asins, is in the world of humanity. We look upon both with a
species of admiration, as contrasts with objects whose worth is
measured by the comparison. The Empress Eugenie and the Princess of
Wales, and wives and sisters lovelier still to the circles of humble
life, look more beautiful and graceful when the eye turns to them
from a glance at the best-looking squaw of the North American wilds.
And so looked the well-dressed hills on each side of the Teviot,
compared with the uncultured and stunted mountains among which I had
so recently walked.

Ascending from Teviotdale, I passed the Earl of Minto's seat, a
large and modern-looking mansion, surrounded with beautiful grounds
and noble trees, and commanding a grand and picturesque view of
valley and mountain from an excellent point of observation. As soon
as I lost sight of Teviotdale another grand vista of golden and
purpled hills and rich valleys burst upon my sight as suddenly as
theatrical sceneries are shifted on the stage. Dined in a little,
rural, unpoetical village bearing the name of Lilliesleaf. Resuming
my walk, I soon came in sight of the grand valley of the Tweed, a
great basin of natural beauty, holding, as it were, Scotland's
"apples of gold in pictures of silver." Every step commanded some
new feature of interest. Here on the left arose to the still, blue
bosom of the sky the three great Eildon Hills, with their heads
crowned with heather as with an emerald diadem. The sun is low, and
the far-off village in the valley shows dimly between the daylight
and darkness. There is the shadow of a broken edifice, broken but
grand, that arises out of the midst of the low houses. A little
farther on, arches, and the stone vein-work of glassless windows,
and ivy-netted towers come out more distinctly. I recognise them at
the next furlong. They stand thus in pictures hung up in the
parlors of thousands of common homes in America, Australia and
India. They are the ruins of Melrose Abbey. Here is the original
of the picture. I see it at last, as thousands of Americans have
seen it before. In history and association it is to them the
Westminster Abbey of Scotland, but in ruin. It looks natural,
though not at first glance what one expected. The familiar
engraving does not give us the real flesh and blood of the
antiquity, or the complexion of the stone; but it does not
exaggerate the exquisite symmetries and artistic genius of the
structure. These tru