it is up a lane overhung with old ashes. There are primitive-looking cottages, also overshadowed by great trees. There are crofts, with thick tall hedges, and cattle lying in them with a sybaritic luxury of indolence. You are still, as you proceed, surrounded by an ocean of foliage and ancient stems; and a dream-like feeling of past ages seems to pervade not only the air but the ground. I do not know how it is, but I think it must be by a mesmeric influence that the monks and the holy dreamers of old have left on the spots which they inhabited their peculiar character. You could not construct such a place now, taking the most favourable materials for it. Take a low, sequestered spot, full of old timber and cottages, and old grey walls; and employ all the art that you could, to give it a monastic character-it would be in vain. You would feel it at once; the mind would not admit it to be genuine. No, the old monastic spots are full of the old monastic spirit. The very ground, and the rich old turf are saturated with it. Dig up the soil, it has a monastery look. It is fat, and black, and crumbling. The trees are actual monks themselves. They stand and dream of the Middle Ages. With the present age and doings they have no feelings, no sympathies. They keep a perpetual vigil, and the sound of anthems has entered into their very substance. They are solemn piles of the condensed silence of ages, of cloistered musings; and the very whisperings of their leaves seemed to be muttered aves and ora pro nobises.

This feeling lies all over Dryburgh like a living trance; and the arrangements of these odd Buchans for admitting you to the tomb of Scott, enable you to see the most of it. You perceive a guide-post, and this tells you to go on to the house where the keys are kept. You descend a long lane amid these old trees and crofts, and arrive at a gate and lodge, which seem the entrance to some gentleman's grounds. Here probably you see too a gentleman's carriage waiting, and present yourself to go in. But you are told that, though this is the place, you must not enter there. You must go on still farther to the house where the keys are kept. At length you find yourself at the bottom of another stretch of lane, and here you stop for the simple reason that you can go no further-you have arrived at the bank of the river. Necessarily then looking about you, you see on one side a gate in a tall wall, which looks into an orchard, and on the other a cottage in a garden. On this cottage there is a board bearing this long-sought inscription-"The Abbey keys kept here." You knock, and ask if you can see the Abbey ; and a very careless "Yes," assures you that you can. The people appointed to show the ruins and Scott's grave are become notorious for their lumpish, uncivil behaviour. It would seem as if the owner of the place had ordered them to make it as unpleasant to visitors as possible; a thing very impolitic in them, for they are making a fortune by it. Indeed Scott is the grand benefactor of all the neighbourhood, Dryburgh, Melrose, and Abbotsford. At Abbotsford and Melrose they are civil, at Dryburgh the very reverse. They seem as though they would make you feel that it was a favour to be admitted to the grounds of Lord

Buchan; and you are pointed away at the gate of exit with a manner which seems to say, "There !-begone!"

The woman of the cottage was already showing a party; and her sister, just as sulky, ungracious a sort of body as you could meet with, was my guide. The gate in the wall was thrown open, and she said, "You must go across the grass there." I saw a track across the grass, and obediently pursued it; but it was some time before I could see anything but a very large orchard of young trees, and I began to suppose this another Pomarium dedicated by old Lord Buchan to his parents, and to wish him and his Pomaria under the care of a certain old gentleman; but anon!—the ruins of the Abbey began to tower magnificently above the trees, and I forgot the planter of orchards and his gracious guides. The ruins are certainly very fine, and finely relieved by the tall, rich trees which have sprung up in and around them. The interior of the church is now greensward, and two rows of cedars grow where formerly stood the pillars of the aisles. The cloisters and south transept are more entire, and display much fine workmanship. There is a window aloft, I think in the south transept, peculiarly lovely. It is formed of, I believe, five stars cut in stone, so that the open centre within them forms a rose. The light seen through this window gives it a beautiful effect. There is the old chapter-house also entire, with an earthen floor, and a circle drawn in the centre, where the bodies of the founder and his lady are said to lie. But even here the old lord has been with his absurdities; and at one end, by the window, stands a fantastic statue of Locke, reading in an open book, and pointing to his own forehead with his finger. The damp of the place has blackened and mildewed this figure, and it is to be hoped will speedily eat it quite up. What has Locke to do in the chapterhouse of a set of ancient friars?

The grave of Scott-for a tomb he had not yet got-was a beautiful fragment of the ruined pile, the lady aisle. The square from one pillar of the aisle to the next, which in many churches, as in Melrose, formed a confessional, forms here a burial-place. It is that of the Scotts of Haliburton, from whom Scott was descended; and that was probably one reason why he chose this place, though its monastic beauty and associations were, no doubt, the main causes. The fragment consists of two arches' length, and the adjoining one is the family burial-place of the Erskines. The whole, with its tier of small Norman sectional arches above, forms, in fact, a glorious tomb, much resembling one of the chapel tombs in Winchester; and the trees about it are dispersed by nature and art so as to give it the utmost picturesque effect. It is a mausoleum well befitting the author of the Lay of the Last Minstrel; and, though many wonder that he should have chosen to be interred in another man's ground and property, yet, independent of all such considerations, we must say that it would be difficult to select a spot more in keeping with Scott's character, genius, and feelings. But that which surprised every one, was the neglect in which the grave itself remained. After thirteen years, it was still a mere dusty and slovenly heap of earth.

His mother lay on his right hand, and his wife on his left. His mother had a stone laid on her grave, but neither Scott nor his wife had anything but the earth which covered them; and lying under the arched ruin, nature herself was not allowed, as she otherwise would, to fling over the poet the verdant mantle with which she shrouds the grave of the lowliest of her children. The contrast was the stranger since so splendid a monument had been raised to his honour in Edinburgh; and that both Glasgow and Selkirk had their statue-crowned column to the author of Waverley. The answer to inquiries was, that his son had been out of the country; but a plain slab, bearing the name, and the date of his death, would have conferred a neatness and an air of respectful attention on the spot, which would have accorded far more grate fully with the feelings of its thousands and tens of thousands of visitors than its then condition.

Since that time an oblong tomb has been placed over Sir Walter's grave, with this simple and all-sufficient inscription,-" Sir Walter Scott, Baronet, died September 21st, 1832."

THOMAS CAMPBELL was born in Glasgow on the 27th of July, 1777. His father was a resident of that city, a respectable merchant, and descended from an ancient Highland family, on which the poet evidently prided himself, though undoubtedly he was the greatest man his family ever produced. His ancestors traced their descent from Gilespic-le-Camile, the first Norman earl of Lochawe; and the Scotch still pronounce the name Camel, or more broadly, Caumel. The old family residence was at Kirnan, in the vale of Glassary, on the southern frontier of the Western Highlands. So proud were the poet's parents of this, that they always styled themselves Campbells of Kirnan; and the poet's mother, after he had risen to fame, would, when requesting articles to be sent home from shops, say. "Send them to Mrs. Campbell's of Kirnan ;" and when that did not seem to produce a very profound impression of respect, would add, "the mother of the author of The Pleasures of Hope."

Campbell's grandfather was the last laird of Kirnan. He died in Edinburgh, and Campbell's father went to America, where, falling in with a Daniel Campbell, a clansman, but no way related, they agreed to return to Glasgow, and set up as Virginia merchants. They were

successful, and Campbell's father, then forty-five, married the daughter of his partner, who was only twenty. They had no less than eleven children, who had various fortunes, and all of whom the poet outlived. Three of them were daughters, none of whom married, but had, as governesses, or teachers of schools, acquired a small competency, which was increased by an allowance of 1001. a-year for many years by the poet.

Campbell's father acquired a handsome fortune, but this was, for the most part, swept away by the breaking out of the American war in 1775, two years before the poet's birth. His father was then in his sixty-fifth year; but though he had so large a family, he had not the elasticity left to continue his trade, and retired upon the meagre remnant of his property. Two years later, his youngest son, Thomas, was born, that is, in his father's sixty-seventh year, at which age it is remarkable that the poet died.

Thomas Campbell was born in the house where his parents had resided since their marriage. This was in the High-street, but has now been long swept away by the progress of modern improvement. Campbell's father was a man of superior ability and education. He was an intimate friend of Adam Smith, and of Dr. Thomas Reid, author of the "Inquiry into the Human Mind," and Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Glasgow. By Dr. Reid the infant poet was baptized, and named after himself. Campbell's mother was a woman of a firm and somewhat acerb character, but elever and active, which was rendered the more necessary by the easy and indolent temperament of the father.

Campbell, who is described as a handsome boy, was first sent to the grammar-school, then under the management of Mr. Allison, who soon perceived the talents of his pupil. The discovery was hailed with delight by Campbell's parents, and his father devoted himself assiduously to his assistance in preparing his tasks, a proof that the old gentleman was a good scholar. Campbell was soon at the head of the school, but not without feeling the effects of too close application; and his father was obliged, on one occasion, to send him for six weeks to a cottage on the banks of the Cart, a few miles out of town. This country residence is said to have left such vivid imagery on his mind, that the effect was constantly appearing in the poetry of his mature years. During his grammar-school life, he began writing poetry at the age of ten, specimens of which Dr. Beattie has preserved in his very interesting life of the poet. But his greatest passion was for the classical authors, and his progress in Latin and Greek was extraordinary. In his twelfth year he made very respectable translations from Anacreon, and acquired the ambition of being a Greek scholar, which never left him, and which, to the last, predominated over his ambition as a poet.

In his fourteenth year he entered the college of Glasgow, and continued there till 1795, or till his eighteenth year. His course at college was one continuous triumph, especially in classical attainment. He carried off most of the chief prizes, and at the same time produced compositions both in prose and verse perfectly astonishing