the
family circle. Fortunately, however, for the poet, his fame by no means
rests on this unequal mixture of the humorous, the beautiful, and the
vulgar; and instead of admiring Tam O'Shanter's bridge itself, it is
much more pleasant to stand upon it, and gaze therefrom at the river
which laves the 'banks and braes o' bonnie Doon'--at the fields
besprinkled with the 'wee, crimsoned-tipped flower'--at the cottages
where once lived the 'auld acquaintance' of 'lang syne,' and where
occurred the scenes of 'The Cotter's Saturday Night.' 'Highland Mary'
has crossed this bridge, and this sanctifies it far more than the
imaginary terrors of Tam O'Shanter.

An hour's railway ride takes the tourist from the land of Burns to the
scenes rendered sacred by the genius of Scott.

Abbotsford, the favorite home, of course is still open to visitors, who
are hurried though it with the most disgusting celerity, by the guide
engaged by the family to 'do'--at a shilling a head--the hospitalities
of the place. The home of Scott retains all the characteristics it did
when he died; but is shown in such a heartless, museum-like manner, that
the visitor need not expect much gratification from the inspection.

A few miles farther up the Tweed is Ashetiel, the former home of Walter
Scott, a place seldom seen by tourists, though here he wrote his finest
poems. Some time ago I was invited to spend a night with a farmer who
resides on the estate. Those who have read Washington Irving's graphic
description of his visit to Abbotsford, will remember Mr. Laidlaw, of
whom he thus writes:

'One of my pleasant rambles with Scott, about the neighborhood of
Abbotsford, was taken in company with Mr. William Laidlaw, the steward
of his estate. This was a gentleman for whom Scott entertained a
particular value. He had been born to a competency, had been well
educated; his mind was richly stored with varied information, and he
was a man of sterling moral worth. Having been reduced by misfortune,
Scott had got him to take charge of his estate. He lived at a small farm
on the hillside above Abbotsford, and was treated by Scott as a
cherished and confidential friend, rather than a dependant.' My worthy
host was the son of this old gentleman, who is still alive and in good
health. Several years ago he emigrated to Australia, where he now
resides, still taking a lively interest in literary affairs, and
reading, though an octogenarian, all the new works, that are r