In ruder ages these places were the only retreat for men of a spirit too gentle to take force and bloodshed for their life’s work; men who believed that pen and parchment were better than sword and steel.  Here I suppose multitudes of them lived harmless, dreamy lives—­reading old manuscripts, copying and illuminating new ones.

It is said that this Melrose is of very ancient origin, extending back to the time of the Culdees, the earliest missionaries who established religion in Scotland, and who had a settlement in this vicinity.  However, a royal saint, after a while, took it in hand to patronize, and of course the credit went to him, and from, him Scott calls it “St. David’s lonely pile.”  In time a body of Cistercian monks were settled there.

According to all accounts the abbey has raised some famous saints.  We read of trances, illuminations, and miraculous beatifications; and of one abbot in particular, who exhibited the odor of sanctity so strongly that it is said the mere opening of his grave, at intervals, was sufficient to perfume the whole establishment with odors of paradise.  Such stories apart, however, we must consider that for all the literature, art, and love of the beautiful, all the humanizing influences which hold society together, the world was for many ages indebted to these monastic institutions.

In the reformation, this abbey was destroyed amid the general storm, which attacked the ecclesiastical architecture of Scotland.  “Pull down the nest, and the rooks will fly away,” was the common saying of the mob; and in those days a man was famous according as he had lifted up axes upon the carved work.

Melrose was considered for many years merely a stone quarry, from which materials were taken for all sorts of buildings, such as constructing tolbooths, repairing mills and sluices; and it has been only till a comparatively recent period that its priceless value as an architectural remain has led to proper efforts for its preservation.  It is now most carefully kept.

After wandering through the inside we walked out into the old graveyard, to look at the outside.  The yard is full of old, curious, mouldering gravestones; and on one of them there is an inscription sad and peculiar enough to have come from the heart of the architect who planned the abbey; it runs as follows:—­

  “The earth walks on the earth, glittering with gold;
  The earth goes to the earth sooner than it wold;
  The earth, builds on the earth, castles and towers;
  The earth, says to the earth, All shall be ours.”

Here, also, we were interested in a plain marble slab, which marks the last resting-place of Scott’s faithful Tom Purdie, his zealous factotum.  In his diary, when he hears of the wreck of his fortunes, Scott says of this serving man, “Poor Tom Purdie, such news will wring your heart, and many a poor fellow’s beside, to whom my prosperity was daily bread.”