Indeed, 
after we had seen the trees and taken their im¬ 
pression, we could think of nothing but to call 
it the park of Lord Almighty. The other trees 
lllfesS 
gifigil 
a® 
AMERICAN ELK. 
The above beautiful engraving is a copy from 
a picture, drawn from nature by a French ar¬ 
tist, of three Elk owned by Lorenzo Stratton, 
L-q., of Little Valley, N. V., on the Erie Rail¬ 
road. Must pictures of these animals, Mr. S. 
says, are only portraits of the European stag. 
The three here represented are part of the elev¬ 
en in his Park among the hills of Cattaraugus. 
After attending the Cattaraugus County Fair, 
our intelligent correspondent, G. B. S., visited 
Mr. Stratton, and furnishes us the following 
account of his Elk Park and its habitues : 
At night yesterday I rode home three miles 
with Mr. Stratton, and this morning visited 
his Elk Park,— a hundred acres of mountain¬ 
ous forest, rising high above the valley in the 
rear of the homestead, strongly fenced, and left 
in its wild state for them to range in. There, I 
saw eleven of these rare and beautiful animals, 
varying in age and size from the tender fawn 
to the two year old with budding horns—the 
gentle doe, and the noble buck with branching 
antlers over four feet long. The largest buck 
stands near five feet high, and will weigh about 
five hundred pounds. He stalks about like a 
monarch, his antlers swaying to and fro with 
majestic motion. Three fawns and two year¬ 
lings were raised in the park, have never left 
it, and are stout and healthy. They are saga¬ 
cious, quite fond of their human acquaintance, 
especially of Mr. Stratton, although shy of 
strangers, and not quite relishing their company 
unless a friend is with them. We heard their 
shrill whistling cry in the woods, and first saw 
a doe, her fawn (three months old,) and a young 
buck standing out against the sky on the hill¬ 
top. A most interesting sight it was;—the 
fawn jumping about with playful ease, the oth¬ 
ers looking curiously at us and then stalking 
off into the woods. A noble buck followed 
me closely down the hillside and took an ear of 
green corn from my hand. 
They have a large, fine eye, mild and pleas¬ 
ant. They are quite impatient of forcible re¬ 
straint, and resist stoutly being held or confined 
in any way. Some of them came from beyond 
the Mississippi. They have always been 
healthy, have been fed little,—live on green 
browse in summer, in winter on the tender bark 
of saplings—sleep on the snow, regardless of 
severest cold—and, beyond the cost of fencing, 
are but little expense. The ground over which 
they range would be worthless for cultivation, 
but is, as it were, their native soil, since elk 
ranged there a century ago. Mr. S. wishes to 
increase his number, and will buy more for 
that purpose. He has been among them daily 
for years, knows well their nature and habits, 
and is confident of being able in a few years to 
sell yearly for venison enough to gain hand¬ 
some pay. He thinks, too, that large tracts in 
the vicinity might be well used for the same 
purpose. He is intelligently enthusiastic and 
much attached to his forest favorites. 
we observed were increasing in size as we 
neared the place, till finally, descending gently 
along a western slope among the files of little 
giants, we came to the gate of the real giants, 
emerging into the cleared ground of the Big 
Tree Hotel between the two sentinels, which 
are 500 feet high, and stand only far enough 
apart for the narrow road to pass between.— 
These were the firsLof the Washington cedars 
we had seen; it really seemed that we had 
never seen a tree before. And yet they were 
only medium specimens. 
Close by the house lay the first cut of the 
Big Tree par eminence ; the,' remaining part, or 
top, had been split up and removed. Near this 
first cut stood the stump, about six feet high, 
with an arbor mounted on the top, which had 
been squared down for that purpose, the posts 
of the arbor standing out in the line of the 
largest circuit at the ground, and the spiice be¬ 
tween them and the circuit of the top filled in 
by short boards. The diameter of the top is by 
measurement twenty-five feet one way, and 
twenty-three and one-half feet the other. The 
diameter, at the ground, was thirty-one feet. 
They are all included in a space of fifty acres, 
and are only about ninety in number. The 
ground occupied is a rich wet bottom, and the 
foot of the moist norlhern slope adjacent, cover¬ 
ed also with an undergrowth. And why are 
they here, just here, and nowhere else ? This, I 
confess, is to me the greatest, strangest wonder 
of all, that nowhere in the whole earth is there 
another known example of these Anakims of 
the forest, ninety seeds alone have been started, 
ninety and no more. Is there, was there no 
other piece of ground but just this, in the whole 
world, that could fitly take the seeds of such a 
growth 1 Why have they never spread, why 
has no one seed of the myriads they sprinkle 
every year on the earth, ever started in any 
other locality ? 
And what a starting it is, when such a seed 
of life begins to grow. Little did that tiny 
form of matter, about the size of a parsnip seed, 
and looking more like it than any other, im¬ 
agine what it was going to do, what feeling to 
excite, when it started the first sproutings of 
the Big Tree ? We measured an enormous 
sugar pine recently felled. Sixty feet from the 
ground it was six feet in diameter, and it was 
two hundred and forty feet high. We meas¬ 
ured one of the prostrate giants, and two hun¬ 
dred and forty feet from the ground it was six 
feet in diameter! The top was gone, but it 
could not have been less than three hundred 
and fifty feet high. And yet this tree was only 
eighteen feet where the Big Tree was twenty- 
five. If the Big Tree were hollowed, one 
might drive the largest load of hay through it 
without even a brush of contact. 
Many of the trees, and all the largest of them 
that remain, are greatly injured by fire. Their 
time is therefore shortened, and a long time will 
be required to bring the smaller ones to their 
maximum of growth. A man instigated by 
the infernal love of money, should have cut 
down the biggest of them, and skinned the 
next, one hundred and twenty feet upwards 
from the ground (viz., the Mother,) that he may 
show or sell the bark of her body, both sound 
as a rock at the heart, and good for a thousand 
years to come—O, it surpasses all contempt! 
And yet to see this Giant Mother still growing 
up as before, bearing her fresh foliage, ripening 
her seeds, and refusing to die ; hiding still her 
juices and working her pumps in the deep 
masses of her barkless body, which the sun of 
two whole years has not been able to season 
thiough, dead as it is and weather-cracked 
without it is a sight so grand as almost to 
compensate for the loss we suffer by the base¬ 
ness of the human scamp.” 
CITIES • EXTRAORDINARY. 
Baltimore is the “ Monumental City,” from 
the great battle monument, and several others 
of note, within its limits. 
Boston is the “Classic City,” or Athens of 
America, from its acknowledged pre-eminence 
in the literary and fine-art pursuits. 
Cincinnati is the “ Queen City,” so christened 
when it was the undisputed commercial me¬ 
tropolis of the West; but I believe Chicago 
now sets up rival claims to that distinction. 
Cleveland, O., is the “Forest City,” from the 
peculiarly rural aspect of its streets, squares 
and private grounds, which makes it one of the 
most delightful cities in the United States. 
Hartford, Ct., is the “Charter Oak City,” from 
the famous Charter Oak of colonial history. 
Louisville, Ky., is the “Falls City,” from the 
falls of the Ohio at that point. 
Montpelier, Vt., is the “Green Mountain 
City,” being the capital of the Green Mountain 
State. 
New Haven, Ct., is the “Elm City,” I be¬ 
lieve, from the profusion of elm-tree ornaments 
in its streets. 
New Orleans is the “ Crescent City,” from the 
half-moon shape which the river once presented 
at that point. But the filling out from the city 
has materially changed the crescent. 
New York is the “ Empire City,” or the great 
commercial emporium of the New World. 
Philadelphia is the “ Quaker City,” from its 
broad-brimmed founders. 
Pittsburg, Pa., is the “ Iron City,” from the 
immense iron trade and manufactories. It is 
also emphatically the “Smoky City.” 
Rochester is called the “ Flour City,” owing 
to the number of its flouring mills—some of 
which are said to be the largest in the world. 
It has been truthfully said by a satirist, that 
if some men could come out of their graves, and 
read the inscriptions on their tombstones, they 
would think they had got into the wrong 
graves !— Flavel. 
There is a gravity which is not austere nor 
captious which belongs not to melancholy, nor 
dwells in contraction of heart, but arises from 
tenderness, and hangs upon reflection. 
Every theory which urges man to labor and 
research, which excites activeness and sustains 
perseverence, is a gain to science ; for it is labor 
and research which lead to discoveries. 
Bodily infirmities, like breaks in a wall, 
have often become avenues through which the 
light of heaven has entered to the soul, and 
made the imprisoned inmate long for release. 
ialMf fjteiitp. 
the dying mother. 
BY ALICE CAREY. 
Wh were weeping round her pillow, 
For we knew that she must die ; 
It wag night within our bosoms— 
It was night upon the sky. 
There were seven of us children, 
I the oldest one of all; 
So I tried to whisper comfort, 
But the blinding tears would fall. 
On my knees my little brother 
Leaned his aching brow, and wept; 
And my sister’s long black tresses 
O’er my heaving bosom swept. 
The shadows of an awful fear, 
Came o’er me as I trod, 
To lay the burden of our grief 
Before the throne of God. 
“ Oh, be kind to one another,” 
Was my mother’s pleading prayer, 
As her hand lay like a snow-flake 
On the baby’s golden hair. 
Then a glory bound her forehead. 
Like the glory of a crown ; 
And in the silent sea of death. 
The star of life went down. 
Her latest breath was borne away 
Upon that loving prayer, 
And the hand grew heavier, paler, 
In the baby’s golden hair. 
CONTEMPLATION OF CHRIST. 
Nothing has more attractive and heart-wean¬ 
ing power than habitual contemplation of the 
Lord’s living person. Our Redeemer is no 
abstraction, no ideality that has its being only 
in our own shifting thoughts. He is the most 
independently personal of all persons, and the 
most absolutely living of all who live. He is 
“ the First and the Last, and the living One.” 
He is so near us, as the Son of God, that we can 
feel his warm breath on our souls ; and, as the 
Son of man, he has a heart like these hearts of 
ours—a human heart, meek and lowly, tender, 
kind and sympathizing. In the word—the al¬ 
most viva voce utterance of himself—his arm of 
power is stretched forth beside you, that you 
may lean on it with all your weight; and in 
the word also his love is revealed, that on the 
bosom of it you may lay your aching head, and 
forget your sorrows in the abundance of his 
consolations. The living One, who died, we 
must contemplate — to him we must look, that 
we may be weaned and won over wholly to 
God—that we may be strengthened, spiritual¬ 
ized, and sanctified.— Hewitson. 
STAH IN A DAUGHTER’S CROWN. 
The Rev. Dr. Daniel Baker, of Texas, relates 
the following beautiful fact: 
During a revival in-, a sweet little girl 
named Sarah, went home full of what she had 
seen and heard ; sitting at the table with the 
family, she asked her father, who had been to 
church, but was a very wicked man, whether 
he ever prayed. He did not like the question, 
and in a very angry manner replied. “ It is 
your mother, or your aunt Sally, that put you 
up to that, my little girl.” “ No, papa,” said 
the little creature, “ the preacher said, all good 
people pray; and those who don’t, ain’t going 
to heaven. Pa, do you pray ?” This was more 
than the father could stand, and in a rough way, 
he said, “ Well, you and your mother and your 
aunt Sally may go your way, and I will go 
mine.” “ Pa,” said the little creature, with 
sweet simplicity, “ which way are you going ?” 
This question pierced his heart. It flashed 
upon him that he was in the way to death. He 
started from his chair, burst into tears, and im¬ 
mediately began to cry aloud for mercy.— 
Within a few days he was a happy convert, and 
I believe will appear in heaven as a star in his 
little daughter’s crown of rejoicing. 
Cure for Religious Depression.— The best 
way to dispel the fears for our personal safety 
is to labor for the salvation of others. Profess¬ 
ed Christians often get into a morbid state of 
mind about their religious prospects. They 
are afraid they shall not be saved. Perhaps 
they will not. If that is their chief anxiety 
they do not deserve to be. It is selfish always 
to be thinking of their own future happiness, 
and in their terrible fears they are paying the 
just penalty of their low ambition. But let 
them go out of themselves, and try to secure the 
salvation of others, and all their fears are gone, 
Then they are doing God’s work, and they have 
no doubt of his love. 
Recognition in Heaven. — I must confess, as 
the experience of my own soul, that the ex¬ 
pectation of my loving friends in heaven prin¬ 
cipally kindles my love to them while on earth. 
If thought I should never know them, and 
consequently never love them, after this life is 
is ended, I should number them with temporal 
things, and love them as such ; but I now con¬ 
verse with my pious friends in a firm persua¬ 
sion that I shall converse with them forever; 
and I take comfort in those that are dead or 
absent, believing that I shall shortly meet them 
in heaven, and love them with a heavenly love. 
— Baxter. 
God’s Bible is the book for all, just like the 
wind of heaven, and God’s sunlight and his 
pure water, free for all. Good for the prince ; 
good for the peasant. It goes higher than 
human intellect can reach. It goes lower than 
human degradation descends. It is an ocean 
for an Edwards or a Chalmers to swim in, and 
to the poor ignorant cottager, it is the “ small 
rain from heaven.” 
