His

offering box of Queen Mary. Through the folding doors between the dining-room, drawing-room and library, is a fine vista, terminated by a niche, in which stands Chantrey's bust of Scott. The ceilings are of carved Scottish oak and the doors of American cedar. Adjoining the library is his study, the walls of which are covered with books; the doors and windows are double, to render it quiet and undisturbed. books and inkstand are on the table and his writing-chair stands before it, as if he had left them but a moment before. In a little closet adjoining, where he kept his private manuscripts, are the clothes he last wore, his cane and belt, to which a hammer and small axe are attached, and his sword. A narrow staircase led from the study to his sleeping room above, by which he could come down at night and work while his family slept. The silence about the place is solemn and breathless, as if it waited to be broken by his returning footstep. I felt an awe in treading these lonely halls, like that which impressed. me before the grave of Washington-a feeling that hallowed the spot, as if there yet lingered a low vibration of the lyre, though the minstrel had departed forever!

Plucking a wild rose that grew near the walls, I left Abbottsford, embosomed among the trees, and turned into a green lane that led down to Melrose.

Melrose is the finest remaining specimen of Gothic architecture in Scotland. Some of the sculptured flowers in the cloister arches are remarkably beautiful and delicate, and the two windows-the south and east oriels-are of a lightness and grace of execution really surprising. We saw the tomb of Michael Scott, of King Alexander II., and that of the Douglas, marked with a sword. The heart of Bruce is supposed to have been buried beneath the high altar. The chancel is all open to the sky, and rooks build their nests among the wild ivy that climbs over the crumbling arches. One of these came tamely down and perched upon the hand of our fair guide. By a winding stair in one of the towers we mounted to the top of the arch and looked down on the grassy floor. I sat on the broken pillar, which Scott always used for a seat when he visited the Abbey, and read the disinterring of the magic book, in the Lay of the Last Minstrel." I never comprehended its full beauty till then; the memory of Melrose will give it a thrilling interest, in the future. When we left, I was willing to say, with the minstrel :

66

"Was never scene so sad and fair!"

ALICE LEE-MISS LANDON.

Through the dim and lonely forest

Comes a low sweet sound, Like the whispering of angels To the greenwood round,

Bearing through the hours of midnight,

On their viewless wings, Music in its measure telling

High and holy things.

Through the forest lone and dim
Swelleth soft the twilight hymn
Of the old knight's lovely daughter,
The gentle Alice Lee.

On the grass the dews unbroken
In their silver lie,

And the stars are out in thousands

On the deep blue sky;

Bright as when the old Chaldeans
Held them as the shrine

Where was kept the varying fortune
Of our human line.

Would that o'er their mystic scroll
Better hours may have to roll
For the old knight's lovely daughter,
The gentle Alice Lee!

Time was, coming forth together,
She and Spring might seem
Like the beautiful creations
Of a morning dream;

Each went through the quiet greenwood
Wandering alone,

With the green leaves and wild flowers
O'er their pathway strown.

Of the seasons in the year
Spring seemed fittest to be near
The old knight's lovely daughter,
The gentle Alice Lee.

Round her head the locks are golden,
So the sun in June

Pours his glory o'er the summer

At his crystal noon;

From that shining hair, when parted,

Came the pure high brow,

With the carving of a statue,

With the mountain's snow.

Blue her eyes as yon blue heaven,
Nature every charm had given
To the old knight's lovely daughter,
The gentle Alice Lee.

But it was the inward beauty
Breathing from her face,

That gave every look and motion
Its diviner grace;

Thought was on the high white forehead,
In the deep blue eyes,

And it was the quick warm feeling

Bade the blushes rise,

Which could such sweet light impart
Writing on the cheek, the heart,
Of the old knight's lovely daughter,
The gentle Alice Lee.

Lovely was the high-born maiden,
Happy were the hours

Gathering in the oak-tree's shelter
Mosses and wild flowers;

When the deer from each green coppice

Fled, a startled band,

Save when some familiar favorite

Fed from her small hand.

Danger now, and fear, and wrath,
Are around the woodland path
Of the old knight's lovely daughter,
The gentle Alice Lee.

Nobly doth she meet the trial,

She who hath but known Till the present time of trouble

Life's smooth path alone.

Though her smile be somewhat sadder,

And her eye subdued,

Such are lovelier as the token

Of a higher mood.

Like an angel's is the face,

In its meek and pensive grace,
Of the old knight's lovely daughter,
The gentle Alice Lee.

Not an hour of calm and quiet

Hath his old age found;

There are foes and strangers haunting

His ancestral ground.

Of his ancient halls and woodlands

Is the old man reft,

But they have not quite bereaved him,

For his child is left.

321

A word is ringing through my brain:
It was not meant to give me pain;
It had no tone to bid it stay,
When other things had passed away;

It had no meaning more than all
Which in an idle hour fall:

It was when first the sound I heard

A lightly-utter'd, careless word.

That word-oh! it doth haunt me now,
In scenes of joy, in scenes of wo;
By night, by day, in sun or shade,
With the half smile that gently play'd
Reproachfully, and gave the sound
Eternal power through life to wound.
There is no voice I ever heard
So deeply fix'd as that one word.

When in the laughing crowd some tone,
Like those whose joyous sound is gone,
Strikes on my ear, I shrink-for then
The careless word comes back again.
When all alone I sit and gaze
Upon the cheerful home-fire blaze,
Lo! freshly as when first 'twas heard,
Returns that lightly-utter'd word.

When dreams bring back the days of old,
With all that wishes could not hold;

And from my feverish couch I start
To press a shadow to my heart-
Amid fts beating echoes, clear
That little word I seem to hear;
In vain I say, while it is heard,
Why weep-'twas but a foolish word.

It comes-and with it come the tears,
The hopes, the joys of former years;
Forgotten smiles, forgotten looks,
Thick as dead leaves on autumn brooks,
And all as joyless, though they were

The brightest things life's spring could share.
Oh! would to God I ne'er had heard

That lightly-utter'd, careless word!

It was the first, the only one

Of these which lips forever gone

Breathed in their love-which had for me
Rebuke of harshness at my glee;

And if those lips were heard to say,
"Beloved, let it pass away,"

Ah! then, perchance-but I have heard
The last dear tone-the careless word!

Oh! ye who, meeting, sigh to part,

Whose words are treasures to some heart,
Deal gently, ere the dark days come,
When earth hath but for one a home;
Lest, musing o'er the past, like me,
They feel their hearts wrung bitterly,
And, heeding not what else they heard,
Dwell weeping on a careless word.

MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE.-HAWTHORNE

We stand now on the river's brink. It may well be called the Concord-the river of peace and quietness-for it is certainly the most unexcitable and sluggish stream that ever loitered, imperceptibly, toward its eternity, the sea. Positively, I had lived three weeks beside it, before it grew quite clear to my perception which way the current flowed. It never has a vivacious aspect, except when a northwestern breeze is vexing its surface, on a sunshiny day. From the incurable indolence of its nature, the stream is happily incapable of becoming the slave of human ingenuity, as is the fate of so many a wild, free