During the day, we paid a visit to Abbotsford, the splendid mansion of the late Sir Walter Scott, Bart.  This beautiful seat is situated on the banks of the Tweed, just below its junction with the Gala Water.  It is a dreary looking spot, and the house from the opposite side of the river has the appearance of a small, low castle.  In a single day’s ride through England, one may see half a dozen cottages larger than Abbotsford House.  I was much disappointed in finding the premises undergoing repairs and alterations, and that all the trees between the house and the river had been cut down.  This is to be regretted the more, because they were planted, nearly every one of them, by the same hand that waved its wand of enchantment over the world.  The fountain had been removed from where it had been placed by the hands of the Poet to the centre of the yard; and even a small stone that had been placed over the favourite dog “Percy,” had been taken up and thrown among some loose stones.  One visits Abbotsford because of the genius of the man that once presided over it.  Everything connected with the great Poet is of interest to his admirers, and anything altered or removed, tends to diminish that interest.  We entered the house, and were conducted through the great Hall, which is hung all round with massive armour of all descriptions, and other memorials of ancient times.  The floor is of white and black marble.  In passing through the hall, we entered a narrow arched room, stretching quite across the building, having a window at each end.  This little or rather narrow room is filled with all kinds of armour, which is arranged with great taste.  We were next shown into the Dining-room, whose roof is of black oak, richly carved.  In this room is a painting of the head of Queen Mary, in a charger, taken the day after the execution.  Many other interesting portraits grace the walls of this room.  But by far the finest apartment in the building is the Drawing-room, with a lofty ceiling, and furnished with antique ebony furniture.  After passing through the Library, with its twenty thousand volumes, we found ourselves in the Study, and I sat down in the same chair where once sat the Poet; while before me was the table upon which was written the “Lady of the Lake,” “Waverley,” and other productions of this gifted writer.  The clothes last worn by the Poet were shown to us.  There was the broad skirted blue coat, with its large buttons, the plaid trousers, the heavy shoes, the black vest and white hat.  These were all in a glass case, and all looked the poet and novelist.  But the inside of the buildings had undergone alterations as well as the outside.  In passing through the Library, we saw a granddaughter of the Poet.  She was from London, and was only on a visit of a few days.  She looked pale and dejected, and seemed as if she longed to leave this secluded spot and return to the metropolis.  She looked for all the world like a hothouse plant.  I don’t think the Scotch could do better than to purchase Abbotsford, while it has some imprint of the great magician, and secure its preservation; for I am sure that, a hundred years hence, no place will be more frequently visited in Scotland than the home of the late Sir Walter Scott.  After sauntering three hours about the premises, I left, but not without feeling that I had been well paid for my trouble in visiting Abbotsford.