Abbotsford and Newstead Abbey

vehement profession of faith in favor of her immaculate honesty, and then fell dead at the threshold of his own door. His person, his character, his name, his story, and his fate, entitled him to be immortalized in one of Scott’s novels, and I looked to recognize him in some of the succeeding works from his pen; but I looked in vain.
    * * * * *
    After passing by the domains of honest Lauckie, Scott pointed out, at a distance, the Eildon stone. There in ancient days stood the Eildon tree, beneath which Thomas the Rhymer, according to popular tradition, dealt forth his prophecies, some of which still exist in antiquated ballads.
    Here we turned up a little glen with a small burn or brook whimpering and dashing along it, making an occasional waterfall, and overhung in some places with mountain ash and weeping birch. We are now, said Scott, treading classic, or rather fairy ground. This is the haunted glen of Thomas the Rhymer, where he met with the queen of fairy land, and this the bogle burn, or goblin brook, along which she rode on her dapple-gray palfrey, with silver bells ringing at the bridle.
    “Here,” said he, pausing, “is Huntley Bank, on which Thomas the Rhymer lay musing and sleeping when he saw, or dreamt he saw, the queen of Elfland:
    “‘True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank;
A ferlie he spied wi’ his e’e;
And there he saw a ladye bright,
Come riding down by the Eildon tree.
    “‘Her skirt was o’ the grass-green silk,
Her mantle o’ the velvet fyne;
At ilka tett of her horse’s mane
Hung fifty siller bells and nine.’”
    Here Scott repeated several of the stanzas and recounted the circumstance of Thomas the Rhymer’s interview with the fairy, and his being transported by her to fairy land—
    “And til seven years were gone and past,
True Thomas on earth was never seen.”
    “It’s a fine old story,” said he, “and might be wrought up into a capital tale.”
    Scott continued on, leading the way as usual, and limping up the wizard glen, talking as he went, but, as his back was toward me, I could only hear the deep growling tones of his voice, like the low breathing of an organ, without distinguishing the words, until pausing, and turning his face toward me, I found he was reciting some scrap of border minstrelsy about Thomas the Rhymer. This was continually the case in my ramblings with him about this storied neighborhood. His mind was fraught with the traditionary fictions connected with every object around him, and he would breathe it forth as he went, apparently as much for his own gratification as for that of his companion.
    “Nor hill, nor brook, we paced along,
    But had its legend or its song.”
    His voice was deep and sonorous, he spoke with a Scottish accent, and with somewhat of the Northumbrian “burr,” which, to my mind, gave a Doric strength and simplicity to his elocution. His recitation of poetry was, at times, magnificent.
    I think it was in the course of this ramble that my friend Hamlet, the black greyhound, got into a bad scrape. The dogs were beating about the glens and fields as usual, and had been for some time out of sight, when we heard a barking at some distance to the left. Shortly after we saw some sheep scampering on the hills, with the dogs after them. Scott applied to his lips the ivory whistle, always hanging at his buttonhole, and soon called in the culprits, excepting Hamlet. Hastening up a bank which commanded a view along a fold or hollow of the hills, we beheld the sable prince of Denmark standing by the bleeding body of a sheep. The carcass was still warm, the throat bore marks of the fatal grip, and Hamlet’s muzzle was stained with blood. Never was culprit more completely caught in flagrante delicto . I supposed the doom of poor Hamlet to be sealed; for no higher offence can be committed by a dog in a country abounding with sheep-walks. Scott, however, had a greater value for his dogs than for his sheep. They were his companions and friends. Hamlet, too, though an irregular, impertinent kind of youngster, was evidently a favorite. He would not for some time believe it could be he who had killed the sheep. It must have been some cur of the neighborhood, that had made off on our approach and left poor Hamlet in the lurch. Proofs, however, were too strong, and Hamlet was generally condemned. “Well, well,” said Scott, “it’s partly my own fault. I have given up coursing for some time past, and the poor dog has had no chance after game to