To the memory of
    Ann JEWSON Crisp
    Who departed this life
    Deeply lamented, Jan. 20, 1889. 
    Also,
    Her dog, Emperor.

Beneath these tender lines is a bas-relief of as vicious-looking a cur as ever evaded the dog-tax.

Continuing up the avenue, past this monument just noted, the kind old gardener will show you another that stands amid others much more pretentious—­a small gray-granite column, and on it, carved in small letters, you read: 

    “Of those immortal dead who live again
    In minds made better by their presence.”

    Here rests the body of
    “George Eliot”
    (Mary Ann cross)
    Born 22 November, 1819. 
    Died 22 December, 1880.

THOMAS CARLYLE

One comfort is that great men taken up in any way are profitable company.  We can not look, however imperfectly, upon a great man without gaining something by it.  He is the living fountain of life, which it is pleasant to be near.  On any terms whatsoever you will not grudge to wander in his neighborhood for a while.

    —­Heroes and Hero-Worship

[Illustration:  Thomas Carlyle]

While on my way to Dumfries I stopped overnight at Gretna Green, which, as all fair maidens know, is in Scotland just over the border from England.

To my delight I found that the coming of runaway couples to Gretna Green was not entirely a matter of the past, for the very evening I arrived a blushing pair came to the inn and inquired for a “meenister.”  The ladye faire was a little stout and the worthy swain several years older than my fancy might have wished, but still I did not complain.

The landlord’s boy was dispatched to the rectory around the corner and soon returned with the reverend gentleman.

I was an uninvited guest in the little parlor, but no one observed that my wedding-garment was only a cycling costume, and I was not challenged.

After the ceremony, the several other witnesses filed past the happy couple, congratulating them and kissing the bride.

I did likewise, and was greeted with a resounding smack which surprised me a bit, but I managed to ask, “Did you run away?”

“Noo,” said the groom; “noo, her was a widdie—­we just coom over fram Ecclefechan”; then, lowering his voice to a confidential whisper, “We’re goin’ baack on the morrow.  It’s cheaper thaan to ha’ a big, spread weddin’.”

This answer banished all tender sentiment from me and made useless my plans for a dainty love-story, but I seized upon the name of the place whence they came.

“Ecclefechan!  Ecclefechan!  Why that’s where Carlyle was born!”

“Aye, sir, and he’s buried there; a great mon he was—­but an infideel.”