The Tweed is a clear, rippling river, with a white, pebbly bottom, just like our New England mountain streams.  After we landed we were to walk to the Abbey.  Our feet were damp and cold, and our boatman invited us to his cottage.  I found him and all his family warmly interested in the fortunes of Uncle Tom and his friends, and for his sake they received me as a long-expected friend.  While I was sitting by the ingleside,—­that is, a coal grate,—­warming my feet, I fell into conversation with my host.  He and his family, I noticed, spoke English more than Scotch; he was an intelligent young man, in appearance and style of mind precisely what you might expect to meet in a cottage in Maine.  He and all the household, even the old grandmother, had read Uncle Tom’s Cabin, and were perfectly familiar with all its details.  He told me that it had been universally read in the cottages in the vicinity.  I judged from his mode of speaking, that he and his neighbors were in the habit of reading a great deal.  I spoke of going to Dryburgh to see the grave of Scott, and inquired if his works were much read by the common people.  He said that Scott was not so much a favorite with the people as Burns.  I inquired if he took a newspaper.  He said that the newspapers were kept at so high a price that working men were not able to take them; sometimes they got sight of them through clubs, or by borrowing.  How different, thought I, from America, where a workingman would as soon think of going without his bread as without his newspaper!

The cottages of these laboring people, of which there were a whole village along here, are mostly of stone, thatched with straw.  This thatch sometimes gets almost entirely grown over with green moss.  Thus moss-covered was the roof of the cottage where we stopped, opposite to Dryburgh grounds.

There was about this time one of those weeping pauses in the showery sky, and a kind of thinning and edging away of the clouds, which gave hope that perhaps the sun was going to look out, and give to our persevering researches the countenance of his presence.  This was particularly desirable, as the old woman, who came out with her keys to guide us, said she had a cold and a cough:  we begged that she would not trouble herself to go with us at all.  The fact is, with all respect to nice old women, and the worthy race of guides in general, they are not favorable to poetic meditation.  We promised to be very good if she would let us have the key, and lock up all the gates, and bring it back; but no, she was faithfulness itself, and so went coughing along through the dripping and drowned grass to open the gates for us.

This Dryburgh belongs now to the Earl of Buchan, having been bought by him from a family of the name of Haliburton, ancestral connections of Scott, who, in his autobiography, seems to lament certain mischances of fortune which prevented the estate from coming into his own family, and gave them, he said, nothing but the right of stretching their bones there.  It seems a pity, too, because the possession of this rich, poetic ruin would have been a mine of wealth to Scott, far transcending the stateliest of modern houses.