Among the curiosities in the Armory are Napoleon’s pistols, the blunderbuss of Hofer, Rob Roy’s purse and gun, and the 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.  His 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 Abbotsford, embosomed among the trees, and turned into a green lane that led down to Melrose.  We went immediately to the Abbey, in the lower part of the village, near the Tweed.  As I approached the gate, the porteress came out, and having scrutinized me rather sharply, asked my name.  I told her;—­“well,” she added, “there is a prospect here for you.”  Thinking she alluded to the ruin, I replied:  “Yes, the view is certainly very fine.”  “Oh!  I don’t mean that,” she replied, “a young gentleman left a prospect here for you!”—­whereupon she brought out a spy-glass, which I recognized us one that our German comrade had given to me.  He had gone on, and hoped to meet us at Jedburgh.

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: