ious fame
Is spread throughout ye world.--A.C.M.D. 1516."

In the yard, to the right of the doorway of the mansion, we saw the
figure of Scott's favorite dog Maida, with a Latin inscription--

"Maidae marmorea dormis sub imagine, Maida,
Ad januam domini: sit tibi terra levis."

Which in our less expressive English we might render--

At thy lord's door, in slumbers light and blest,
Maida, beneath this marble Maida, rest:
Light lie the turf upon thy gentle breast.

One of the most endearing traits of Scott was that sympathy and harmony
which always existed between him and the brute creation.

Poor Maida seemed cold and lonely, washed by the rain in the damp grass
plat. How sad, yet how expressive is the scriptural phrase for
indicating death! "He shall return to his house no more, neither shall
his place know him any more." And this is what all our homes are coming
to; our buying, our planting, our building, our marrying and giving in
marriage, our genial firesides and dancing children, are all like so
many figures passing through the magic lantern, to be put out at last in
death.

The grounds, I was told, are full of beautiful paths and seats, favorite
walks and lounges of the poet; but the obdurate pertinacity of the rain
compelled us to choose the very shortest path possible to the carriage.
I picked a leaf of the Portugal laurel, which I send you.

Next we were driven to Dryburgh, or rather to the banks of the Tweed,
where a ferryman, with a small skiff waits to take passengers over.

The Tweed is a clear, rippling river, with a white, pebbly bottom, just
like our New England mountain streams. After we landed we were to walk
to the Abbey. Our feet were damp and cold, and our boatman invited us to
his cottage. I found him and all his family warmly interested in the
fortunes of Uncle Tom and his friends, and for his sake they received me
as a long-expected friend. While I was sitting by the ingleside,--that
is, a coal grate,--warming my feet, I fell into conversation with my
host. He and his family, I noticed, spoke English more than Scotch; he
was an intelligent young man, in appearance and style of mind precisely
what you might expect to meet in a cottage in Maine. He and all the
household, even the old grandmother, had read Uncle Tom's Cabin, and
were perfectly familiar with all its details. He told me that it had
been universally read in the cottages in the vicinity. I judged from his
mode o