ady remarked, that if we did not get home by five o'clock "the
chops might be spoiled."

As we all were packed into a tight coach, the rain still pouring, I
began to wish mute Nature would not be quite so energetic in distilling
her tears. A few sprinkling showers, or a graceful wreath of mist, might
be all very well; but a steady, driving rain, that obliged us to shut up
the carriage windows, and coated them with mist so that we could not
look out, why, I say it is enough to put out the fire of sentiment in
any heart. We might as well have been rolled up in a bundle and carried
through the country, for all the seeing it was possible to do under such
circumstances. It, therefore, should be stated, that we did keep bravely
up in our poetic zeal, which kindly Mrs. W. also reenforced, by
distributing certain very delicate sandwiches to support the outer man.

At length, the coach stopped at the entrance of Abbotsford grounds,
where there was a cottage, out of which, due notice being given, came a
trim, little old woman in a black gown, with pattens on; she put up her
umbrella, and we all put up ours; the rain poured harder than ever as we
went dripping up the gravel walk, looking much, I inly fancied, like a
set of discomforted fowls fleeing to covert. We entered the great court
yard, surrounded with a high wall, into which were built sundry
fragments of curious architecture that happened to please the poet's
fancy.

I had at the moment, spite of the rain, very vividly in my mind
Washington Irving's graceful account of his visit to Abbotsford while
this house was yet building, and the picture which he has given of
Walter Scott sitting before his door, humorously descanting on various
fragments of sculpture, which lay scattered about, and which he intended
to immortalize by incorporating into his new dwelling.

Viewed as a mere speculation, or, for aught I know, as an architectural
effort, this building may, perhaps, be counted as a mistake and a
failure. I observe, that it is quite customary to speak of it, among
some, as a pity that he ever undertook it. But viewed as a development
of his inner life, as a working out in wood and stone of favorite
fancies and cherished ideas, the building has to me a deep interest. The
gentle-hearted poet delighted himself in it; this house was his stone
and wood poem, as irregular, perhaps, and as contrary to any established
rule, as his Lay of the Last Minstrel, but still wild and poe