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NO. XIII:]

IT

THE NEW YORK JOURNAL·

A VISIT

An Illustrated Literary Periodical.

TO ABBOTSFORD AND ITS VICINITY. T was on a bright calm morning towards the close of September that we started from the inn at Galashiels, where we had arrived at a late hour on the preceding evening, to visit Abbotsford and some of the adjacent scenes, which the genius of the mighty minstrel had invested with sufficient interest to our minds to render them the chief object, upon that occasion, of our northern tour.

One of our party (we were four in number, and on foot-the true mode of enjoying such an excursion) was well acquainted with the locality of every spot with which the slightest interest was associated; and was, moreover, admirably qualified to act as cicerone by an unbounded enthusiasm for everything connected, however remotely, with the person, the genius, or the memory of the illustrious poet. We had not, therefore, proceeded far before he stopped us by exclaiming :-"There are the woods and house of Abbotsford; and there, behind them, are the Eildon hills! There you see Galawater chafing as it joins the Tweed. And yonder are the braes of Yarrow, and vale of Ettrick!" It was impossible not to catch some portion of the enthusiasm with which he thus uttered names that we had often heard and read of with emotion, especially as the beautiful scenery to which they belonged was now spread in bright reality before us, and we learned to distinguish each amid the calm light shed around them from a cloudless autumn sky.

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castles of the Douglasses in Galloway. The ap- were an endless variety of armor and weapons,
proach-which is very short, as the high road runs amongst them Rob Roy's gun, with his initials,
through the grounds in rather close propinquity to R. M. C., around the touch-hole; Hofer's blunder-
the house-is by a broad trellised walk, oversha-buss; the pistols taken from Bounaparte's carriage
dowed with roses and honeysuckles; on one side at Waterloo; a beautiful sword which Charles I.
was a screen of open gothic arches filled with invisi-presented to Montrose; together with thumb-screws
ble network, through which we caught delightful and other instruments of torture, the dark memo-
glimpses of a garden with flower-beds, turrets, rials of days of savage cruelty, we trust gone by for
porches leading into avenues of rosaries, and ever.
We came at once
bounded by noble forest trees.
upon the house, the external appearance of which
utterly defies description. At either end rises a tall
tower, but each totally different from the other;
the entire front is nothing but an assemblage of
gables, parapets, eaves, indentations, water-spouts
with strange droll faces, painted windows, Eliza-
bethan chimneys; all apparently flung together in
the very wantonness of irregularity, and yet pro-
ducing, as we all agreed, a far more pleasing effect
than any sample of architectural propriety, whether
ancient or modern, that we had ever seen.

and

Beyond this armory is the dining-room, with a low carved roof, a low bow window, and an elevated dais. Its walls were hung in crimson, and thickly covered with pictures, among which were the Duke of Monmouth, by Lely; a portrait of Hogarth, by himself; and a picture of the head of Mary Queen of Scots-said to have been painted the day after her execution-with an appalling ghastliness of countenance, the remembrance of which for days afterwards was like that of an unpleasant dream.

A narrow passage of sculptured stone conducted A noble doorway-the fac-simile, as our well-us from this apartment to a delicious breakfastinformed guide apprised us, of the ancient royal room, with shelves full of books at one end, and palace of Linlithgow, and ornamented with stupen- the other wails well covered with beautiful drawdous antlers-admitted us into the lofty hall; the ings in water-color, by Turner. Over the chimimpression made upon entering which was such as ney-piece was an oil painting of a castle overhangnever could be forgotten. There are but two win-ing the sea, which our cicerone affirmed to be the dows, and these, although lofty, being altogether of Wolf's crag. A number of curious-looking cabipainted glass, every pane deep dyed with gorgeous nets formed the most remarkable feature in the armorial bearings, the sudden contrast between the furniture of this apartment; but its chief charm less than "dim religious light" which they admitted, was in the lovely prospect from the windows, which and the glare of day from which we had entered, on one side overlook the Tweed, and give a view of together with the thought of whose roof-tree it was the Yarrow and of Ettrick upon the other. While beneath which we stood, and whose the spirit that standing here, looking out upon the glad water had called into existence the strange beauty with sparkling in the sunshine, with the overhanging which we rather felt than saw ourselves to be sur-woods now putting on the golden livery of autumn, almost overpowering. and thinking how often must the mighty minstrel's Not a word was spoken for some moments, until eye and mind have drunk in poetic inspiration as he our eyes became accustomed to the sombre coloring gazed upon the same bright scene, one of our party of the apartment, which we then perceived to be repeated, in a low tone of deep feeling, the lines about forty feet in height, the walls being of dark from the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," which are in richly-carved oak, and the roof a series of pointed some respects so touchingly applicable to the closing arches, from the centre of each of which hung a scenes of the life of their gifted author: richly emblazoned shield. Around the cornice were Our cicerone also a number of similar shields. pointed out amongst them the bloody heart of Douglas, and the royal lion of Scotland. The floor of the splendid hall is paved with black and white marble, brought, we were told, from the Hebrides; and magnificent suits of armor, with a profusion of swords of every variety, occupy the niches, or are suspended on the walls.

Abbotsford is situated about two miles from Galashiels, between that town and Selkirk. The house occupies the crest of the last of a broken series of hills descending from the Eildons to the rounded, was oppressiveTweed, whose silver stream it overhangs. The grounds are richly wooded, and diversified with an endless variety of “bushy dells and alleys green;" while through all, the river,

Wandering at its own sweet will," gives its exquisite finish to a picture such as needs no association whatsoever, nothing but its own intrinsic loveliness, to leave its image indelibly impressed upon the mind.

We soon arrived at the entrance gate, a lofty arch in an embattled wall; and here our attention was directed by our enthusiastic friend to the first instance of Sir Walter's anxiety to accumulate around his residence as many relics as possible of the olden time, in the rusty chains and rings, called From the hall we were shown into a narrow "jougs," to which the bells were attached, and vaulted apartment running across the entire house, which had been brought from one of the ancient with an emblazoned window at either end. Here

"Still as I view each well-known scene,
Think what is now, and what hath been,
Seems as to me of all bereft,
Sole friends thy woods and streams were left,
And thus I love them better still,
Even in extremity of ill.

By Yarrow's stream still let me stray,
Though none should guide my feeble way,
Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break,
Although it chill my withered cheek;
Still lay my head by Teviot stone,
Though there, forgotten and alone,
The Bard may draw his parting groan."

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and a gallery running round three sides of the room, and reached by a hanging stair at one corner, also contained some books. There were but two portraits, those of Claverhouse and Rob Roy. In one corner was a little closet opening into the gardens, forming the lower compartment of one of the towers, in the upper part of which was a private staircase accessible from the gallery. This was the last portion of the mansion which we were permitted to explore; and after a hurried ramble through the grounds -where exquisite walks, with innumerable seats and arbors, commanding views of gleamy lakes and most picturesque and lovely waterfalls, told eloquently of the matchless taste that had there found recreation from its toil-we bid a long adieu to Abbotsford.

Our next visit was to Melrose Abbey, which,

"Like some tall rock with lichens gray," rose before us as we turned down a narrow street of the little town of Melrose. It is, in truth, perhaps the very loveliest pile of monastic ruins that the eye can see or the imagination conceive. The windows, and especially the glorious east window with all its elaborate tracery-upon the repairs of which, (as of the entire building,) conducted under his immediate auspices, we were told that Sir Walter Scott had bestowed the utmost

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In one of the naves are seven niches, exquisitely ornamented with sculptured foliage, and reminding us of the lines in the "Lay of the Last Minstrel :" Spreading herbs and flowerets bright Glistened with the dew of night:

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The windows were open; it was the very season, of richly-carved oak, as are also the bookcases | care-are almost unrivalled, altogether unsurpassed but a few days from the anniversary, of his death; which reach high up the walls. The books were as specimens of Gothic architecture. Under the the weather now, as it had been then, was warm elegantly bound, amounting, we are told, in number east window we were shown the grave of the and sunny; the gentle murmur of the river was to about twenty thousand volumes, all arranged wizard Michael Scott, immortalized in the "Lay of audible, as we are told in his biography it was according to their subjects. Amongst them the Last Minstrel ;" and, close by it, a small flat when his weeping sons and daughters knelt around were presentation copies from almost every stone, about a foot square, under which our guide his bed just as the spirit was departing; and as living author in the world. Our attention was informed us lies the heart of Wallace. that solemn scene rose vividly before the excited arrested in particular by a Montfauçon," in fifteen imagination, there came with it, perhaps more folio volumes, with the royal arms emblazoned on deeply than had ever before been experienced, a the binding, the gift of king George IV. There feeling of the mutability, the nothingness, of all were cases opposite the fireplace, wired and locked, that earthly fame o rank or riches can bestow. one containing books and Mss. relating to the insurThe bright scene was there unchanged, but where rections of 1715 and 1745; and another, treatises was he who gave the charm to its brightness-who on magic and diablerie, said to be of extreme rarity had rendered it almost unrivalled in its interest by and value. In one corner stood a small silver urn any similar locality in the world! upon a porphyry stand, upon which we could not but look with intensely mournful interest; it was filled with human bones, and bore the inscription, "Given by George Gordon, lord Byron, to sir Walter Scott, bart." There was but one bust-a Shakspeare; and one picture-Sir Walter's eldest son in hussar uniform, in the apartment.

On passing from this room, which we left most reluctantly, we came into a green-house with an old fountain playing before it-one that had formerly stood by the cross of Edinburgh, and had been made to flow with wine at the coronations of the Stuarts. This brought us into the drawing-room, a large and very handsome apartment, elegantly furnished with ancient ebony, crimson silk hangings, mirrors, and portraits amongst the latter, a n ble portrait of Dryden, one of Peter Lely's best After pausing here for some minutes, we pass d into the largest room of all, the library-a most magnificent apartment, about fifty feet in length by thirty in width, with a projection in the centre, opposite the fireplace, containing a large bow window. The roof is

Nor herb nor floweret glistened there

But was carved in the cloister arches as fair."

Each glance at the lovely east window recalled in
like manner the stanzas from the same poem:
"The moon on the east oriel shone,

Through slender shafts of shapely stone,
By foliaged tracery combined;
Thou wouldst have thought some faery's hand,
'Twixt poplars straight the osier wand,

In many a freakish knot had twined;
Then framed a spell when the work was done,
And changed the willow wreaths to stone."

Connected with this noble library, and facing the south, is a small room, the most interesting of all-The figures and heads which abound throughout the the retreat of the poet-where many of the most ruin are some of them very beautiful, and others admired productions of his genius were conceived singularly grotesque. There is a cripple on the and written. It contained no furniture, except a back of a blind man, in which the pain of the former small writing-table in the centre, an arm-chair covered with black leather, and one chair for a single privileged visitor. On either side of the fireplace were shelves with a few volumes, chiefly folios

and the sinking of the latter beneath his unwieldy burthen are expressed in stone as we do not often see anything of the kind in painting. Close to the south window is a massive-looking figure peering

through the ivy, with one hand to his throat, while in the other he grasps a knife, and a figure below holds a fadle as if to catch the blood from his selfinflicted wound. Not far from these is a group of merry musicians; and blended with some of the most highly-wrought tracery in the windows is the figure of a sow playing the bagpipes.

The latter part of the day we devoted to Dryburgh Abbey. The scenery between Melrose and Dryburgh is exceedingly beautiful. The road overhangs the Tweed, fringed with rich plantations to the water's edge; and as it crosses the hill of Bennerside it commands a lovely view of the river winding round an island, with a solitary house upon it-the only remains, our cicerone told us, of "old Melrose."

A low gateway at one side of a narrow lane, at the foot of which runs the Tweed, admitted us into the wooded grounds of Dryburgh; and after passing the residence, which we did not pause to examine, we came to a wooden fence round the abbey. It is a beautiful ruin, embosomed in dense foliage, and having a very fine radiated window covered with ivy. It contains little, however in the way of architectural remains, to attract the notice of those who have previously visited Melrose. Our thoughts were all upon the one spot, the aisle called St. Mary's, beneath the right hand arch of which is the last resting-place of him whose spell had been on us all the day. The spot is marked by a plain flat stone, about three feet from the ground, with the simple inscription, "Sir Walter Scott, bart." Our hearts and eyes were full, some at all events to overflowing: the mighty genius, and the broken heart-the lordly mansion, and the lowly grave-the contrast was painfully oppressive; and "Poor Sir Walter!" burst in broken accents, almost simultaneously from our lips.

"The last abode,

The voiceless dwelling of the bard is reached;

A still majestic spot; girt solemnly

With all the imploring beauty of decay;
A stately couch 'midst ruins! meet for him

With his bright fame to rest in."

These are the recollections of many years ago. What changes in the poet's home, or around the poet's grave, may since then have taken place the writer seeks not to inquire. He knows, however, that many an "added stone" within the ruins of Dryburgh, inscribed with the names of children summoned in their prime to the "narrow house appointed for all living," bears still further testimony to the utter vanity of that chief desire to be the founder of an illustrious house and family; but no further knowledge is capable of adding to the impressiveness of the lesson, which it is difficult to conceive how any one who has ever visited or meditated upon Abbotsford and Dryburgh can have failed to learn, or, having so learned, can forget the lesson so well expressed in the one line of a Christian poet :

"He builds too low who builds beneath the skies!"

PARTING BREATH.

THE ruling passion strong in death" is a THE poetic phrase founded on practical experience. Even while the body is on the brink of dissolution, and life is fast fleeting, while the senses are dim, and the power of voluntary motion is already dead, the mind flickers up like the last glimmerings of the expiring taper in the socket, and the parting breath of the dying is often a striking commentary or illustration of their entire past life.

In cases of ordinary natural dying, there is often a momentary exaltation of the mind, in which it seems to survey the past, or to anticipate the future, with a lightning glance-exhibiting the triumph of mind over matter at the very moment of their final separation. Physiologists informs us that this preternatural exaltation of the mind at such a moment resembles dreaming more than any other known mental state; and yet the ideas passing in the mind seem to be also suggested to some extent by external circumstances. As in the case of the death of a distinguished judge, who, seeing the mourning relatives standing round his bed, raised himself for a moment from his couch, and said with his wonted dignity,

"Gentlemen of the jury, you will find-" then fell back on his pillow and expired.

The past pursuits and events of life are usually those which most influence the mind of the dying. Napoleon's muttered exclamation of "Téte d'arme!" (head of the army), was a striking exemplification of the ruling passion strong in death. Nelson's last words to Hardy were" I thank God I have done my duty." And Captain Lawrence's last exclamation was-"Don't give up the ship." characteristic as these was the saying of Dr. Adams, master of the Edinburgh High-school, who, when dying, supposed himself to be in the midst of his class, and muttered, "It grows dark-the boys may dismiss”—then fell back, and expired.

As

Often, however, all the later events in life seem to

be blotted out from the mind of the dying; and the vivid life of youth and childhood springs into memory again. The forgotten patois of some far remote native village is now well remembered; the names of old acquaintances, the companions of youth, are suddenly remembered; and the voice of the skylark, the babbling of the brook, and the rustling of the trees, salute the dying man's ear, as he parts with life in the centre of the crowded city, where he has long

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La Bruyere says: A slave has but one masterthe ambitious man has as many masters as there are persons whose aid may contribute to the advance ment of his future.

There is this paradox in pride-it makes some men ridiculous, but prevents others from becoming so.

RYBURGH ABBEY, THE BURIAL-PLACE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT ]

Engraved expressly for the New York Journal.

lived. Sir Astley Cooper once, in passing through Cardinal Beaufort, too, the murderer of the Duke of
the wards of Bartholomew Hospital, heard one of Gloucester, suffered frightful mental tortures-"Will
his patients talking in a strange language, having not all my riches," he exclaimed, “save me? What!
ceased to speak in his wonted English. A Welsh is there no bribing death?” In like manner, Queen
milk-woman discovered it to be Welsh-the language Elizabeth's last words were—“ All my possessions
in which the man had learnt to speak when a child. | for a moment of time!" But in vain. How different
but which he had long forgotten.
the quiet parting words of Washington-" It is
well!"

The visual conceptions reproduced in some minds during their last moments, often appear to have been derived from poetical readings and musings, little suspected even by those who best knew them. Dr. Symonds says he remembers hearing a young man, who had been but little conversant with any but civic scenes, discourse most eloquently a short time before death, of "sylvan glen and bosky dell," purling streams and happy valleys; "babbling of green fields," as if his spirit had already been recreating itself in the gardens of Elysium. And in another case of a phthisical patient, every person who came to the dying youth's bedside was sure to receive a distich in honor of his name; nor could any remark be made without his seizing one of the words uttered, and finding a rhyme for it, in doing which he exhibited great ingenuity. Recitations of poetry appearing to recur from a passive process of memory, with perfect unconsciousness of what is passing around, are frequent occurrences; and the passages selected have often a singular coincidence with the events in the life of the moribund rehearser. Sir Walter Scott's touching picture of the death of Madge Wildfire has had many unfictitious counterparts.

Shakspeare, whose knowledge of life in all its phases seems to have been something almost superhuman, has touched upon the subject with his accustomed skill. In the death-scene of Catherine (Henry VIII.) the queen mother's soul is cheered with beatific visions and communion with heavenly visitors, such as so often visit the dying, whose lives have been spent in the contemplation of future existence :

Saw you not, even now, a blessed troop
Invite me to a banquet; whose bright faces
Cast thousand beams upon me, like the sun ?
They promised me eternal happiness;
And brought me garlands, Griffith, which I feel
I am not worthy yet to wear: I shall,
Assuredly.

In nearly all cases, however, if not in every case, the moments which precede death are absolutely painless. Dying, when disease has done its work, and nature has ceased to offer further resistance, is no more painful than falling asleep. It is entirely an unconscious act; and our consciousness leaves us so imperceptibly, that before our life is terminated, we have become insensible to its value. When life passes, it is with a gentle sigh,-—and

Like a clock worn out with eating Time,
The wheels of weary life at last stand still.

Although the appearances upon the features of the
departing sufferer may indicate anguish, relatives
may be comforted with the assurance that when the
changes begin in which death consists, all pain is
really at an end. Muscular spasms and convulsions
are at that stage quite independent of all feeling, and
Death is the gentlest
are mere unconscious acts.
possible separation of life from matter; in many, if
not in all cases, it is accompanied by the sensation
described in the beautiful lines of Spenser:

Sleep after toil, port after stormy seas, Ease after war, death after life, doth greatly please. The fear of death is, after all, an imaginary terror; and those whose lives are good need never fear it. Many have longed for it, and welcomed it with gratitude. The deaths of many great and good men abundantly illustrate this. Alexander Cruden, the author of the Concordance, was found dead on his knees, while in the attitude of prayer. Petrarch died quietly in his library, leaning upon a book. Leibnitz was found dead in his chamber, with a volume in his hand. Gesner, when near his last moments, desired that he might be carried into his library, where he expired in the midst of his books. Dr. Haller was watching his pulse in his last moments, and turning to his friends, he said,-"The artery ceases to beat," and expired. Lucan died reciting verses from his Pharsalia. Judge Talfourd's

Many of the last words of our great men have been very characteristic.

Daniel Webster was lying quite unconscious on his death-bed, when suddenly he broke forth in a piercing voice, which reached the farthest corner of the house, " Life! life! Death! death! How curious it is !"

Neander, the German theologian, died of a kind of cholera. After his seizure he suffered a day or two's pain, which was followed by a quiet interval, when his physicians hoped for his recovery. During this interval he dictated a page in his Church History, and then said to his sister, "Let us go home." These were his last words.

When Nieubhr was far gone, and in extreme danger, a potent medicine was given to him. Shortly after he said, "What essential substance is this? Am I so far gone?" He spoke no more. When Fichte's son approached him with medicine, in his last moments, he answered, "Leave it alone; I need no more medicine; I feel that I am well." He then went to sleep, and slept on. The last words that Richter could utter were, on touching a wreath of flowers that a lady had sent to him, "My beautiful flowers, my lovely flowers !" The words he had uttered just before these were, " It is time to go to

rest."

Byron's last words were, "I must sleep now;" Goeth's, "Light! more light Tasso's, "Into thy hands, O Lord!" Burn's last concern was, lest the

Dumfries volunteers should honor him with a salvo, for he said, "Don't let that awkward squad fire over my grave." When Schiller was dying he was asked how he felt; "Calmer, and calmer," was his reply. And shortly after he looked up with a lively air and said. “ Many things are growing plain and clear to me." And then he closed his eyes in the sleep from which there is no awakening.

Haydn's dying words were, "God preserve the Emperor,"—the name of one of his grandest airs. Mozart's last work was his Requiem, which was sung around his death-bed: and his last words were these, as he looked over its pages, with tears in his eyes, Did I not tell you that I was writing this for myself?"

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Among the ever-memorable words of great men spoken on their death-beds, are those of Johnson, "Live well!" Sir Walter Scott, who addressed these to his son-in-law," Be virtuous, be religious, be a good man; nothing else can give you any com

But, in the death-scene of Falstaff, described by Dame Quickly, Shakspeare gives the signs of death so accurately, that we have heard the passage quoted | death was most characteristic. His last words were fort when you come to lie here." Sir Walter by a lecturer on physiology, as entirely characteris- the enforcemement of sympathy between the richer tic of the parting scene in many instances: "A made a finer end, and went away, an it had been any Christom child; 'a parted even just between twelve and one, e'en at turning o' the tide; for after I saw him fumble with the sheets, and play with flowers, and smile upon his fingers' ends, I knew there was but one way, for his nose was as sharp as a pen; and 'a babbled of green fields," &c.

If it be true, as Dr. Fletcher was of opinion, that at the moment of dying, the mind is occasionally in so exalted a state that an almost instantaneous survey is taken of the whole of a past life, we can then easily understand the horrors that haunted the mind of Charles XIV. of France on his death-bed, who fancied that he still heard the groans of his subjects, who were massacred on St. Bartholomew's day.

Raleigh's was fine. When the executioner told him and poorer classes of society, and he was carried to lie down at the block with his head to the east, from off the bench into an adjoining room, where he he said, "No matter how the head lie, so that the expired. Roscommon was repeating two lines from heart be right." Sir Philip Sidney's last act was as his own Dies ira, when he died. Addison called noble as his whole life was. When lying wounded his dissolute son-in-law to his bedside, that he might on the fatal field of Zutphen, he caught the eye of a see "with what tranquility a Christian could die." dying soldier fixed on the water at which his own Nicolas Gogol, one of the most distinguished of parched lips were placed, "Take it," said he, "thy modern Russian authors, died not long ago, and just before breathing his last he exclaimed, "Ah! if people knew how pleasant it is to die, they would not fear death." Unlike Gogol, who regarded his past writings as a deadly sin, and unlike Tasso, whose dying request to Cardinal Cynthia was that his poetical works might be collected and burnt,-unlike them, Chaucer died ballad-making; Bede died dictating; Herder died writing an Ode to the Deity, his pen upon the last line.

need is greater than mine." There spoke the hero as well as the poet. Somewhat similar in character were the dying words of the hero of Corunna. When the surgeons hurried to his aid, Sir John Moore said, " You can be of no service to me; go to the soldiers to whom you can be useful; I am beyond your skill.”

Of great royal sayings, one of the royalest was that of Gustavus Adolphus, when found mortally wounded by his enemies on the field of battle, “ I

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