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 On the grass the dews unbroken And the stars are out in thousands On the deep blue sky; Bright as when the old Chaldeans Where was kept the varying fortune Would that o'er their mystic scroll Time was, coming forth together, Each went through the quiet greenwood With the green leaves and wild flowers Of the seasons in the year Round her head the locks are golden, 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, But it was the inward beauty That gave every look and motion Thought was on the high white forehead, And it was the quick warm feeling Bade the blushes rise, Which could such sweet light impart Lovely was the high-born maiden, Gathering in the oak-tree's shelter 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, 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, 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 had no meaning more than all It was when first the sound I heard A lightly-utter'd, careless word. That word-oh! it doth haunt me now, When in the laughing crowd some tone, When dreams bring back the days of old, And from my feverish couch I start It comes-and with it come the tears, The brightest things life's spring could share. 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 And if those lips were heard to say, Ah! then, perchance-but I have heard Oh! ye who, meeting, sigh to part, Whose words are treasures to some heart, 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 |