inous vault of Teviotdale, thus to meet Socrates and Cicero and Julius Cæsar, Shakspeare and Locke and Brutus Abbot of Melrose, with his pastoral staff, John Knox, Charles Fox and the Ettrick shepherd, Count Rumford and Benjamin Franklin, and Watt of Birmingham, a strangely assorted and goodly company.
But the visitant of Dryburgh goes first and last to the grave where, on September 26, 1832, Sir Walter Scott was laid with the Haliburtons, his maternal ancestors. Around it are gathered many of the objects that in life he loved. Luxuriant vines, with their clasping tendrils, the overhanging ivy, the melancholy cypress, the mellow song of birds, the distant voice of Tweed, Gothic arches with their solemn shadow, and kindred dust reposing near, hallow the poet's tomb.
"And still, a voice of friendly tone,
Doth speak, and call thee blest."
Our guide through Melrose was Mr. John Bower, quite an original character, and somewhat of an artist, who interspersed his services with anecdotes, to which his broad Scotch dialect imparted additional interest. He is the same person whom Washington Irving thus characterizes, as "the showman of Melrose. He was loud in his praises of the affability of Scott. 'He'll come here sometimes,' said he, 'with great
