As to the external appearance of Abbotsford, it is as irregular as can well be imagined.  There are gables, and pinnacles, and spires, and balconies, and buttresses any where and every where, without rhyme or reason; for wherever the poet wanted a balcony, he had it; or wherever he had a fragment of carved stone, or a bit of historic tracery, to put in, he made a shrine for it forthwith, without asking leave of any rules.  This I take to be one of the main advantages of Gothic architecture; it is a most catholic and tolerant system, and any kind of eccentricity may find refuge beneath its mantle.

Here and there, all over the house, are stones carved with armorial bearings and pious inscriptions, inserted at random wherever the poet fancied.  Half way up the wall in one place is the door of the old Tolbooth at Edinburgh, with the inscription over it, “The Lord of armeis is my protector; blissit ar thay that trust in the Lord. 1575.”

A doorway at the west end of the house is composed of stones which formed the portal of the Tolbooth, given to Sir Walter on the pulling down of the building in 1817.

On the east side of the house is a rude carving of a sword with the words, “Up with ye, sutors of Selkyrke.  A.D. 1525.”  Another inscription, on the same side of the house, runs thus:—­

  “By night, by day, remember ay
    The goodness of ye Lord;
  And thank his name, whose glorious fame
    Is spread throughout ye world.—­A.C.M.D. 1516.”

In the yard, to the right of the doorway of the mansion, we saw the figure of Scott’s favorite dog Maida, with a Latin inscription—­

  “Maidae marmorea dormis sub imagine, Maida,
  Ad januam domini:  sit tibi terra levis.”

Which in our less expressive English we might render—­

  At thy lord’s door, in slumbers light and blest,
  Maida, beneath this marble Maida, rest: 
  Light lie the turf upon thy gentle breast.

One of the most endearing traits of Scott was that sympathy and harmony which always existed between him and the brute creation.

Poor Maida seemed cold and lonely, washed by the rain in the damp grass plat.  How sad, yet how expressive is the scriptural phrase for indicating death!  “He shall return to his house no more, neither shall his place know him any more.”  And this is what all our homes are coming to; our buying, our planting, our building, our marrying and giving in marriage, our genial firesides and dancing children, are all like so many figures passing through the magic lantern, to be put out at last in death.

The grounds, I was told, are full of beautiful paths and seats, favorite walks and lounges of the poet; but the obdurate pertinacity of the rain compelled us to choose the very shortest path possible to the carriage.  I picked a leaf of the Portugal laurel, which I send you.

Next we were driven to Dryburgh, or rather to the banks of the Tweed, where a ferryman, with a small skiff waits to take passengers over.