Ettrick and Yarrow, made known far and wide as the English tongue travels by the songs of Hogg and the sonnets of Wordsworth, lie contiguous with their wild hills, and are plainly seen from Abbotsford. Before we reach Dryburgh, the Tweed, which is here a trout stream, swift and clear, must be crossed. As we rowed over, we observed an odd anchor in the midst of the stream, staying by its human grip a skiff in which a nobleman who owned the fishery was standing, swishing his pole and letting out his gossamer line after the most approved custom of Izaak Walton, and totally unconscious of the shivering servant, nearly up to his arms in the cold water, who moved the boat at the pleasure of his lord. But did not that servant watch anxiously for glorious nibbles or sundown?

The abbey at Dryburgh is hid in a wood, and is approached through an orchard. It is very ancient, having been founded during the reign of David I. by the Lord of Lauderdale. The spot was once a worship-grove of the Druids. Lying near the border, it has been subject to the harshest vicissitudes of border wars. Its ruins are very extensive. It has one charm which no other ruin possesses: a large star-window perfectly preserved, high up in a wall which is entirely enclad in ivy, and leaving only this gem of stone and sky, like a sapphire brooch, clasping the glistening drapery of green investing the ruin, all too beautiful for the corrosion of Time.

On the twenty-sixth of September, 1832, a solemn procession moved over this eminently beautiful spot, and under these verdurous arches, bearing the remains of the greatest of the name which appears so frequently upon the grave-stones of the abbey. Mourning no common loss, they heavily carry the bier down the grassy aisle of St. Mary; and soon, with holy rite and sad hearts, the body of WALTER SCOTT is committed to the earth to mingle with the common mould, surrounded by his ancestry and the ancient proprietors of the abbey. But Marmion, Waverley, Ivanhoe and Old Mortality were not interred in Dryburgh upon that day. They form a part of the deathless spirit and creative mind of him who shed at once so much lustre upon his country's legends and history, and so much benignity upon mankind. We gathered a twig of ivy near his tomb, and added one more link to the chain of kindred thoughts, which already contains the resting-places of Shelley, Keats, Virgil, and the kings and princes of song who rule from the urns of Westminster Abbey.

The ruins of Dryburgh are fast decaying. But the granite slab which covers the remains of Sir Walter looks fresh and new. On either side are his wife and only son, and the tombs of all three are enclosed in an iron railing. They are ivy-clad and deeply embowered in a shade which is worthy of its Druidical dedication in the olden time.

Dryburgh was the refuge of Edward II., after his unsuccessful invasion of Scotland. The vault once haunted by the familiar spirit known as Fatlips, that attended the female wanderer who once sought refuge here, is still shown. She had made a vow that she never would see the light of day until her lover returned. She only left her vault by night to procure the means of subsistence. A statue of Wallace occupies a prominent spot in the wood above the abbey. As we cross the stream again,

the fine monument on the battle-field of Penuelheugh appears, which, like the triple-topped mountain cleft by the wizard Michael Scott, follows us far toward Kelso. Our ride down sweet Teviotdale during the setting of the sun (and a lustrous setting it was, gorgeous in cloud-gold!) was by many ancient seats of power and pleasure, and over many spots rich in legendary lore and historic interest. The meagre remnant of Roxburgh castle, upon a commanding hill near the road, overlooked the romantic river. A holly tree near still marks the spot where James II. was killed, while besieging the castle. The Duke of Roxburgh resides in the splendid palace of Fleurs, a stately specimen of the Tudor style, which rises from a sloping lawn that runs up from the opposite bank of the stream, not far from where the Teviot mingles with the Tweed.

Castles and abbeys become common before we reach Berwick, and even after we leave it for Newcastle, upon the 'coaly Tyne.' Between Newcastle and Thirsk, amid the country of coal-pits, an apparition strange, yet beautiful, appeared upon a distant hill. It was a Grecian

temple, not far from Aycliffe. How finely its rounded columns and proportionate entablature rested against the sky! An extended ride still kept its classic elegance in view; and it will be a long, long time before the vision of that temple will fade from our memory of northern England. That temple in the smoky landscape became a reminder of classic lands. It was like what was it like? A jewel in an Ethiop's ear; an hexameter from Virgil in the dry black-letter of an old law tome.

We have unavoidably omitted much of the descriptive which belongs to the valley of the Tweed, which cultivated hills and dimpled lawns, great bridges and time-gnarled forests, combine to diversify and grace. The rail road hurries us to Ripon, through a country where monuments to England's material greatness arise in the form of tall chimneys, and locomotives dash, with a white scarf floating behind, almost at every point of the compass. We frequently counted six or eight playing over the land at once. What will not iron and coal do for a little island? Our object in coming to Ripon was to see the most extensive abbey-ruin in Great Britain. It is upon the property of the Earl of Grey, and accessible to strangers. It is like those I have described, but with a difference. It is approached through an extensive park, in which profuse art has adorned nature, by changing her trees into vaulted aisles, her waters into swan-peopled lakes, and her lawns into spreads of loveliest verdure. Statues are seen ranged through vistas. Laurel banks, neatly trimmed, line the paths. Water-falls murmur in the quiet air. Soon the extensive ruins are seen, of course ivy-garlanded, with towers of immense size and altitude, and arches underground, between which the stream sullenly complains. Dungeons with iron fastenings are visible, not far from the long range of cloisters where the monks studied and walked. The great chimneys and fire-places, yet showing marks of the culinary caloric, are to be seen; while near by, upon a portal stone, are carved the arms of the abbey, which are three horse-shoes-emblems of good luck, and talismanic to keep the witches away. The nave and transept were very extensive, nd finely preserved. But every where the hand of sacrilegious Decay is at work, despoiling window and niche of figure and strength; while Time has sown his grass-seed gently over the tessellated

floor, which now yields to the traveller's tread, as he passes through this great home of the monkish multitude, and in fancy re-peoples it with singing choir and praying priests, all ruled by the baronial abbot and his

men-at-arms.

By Knaresborough, and the Dropping Well, we seek this capital of Yorkshire, and have spent our Sabbath in enjoying its repose and pencilling our journeyings. We are ready once more to gather our robes about us, and trudge on to other scenes. But the three abbeys and Abbotsford must ever be our land-marks by which to tell the high tide of our pleasure and our progress through the Borders.

What is the influence which remains, now that our eyes have feasted upon ruin and landscape, and our minds have recalled the associations with which they are fraught? Now that the pleasure-loving and curious propensity has been gratified, what permanent good has been engrafted upon the immortal nature, by thus moving amid the beauties of nature and of art, under the twilight of antiquity? Are these objects but the chance scribblings and frolicsome creations of the dead past, meaningless and indifferent in this present time? Is there no lesson of beauty to be learned from a perception and a study of these Gothic piles, in the witchery of their ruins? Comes there no admonition to patience and devotion, as we recall from their graves the form of monk and friar, and think how, day after day, and night after night, they fought within the cloister the logomachies of Aristotle, under the command of Scotus or Aquinas? Oh, yes! Here, in these homes of the studious and learned, there burned altars to truth and goodness, although their fires were dim and sepulchral. When all else was ignorance profound, with vestal vigilance the light was kept bright, until it burst into the full radiance of a better civilization. When baronial insolence ruled its serfs with iron sway, and ran riot in the worst passions of our sinful nature, there was found in these abbeys a refuge, where peace and good-will hedged the innocent round about with protection, and where the religion of JESUS kindled its hope of celestial beatitude high and aloof from the troubles and turmoils of the world.

SAMUEL 8. Cox.

THE

ISLE OF LIFE: AN

EXTRACT.

OPENING the map of God's expansive plan,
We find a little isle, this life of man:
Eternity's unknown expanse appears
Circling around, and limiting his years.
The busy race examine and explore

Each creek and cavern of the dangerous shore;
With care collect what in their eyes excels,
Some shining pebbles, and some weeds and shells;
Then, laden, dream that they are rich and great,
And happiest he that groans beneath his weight.
The waves o'ertake them in their serious play,
And every hour sweeps multitudes away:
They shriek and sink-survivors start and weep,
Pursue their sport, and follow to the deep.

THE JACOBIN

OF PARIS.

I.

Ho, St. Antoine! ho, St. Antoine! thou quarter of the poor,
Arise with all thy households, and pour them from their door;
Rouse thy attics and thy garrets! rouse cellar, cell, and cave!
Rouse over-worked and over-taxed, the starving and the slave!

II.

'Canaille!' ay, we remember it, that word of dainty scorn
They flung us from their chariots, the high and haughty born.
Canaille canaille! ay, here we throng, and we will show to-night
How ungloved hand, with pike and brand, can help itself to right.

III.

It was a July evening, and the summer moon shone fair,
When first the people rose, in the grandeur of despair;
But not for greed, or gain, or gold, to plunder or to steal:
We spared the gorgeous Tuileries we levelled the Bastille.

IV.

A little year, we met once more yea, 'canaille' met that day,
In the very heart of his Versailles, to beard the man CAPET;
And we brought him back to Paris, in a measured train and slow,
And we shouted to his face for BARNAVE and MIRABEAU.

V.

Ho, CONDE, Wert thou coming with thy truant chevaliers,
Didst thou swear they should avenge the Austrian wanton's tears?
Ho, ARTOIS, art thou arming, for England's ceaseless pay,
Thy Brunswickers, and Hessians, and brigands of Vendée ?

VI.

Come, then, with every hireling, Sclave, Croat, and Cossack:
We dare your war,
beware of ours; we fling your freedom back.
What, Tyrants, did you menace us? Now tremble for your own!
You have heard the glorious tidings of Valney and Argonne!

VII.

How like the Greek of olden time, who in the self-same hour
At Platea and at Mycale twice crushed the invader's power,
So we had each our victory, and each our double pay,
DUMOURIEZ With the stranger, and we at the Abbaye.

VIII.

Oh! but it was a glorious hour, that ne'er again may be ;

It was a night of fierce delight we never more shall see.

That blood-stained floor, that foes' red gore, the rich and ruddy wine, And the strong sense all felt within our work it was divine!

IX.

They knew that men were brothers, but in their lust they trod
On the lessons of their priests, and the warnings of their GoD;
They knew that men were brothers, but they heeded not the LORD,
So we taught them the great truth anew, with fire and with sword.

X.

Oh! but it was a glorious hour, that vengeance that we wreaked,
When the mighty knelt for pardon, and the great in anguish shrieked!
But we jeered them for their little hearts, and mocked their selfish fears,
For we thought the while of all their crimes, of twice five hundred years.

ΧΙ.

He used to laugh at justice, that gay aristocrat,

He used to scoff at mercy, but he knelt to us for that!
But with untiring hate we struck, and as our victim fell,
He heard to hear them echoed soon-1 the cries and jests of hell.

XII.

Ho, St. Antoine, arouse thee now! Ho, brave Septembrists all!
The tocsin rings, as then it rung! arise unto its call!

For the true friend of the people, and our own Père DUCHENE,
Have told us they have need of the people's arms again.

XIII.

For the Gironde hath turned traitor, and the Moderates have sold
The hard-earned rights of HOCHE's nights, for promise of PITT's gold;
And the pedant and the upstart, as upstart only can,

Have dared deride, in lettered pride, the plain and working man.

XIV.

What, we who burst the bondage our fathers bore so long
That Oppression had seemed sacred in its venerable wrong;
What, we who have out-spoken, and the whole world obeyed,
With its princes and its monarchs, on their high thrones afraid:

XV.

What, we who broke that mighty yoke, shall we quail before BRISSOT !
And shall we bow to him, as lowly as he would have us low?
And shall we learn the courtier's lisp, and shall we cringe and sue
To the lily hand of fair ROLAND, like love-sick BARBAROUX?

XVI.

No; by great HEAVEN! We have not riven the mighty chains of old,
The state-craft and the priest-craft, and the grandeur and the gold,
To be ground down by doctrines, to be crushed by forms and schools,
To starve upon their corn-laws, but to live upon their rules.

No; if we must have leaders, they like ourselves shall be,

Who have struggled and have conquered with single hearts and free:
Who do not ape the noble, nor affect the noble's air;

With TALLIEN for a RICHELIEU and LOUVET for VOLTAIRE.

XVIII.

No; we will have such leaders as the Roman Tribunes were:
COUTHON, and young ST. JUST, and simple ROBEspierre.

Now glory to their garrets, it is nobler far to own

Than the fair half-hundred palaces, and the Carlovingian throne.

XIX.

And glory to the thousand proofs that day by day they give
Of some great end to which they tend, those solemn lives they live;
When the Monarch and the Anarch alike shall pass away,

And morn shall break, and man awake, in the light of a fairer day.