In the afternoon of the same day, in company with the Crafts, I took a drive to Dryburgh Abbey.  It is a ruin of little interest, except as being the burial place of Scott.  The poet lies buried in St. Mary’s Aisle.  His grave is in the left transept of the cross, and close to where the high altar formerly stood.  Sir Walter Scott chose his own grave, and he could not have selected a sunnier spot if he had roamed the wide world over.  A shaded window breaks the sun as it falls upon his grave.  The ivy is creeping and clinging wherever it can, as if it would shelter the poet’s grave from the weather.  The author lies between his wife and eldest son, and there is only room enough for one grave more, and the son’s wife has the choice of being buried here.

The four o’clock train took us to Hawick; and after a pleasant visit in this place, and the people registering their names against American Slavery, and the Fugitive Bill in particular, we set out for Carlisle, passing through the antique town of Langholm.  After leaving the latter place, we had to travel by coach.  But no matter how one travels here, he travels at a more rapid rate than in America.  The distance from Langholm to Carlisle, twenty miles, occupied only two and a-half hours in the journey.  It was a cold day and I had to ride on the outside, as the inside had been taken up.  We changed horses, and took in and put out passengers with a rapidity which seems almost incredible.  The road was as smooth as a mirror.

We bid farewell to Scotland, as we reached the little town of Gretna Green.  This town being on the line between England and Scotland, is noted as the place where a little cross-eyed, red-faced blacksmith, by the name of Priestly, first set up his own altar to Hymen, and married all who came to him, without regard to rank or station, and at prices to suit all.  It was worth a ride through this part of the country, if for no other purpose than to see the town where more clandestine marriages have taken place than in any other part in the world.  A ride of eight or nine miles brought us in sight of the Eden, winding its way slowly through a beautiful valley, with farms on either side, covered with sheep and cattle.  Four very tall chimneys, sending forth dense columns of black smoke, announced to us that we were near Carlisle.  I was really glad of this, for Ulysses was never more tired of the shores of Ilion than I of the top of that coach.

We remained over night at Carlisle, partaking of the hospitality of the prince of bakers, and left the next day for the Lakes, where we had a standing invitation to pay a visit to a distinguished literary lady.  A cold ride of about fifty miles brought us to the foot of Lake Windermere, a beautiful sheet of water, surrounded by mountains that seemed to vie with each other which should approach nearest the sky.  The margin of the lake is carved out and built up into terrace above terrace, until the slopes and windings