THE LIONS OF SCOTLAND.

The 'restoration' mania which now pervades Great Britain, however much it be declaimed against by certain hypercritical architects, is yet certain to have at least one favorable result, in preserving to the future tourist the noblest monuments of the past. The abbeys and castles and tombs of England and Scotland are now so well cared for, that, ruins though they be, they will last for centuries. And yet the observant traveller can note, year by year, little changes, trifling alterations, which, though without great importance, are not destitute of interest; for he who has once visited Melrose, will be interested to learn that even one more stone has fallen from the ruin.

It is intended, in the following pages, to review the present condition, and state the recent changes in the 'Lions of Scotland,' and particularly in the localities with which the memories of Burns and Scott—memories so dear, both to the untravelled and travelled American—are most closely associated. Of the thousands of visitors who yearly flock to do mental homage at the tomb of Shakespeare, one out of every ten is from the United States; and so a large minority of the tourists in Scotland, and particularly of those most deeply interested in Scotland's greatest bards, hail from the New World. The conclusion of the war will probably be the signal for an unusual hegira from America to Europe; and these notes of the actual condition, in A.D. 1863, of Scotland's famed shrines, may serve to whet the increasing appetite for foreign travel.

'Bobby Burns' is buried at Dumfries, a rather dull town, which, fortunately for the tourist, has no notable church or ruin to be visited nolens volens. The place has, however, a Continental air, caused principally by the very curious clock tower in the market place; a quaint spire, in the background, adding to the effect of the architectural picture.

At one end of the town is St. Michael's church—a huge, square box, pierced by windows, and guarded by a big sentinel of a bell tower, surmounted by another quaint spire. The graveyard is one of the oddest in the kingdom, presenting long rows of huge tombstones, twelve or fifteen feet high, usually painted of a muddy cream color, each one serving for an entire family, and recording the trades or professions as well as the names and ages of the deceased. One of these enormous stones is in commemoration of the victims of the cholera in 1832.

In one corner of the cemetery is the tasteless mausoleum of Burns—a circular Grecian temple, the spaces between the pillars glazed, and a low dome, shaped like an inverted washbowl, clapped on top. The interior is occupied by Turnerelli's fine marble group of Burns at the plough, interrupted by the Muse of Poetry. At the foot of this group, and covering the poet's remains, is the freshly painted slab, bearing these inscriptions:

IN MEMORY OF ROBERT BURNS, WHO DIED THE 21ST OF JULY, 1796, IN THE 37TH YEAR OF HIS AGE: AND MAXWELL BURNS, WHO DIED THE 25TH APRIL, 1799, AGED 2 YEARS AND 9 MONTHS; FRANCIS WALLACE BURNS, WHO DIED THE 9TH JULY, 1803, AGED 14 YEARS—HIS SONS. THE REMAINS OF BURNS, REMOVED INTO THE VAULT BELOW 19TH SEPTEMBER, 1815—AND HIS TWO SONS. ALSO THE REMAINS OF JEAN ARMOUR, RELICT OF THE POET, BORN 6TH FEBRUARY, 1765, DIED 26TH MARCH, 1834; AND ROBERT, HIS ELDEST SON, DIED MAY 14, 1857, AGED 70 YEARS.

Visitors are allowed to enter the cheerful, if not elegant mausoleum, though all it contains can be seen through the windows. All the memorials of Burns, by the way, seem to be of the same tasteless style—the same wearisome imitation of the antique. The monument at Ayr, and that on Calton Hill, Edinburgh, are but additional examples.

Before leaving Dumfries, let me allude to a very curious custom, observed only in St. Michael's church, and even there beginning to fall into desuetude. The Scotch, who are alike noted for snuff and religious austerity, are equally devoted to footstools. In many families, where economy is the rule, one footstool—they are mere little wooden benches—serves both for the fireside and the kirk. To facilitate transportation, these benches are provided with little holes perforating the centre of the seat, large enough to admit the ferule of an umbrella or cane; and thus, borne aloft on these articles, the little benches are carried proudly above the shoulders of the bearers, like triumphant banners. In order to avoid the noise arising from the clatter of these benches as they are lowered into the pews, the congregation are accustomed to assemble some time before divine service begins.

A similar custom once prevailed in the cathedral at Glasgow. In 1588 the kirk session decided that seats in the church would be a great luxury, and certain ash trees in the churchyard were cut down, and devoted to the then novel purpose; but ungallantly enough, the women of the congregation were forbidden to sit on the new seats, and were ordered to bring stools along with them. Tradition, however, fails to record whether the Glasgow ladies carried their stools on the tops of umbrellas, like their sisters of Dumfries.

The grave of Burns owes to its uncouth monument the unsatisfactory feeling which it inspires in visitors. Alloway kirk is the place where the remains of the favorite Scottish poet should lie. Instead of artificial temples, badly copied from a clime and nation with which he had no sympathy or affinity, the young daisy and the fresh grass should mark his resting place.

'Alloway's kirk haunted wall' is preserved with such faithful care, that this year it looks very much the same as it did when Burns knew it. As a ruin, apart from the interest with which the poet has invested it, it possesses nothing to attract attention. Two end walls, which once supported a gable roof, and two low side walls, all without ornament of any kind—without gothic tracing or oriel wonders—without even graceful ivy flung over its ruggedness—are all that remain of Alloway, if we except the old bell, which yet hangs in the little belfry; a sign board below insulting visitors by requesting them not to throw stones at it!

The little churchyard of Alloway continues to be a burial place; but the gravestones seem, in many instances, sadly inconsistent with the poetical associations of the place. As at Dumfries, the business occupations of the deceased are mentioned; and we find here the family tombs of 'Robert Anderson, molecatcher,' of 'James Wallace, blacksmith,' and the like. David Watt Miller, who was buried here in 1823, was the last person baptized in the old Alloway kirk—his tombstone recording the fact. Near the entrance to the graveyard, and opposite the new gothic edifice which has taken the place of the old kirk, is the slab to the poet's father and sister, thus inscribed:

'Sacred to the memory of William Burns, farmer in Lochie, who died February 13, 1784, in the 63d year of his age. Also of Isabella, relict of John Bell; his youngest daughter, born at Mount Oliphant, June 27, 1771; died December 4, 1858, much respected and esteemed by a wide circle of friends, to whom she endeared herself by her life of piety, her mild urbanity of manner, and her devotion to the memory of Burns.'

The reader is aware that Alloway's kirk, the Burns monument, the cottage where the poet was born, the elaborate temple, erected to his memory, and Tam O'Shanter's brig, are all within a few rods of each other, at about two miles' distance from Ayr. The view of the temple, kirk, and 'brig,' from the opposite side of the stream, is worthy of Arcadia. The temple is familiar from engravings; but the bridge, with its graceful arch, draped by low-hanging ivy, is far more beautiful. Yet this exquisite scene is identified with one of Burns's coarsest efforts—one which, with all its vividness and humor, cannot be read aloud in the family circle. Fortunately, however, for the poet, his fame by no means rests on this unequal mixture of the humorous, the beautiful, and the vulgar; and instead of admiring Tam O'Shanter's bridge itself, it is much more pleasant to stand upon it, and gaze therefrom at the river which laves the 'banks and braes o' bonnie Doon'—at the fields besprinkled with the 'wee, crimsoned-tipped flower'—at the cottages where once lived the 'auld acquaintance' of 'lang syne,' and where occurred the scenes of 'The Cotter's Saturday Night.' 'Highland Mary' has crossed this bridge, and this sanctifies it far more than the imaginary terrors of Tam O'Shanter.

An hour's railway ride takes the tourist from the land of Burns to the scenes rendered sacred by the genius of Scott.

Abbotsford, the favorite home, of course is still open to visitors, who are hurried though it with the most disgusting celerity, by the guide engaged by the family to 'do'—at a shilling a head—the hospitalities of the place. The home of Scott retains all the characteristics it did when he died; but is shown in such a heartless, museum-like manner, that the visitor need not expect much gratification from the inspection.

A few miles farther up the Tweed is Ashetiel, the former home of Walter Scott, a place seldom seen by tourists, though here he wrote his finest poems. Some time ago I was invited to spend a night with a farmer who resides on the estate. Those who have read Washington Irving's graphic description of his visit to Abbotsford, will remember Mr. Laidlaw, of whom he thus writes:

'One of my pleasant rambles with Scott, about the neighborhood of Abbotsford, was taken in company with Mr. William Laidlaw, the steward of his estate. This was a gentleman for whom Scott entertained a particular value. He had been born to a competency, had been well educated; his mind was richly stored with varied information, and he was a man of sterling moral worth. Having been reduced by misfortune, Scott had got him to take charge of his estate. He lived at a small farm on the hillside above Abbotsford, and was treated by Scott as a cherished and confidential friend, rather than a dependant.' My worthy host was the son of this old gentleman, who is still alive and in good health. Several years ago he emigrated to Australia, where he now resides, still taking a lively interest in literary affairs, and reading, though an octogenarian, all the new works, that are regularly sent to him by his son. The old gentleman was as intimately acquainted with Hogg as with Scott, and my host remembers both these personages, though he was but a boy when they died.

Early one September morning Mr. Laidlaw was kind enough to take me about the grounds of Ashestiel, where 'Sir Walter' (they never add the name of Scott, in speaking of him here) passed thirteen of the best years of his life, and where he wrote the greater parts of 'Marmion' and the 'Lay.' We walked over the dewy fields (romantic but damp), and down to the banks of the Tweed, where I was shown a large outspreading oak, under which Sir Walter was wont to sit and frame his ideas into fitting words. Under this tree, with Tweed rippling at his feet, he spent many an hour in communion with himself, quietly weaving those strains that have immortalized him. From this place we passed on to the house itself—Ashestiel—now the residence of Sir William Johnstone, from whose family Sir Walter had leased it during the building of Abbotsford. It is a fine old building; but much altered and improved since it was occupied by Scott. Lockhart says of this place: 'No more beautiful situation, for the residence of a poet, could be imagined. The house was then a small one; but, compared with the cottage of Lasswade, its accommodations were amply sufficient. The approach was through an old-fashioned garden, with holly hedges, and broad, green terrace walks. On one side, close under the windows, is a deep ravine, clothed with venerable trees, down which a mountain rivulet is heard, more than seen, on its progress to the Tweed. The river itself is separated from the high bank, on which the house stands, only by a narrow meadow, of the richest verdure; while opposite, and all around are the green hills. The valley there is narrow, and the aspect in every direction is that of perfect pastoral repose.' This picture still holds good, with the exception of the 'old-fashioned garden,' which has made way for a new lawn and carriage road. The proprietor was an intimate friend of Walter Scott, and an India officer of merit, who has now returned to his old home, having bidden farewell to the neighing steed and all the pomp and circumstance of war.

From the house I was conducted to another of Scott's haunts—a little wooded grassy knoll, still known by the name of 'Wattie's Knowe,' or 'Sheriff's Knowe,' for Scott enjoyed both the familiar title of 'Wattie' and the official one of 'Sheriff.' It is a lovely spot, this Wattie's Knowe. The trees are old and gnarled; the grass is overrun with green moss and graceful fern-leaves, and if you are quite still, you can hear the murmur of Glenkinnon Burn, as it leaps over its pebbly bed, and hastens on to the Tweed. Here, between the branching trunks of a huge elm, Scott had fixed a rustic seat, to which he resorted nearly as often as to his favorite oak tree on the banks of the Tweed. While he resided here, Abbotsford was building; and almost daily he would ride over to superintend its progress.

Melrose is this year guarded with unusual vigilance. Hitherto visitors have been allowed to pass hours in the ruin, at their leisure, and read the wizard scene of the 'Lay of the Last Minstrel,' in the very locality where it is supposed to have occurred. At present, however, a sable widow, of the most unimpeachable respectability, casts a melancholy gloom over the place by the dejected yet resigned manner in which she unlocks the wooden gate and ushers strangers through the nave and transepts. Her orders, she says, are to allow no one to remain a moment in the ruin without her superintending presence—which is safe, but unpoetical.

Dryburgh, the ruin in which is the tomb of Walter Scott, is shown by an intelligent man who oversees the place. At the foot of Sir Walter's granite tomb is that recently erected to the memory of 'the son-in-law, biographer, and friend,' Lockhart. A bronze medallion likeness of the eminent reviewer adorns the red polished granite of his tomb. The Erskine family, the Haigs of Bemerside, and the earls of Buchan, are the only families, besides Sir Walter's ancestors, the Haliburtons, who are allowed to bury in this ruin. It was of the Haigs that Thomas the Rhymer, centuries ago, made a prediction to the effect that the line would never become extinct—a prediction which threatens to fail, as two maiden ladies now alone represent the family.

That 'proud chapelle,'

'——where Roslyn's chiefs uncoffined lie,'

has seen some notable changes of late. A few years ago, it contained only tombs; but the present Earl of Roslyn recently fitted it up for a divine service, according to the Church of England ritual, though the altar, the sedilia, the candles, the purple cloths, the painted organ, and other ecclesiastical decorations suggest an imitation of the Roman Catholic services, to which the chapel was formerly devoted. The people in the vicinity, who are all Scotch Presbyterians, do not attend these services, the select congregation being formed by 'the quality'—the gentry and nobility, who have their country seats near by.

The readers of 'Marmion' will, of course, remember Norham and Twisell castles. The former, as seen, from the railways, is a most uninviting pile of rude masonry, worn and broken by time and decay; but a nearer inspection reveals many phases of interest. The castle stands on the summit of a cliff, overhanging the Tweed, yet almost buried in rich foliage. The outer walls are crumbled away, and overgrown with short grass, forming a series of green mounds, which mark the graves of feudal grandeur. The south, east, and west walls of the keep, however, remain standing, a huge shell or screen of dull red stone, while to the north stretches a fragment of wall, along which it is easy to scramble to a point overlooking the Tweed, the village of Norham, and the adjacent scenery. Pleasant and thrilling it is to lie here on this deserted ruin, and read that spirited opening canto! With what renewed brilliancy do those chivalric lines bring back the long-past scenes of other days!

'Day set on Norham's castled steep, And Tweed's fair river broad and deep, And Cheviot's mountains lone: The battled towers, the donjon keep, The loophole grates where captives weep, The flanking walls that round them sweep, In yellow lustre shone.'

And imagination can almost bring to the ear the welcome to Marmion:

'The guards their morrice pikes advanced, The trumpets flourished brave, The cannon from the ramparts glanced, And thundering welcome gave. A blythe salute in martial sort The minstrels well might sound, For, as Lord Marmion crossed the court, He scattered angels round. Welcome to Norham, Marmion! Stout heart, and noble hand! Well dost thou back thy gallant roan, Thou flower of English land.'

'They marshall'd him to the castle hall, Where the guests stood all aside, And loudly flourished the trumpet call, And the heralds loudly cried: 'Room, lordlings, room for Lord Marmion, With the crest and helm of gold! Full well we know the trophies won In the lists at Cottiswold. Place, nobles, for the Falcon Knight! Room, room, ye gentles gay, For him who conquered in the right, Marmion of Fontenaye.''

Scott is already becoming old-fashioned, and his poems are not now sought after, as they were ten years ago; but any one who wishes to revive all the boyish enthusiasm with which he first read 'Marmion,' has only to take the book with him to the ruins of Norham and again read the glowing page!

The village of Norham is a quaint place dominated by the castle, and as humble nowadays, with its little thatched cottages, as in the times when the villagers were mere vassals of

'Sir Hugh, the Heron bold, Baron of Twisell, and of Ford, And Captain of the Hold.'

A limpid stream runs down the principal street of Norham—a gutter, which in the sunlight gleams like a band of silver. Village damsels wash potatoes therein. Among the residents of Norham, by the way, is the hostess of the principal inn, who was in the train of Joseph Bonaparte, during his stay in America, living in his household at Bordentown, New Jersey. She claims to be a personal acquaintance of Napoleon III; but I have not heard what strange wave of fortune stranded the friend of the Emperor of the French in the remote and unknown port of Norham.

A curious family romance hangs about Twisell castle, also mentioned in 'Marmion.' The present building, an immense quadrangular edifice, was begun by Sir Francis Drake, who never had means to finish it. His heirs tried to complete the castle, which is now the property of a lady over seventy years old, residing in Edinburgh, who devotes all her spare means to the work. Indeed, the building of Twisell castle is a hereditary monomania in the family; but the estate belonging to the magnificent structure is only forty acres in extent—utterly insufficient to support such a castle with the household it will ultimately need. As yet Twisell is a granite shell; no partitions are put up in the interior. Vast sums of money must be expended before it can be made tenantable.

But I must forego any allusions to Crichton and Pantallon castles, the former the place where Marmion was entertained, and the latter the spot where the bold chief dared

'——to beard the lion in his den, The Douglas in his hall.'

And I must also omit 'Newark's stately tower,' where the last minstrel sang his lay—and Branksome, the scene of the opening canto—and the scenery of Lomond and Katrine, rendered famous by the success of the Lady of the Lake. All these, and many other localities, hallowed by poesy, can be easily visited by the enthusiastic tourist; but I prefer to devote my pen and space to the most neglected and most beautiful of them all—to Lindisfarn, the Holy Isle.

Though really in England, it is yet near enough to the border to be included among the Lions of Scotland. It lies on the coast, about a dozen miles south of Berwick-upon-Tweed, the nearest approach to it, being from the railway station of Beal. Here the visitor will find the one-horse cart of the postmaster, offering the only conveyance to one of the most romantic and retired spots in the kingdom.

Holy Island, in circumference about eight miles, lies three miles from the land; but is only an island at high tide. At other times, the receding waters leave the sands bare, with the exception of two or three channels, not more than six inches deep, and afford a passage for vehicles, marked by a long row of stakes, intended especially to guide travellers in winter, when the snow falls thickly on the path. In summer there is always a strong wind blowing over these sands, drying them from the salt water, forming picturesque patterns along the ever-changing ground, and dashing a thin veil of sand along the way. Woe to the unlucky wight who loses his hat in this place! With nothing to intercept it, the unfortunate headgear is at once taken by the wind and sent flying over the sandy plain, faster than human foot can run, far out to the island, and often over it to the sea beyond. The frolicsome dog, which generally accompanies the postmaster's cart, is the only hope on which the hatless wretch can then rely; and usually this reliance is not in vain.

Holy Island contains a population of some 600 souls, mostly fishermen. Not a tree grows on the island; but at the south end, where a low village crouches down against the continual sweepings of the stormy winds, are a few fields, fragrant with clover, and gleaming with buttercups; and, in one of these fields, scarce a stone's throw from the beating surf, stand the ruins of Lindisfarn Abbey, one of the earliest seats of Christianity in Great Britain, and one closely identified with the traditionary career of St. Cuthbert. The front walls, portions of the side walls, a diagonal arch richly ornamented, and the chancel recently repaired to arrest further decay, remain to tell of its former beauty. The area within the ruins is strewn with sea shells and pebbles, while about the bases, whence once sprang aloft the clustered pillars of the nave, grow in rich profusion hardy yellow flowers. The sharp sea winds have eaten into the stone in many places, reducing it to an apparent honeycomb. No ripple of gentle streamlet falls on the ear; no luxuriant foliage offers its pleasant shade; no ivy drapery, stirred by the summer breeze, floats from the decaying walls; but instead of these gentle attractions, which Tinter and Bolton and Valle Crucis offer, we have at Lindisfarn the boom of the ocean surf and the biting freshness of the keen sea wind.

Scott thus describes Holy Island and Lindisfarn:

'The tide did now its floodmark gain, And girdled in the saint's domain: For, with the flow and ebb, its style Varied from continent to isle; Dryshod, o'er sands, twice every day, The pilgrims to the shrine find way; Twice every day, the waves efface Of staves and sandalled feet the trace. As to the port the galley flew, Higher and higher rose to view The castle, with its battled walls, The ancient monastery's halls— A solemn, huge, and dark-red pile, Placed on the margin of the isle. In Saxon strength that abbey frowned, With massive arches broad and round, That rose alternate, row on row, On ponderous columns, short and low, Built ere the art was known, By pointed aisle, and shafted stalk, The arcades of an alley'd walk, To emulate in stone.'

The scenes of Sarrow and Ettrick vales, associated with the life and described in the poetry of the Ettrick shepherd, deserve more attention from tourists than they usually receive. The single tomb in Ettrick kirkyard, the site of his birthplace near by, marked by a stone in the wall, bearing the letters J. H., Poet; Chapelhope, the scene of the 'Brownie o' Bodsbeck,' 'Sweet St. Mary's Lake,' Mount Benger, and the new monument recently erected on the shores of St. Mary's, representing the poet seated on a rock, his plaid thrown loosely over his shoulders, and his shepherd's dog by his side—all these localities cannot fail to interest those who know James Hogg, either by his works, or by his character, so powerfully and singularly delineated in the pages of 'Noctes Ambrosianæ.'

Burns, the Ploughman—Scott, the Minstrel—Hogg, the Shepherd! How much does Scotland owe to the magic of their pens! Without them, her mountains and lakes and streams would never have known the presence of that indefatigable, money-spending feature of modern life—the tourist; for, without them, few indeed would be the Lions of Scotland.