martyr Duke of Argyle, or Hampden, or Sir Harry Vane, where high
birth, and noble breeding, and chivalrous sentiment were all united with
intense devotional fervor, the answer is, that he could not do it; he
had not that in him wherewith to do it; a man cannot create that of
which he has not first had the elements in himself; and devotional
enthusiasm is a thing which Scott never felt. Nevertheless, I believe
that he was perfectly sincere in saying that he would, "if necessary,
die a martyr for Christianity." He had calm, firm principle to any
extent, but it never was kindled into fervor. He was of too calm and
happy a temperament to sound the deepest recesses of souls torn up from
their depths by mighty conflicts and sorrows. There are souls like the
"alabaster vase of ointment, very precious," which shed no perfume of
devotion because a great sorrow has never broken them. Could Scott have
been given back to the world again after the heavy discipline of life
had passed over him, he would have spoken otherwise of many things. What
he vainly struggled to say to Lockhart on his death bed would have been
a new revelation, of his soul to the world, could he have lived to
unfold it in literature. But so it is: when we have learned to live,
life's purpose is answered, and we die!

This is the sum and substance of some conversations held while rambling
among these scenes, going in and out of arches, climbing into nooks and
through loopholes, picking moss and ivy, and occasionally retreating
under the shadow of some arch, while the skies were indulging in a
sudden burst of emotion. The poor woman who acted as our guide,
ensconcing herself in a dry corner, stood like a literal Patience on a
monument, waiting for us to be through; we were sorry for her, but as it
was our first and last chance, and she would stay there, we could not
help it.

Near by the abbey is a square, modern mansion, belonging to the Earl of
Buchan, at present untenanted. There were some black, solemn yew trees
there, old enough to have told us a deal of history had they been
inclined to speak; as it was, they could only drizzle.

As we were walking through the yard, a bird broke out into a clear,
sweet song.

"What bird is that?" said I.

"I think it is the mavis," said the guide. This brought up,--

"The mavis wild, wie mony a note,
Sings drowsy day to rest."

And also,--

"Merry it is in wild green wood,
When mavis and merle are singing