of the peasantry even to the present day. He lived in the 13th century, when Earlstown, or Ercildowne, as it was called, was a greater place than it is now. Tradition says that, when young, he was carried away by the Queen of the Fairies to Elfin land, where he lived seven years, during which time he acquired the power of foretelling future events. He was permitted to revisit the world again, under obligations, however, to return to his royal mistress, when she should intimate her pleasure. After seven years spent in the world, it happened that

"The feast was spread in Ercildowne,

In Learmont's high and ancient hall,
And there were knights of great renown,
And ladies dressed in pall."

Sir Thomas arose with harp in hand, the harp that he had brought from fairy land.

"In numbers high the witching tale

The prophet poured along;
No after bard might ere avail

Those numbers to prolong."

The feast breaks up, and the guests are soon locked in slumber. Lord Douglas, whose camp was pitched in Ercildowne, hearing a strange sound,

starts from his couch, just in time to see a hart and hind, both white as snow, rush rapidly by.

"To Learmont's hall a message sped,

As fast as page might run,
And Thomas started from his bed,
And soon his clothes did on.
First he wox pale, and then wox red,
Never a word he spoke but three,
'My sand is run, my thread is spun,
This sign regardeth me.""

Binding his harp around his neck, he proposes to return with the white messengers to fairy land. In parting—

"Farewell, my father's ancient towers

A long farewell,' said he ;

'The scene of pleasure, pomp, or power,
Thou never more shalt be.

To Learmont's name no foot of earth

Shall here again belong;

And on thy hospitable hearth

The hare shall leave her young.'

The hart and hind approached, and with them

Sir Thomas crossed the river Leader.

"Lord Douglas leap'd on his berry-brown steed,

And spurred him the Leader o'er;

But though he rode with lightning speed,
He never saw them more.

Some said to hill, and some to dale,

Their wondrous course had been;

But ne'er in haunts of living men
Again was Thomas seen."

Such is the legend with regard to "Thomas the Rhymer." That he was a real character there is no reason to doubt. He appears to have been a man superior to the age in which he lived, and predictions which his far-seeing sagacity enabled him to make, were received by an ignorant people as evidence of the possession of supernatural powers. It is not probable that he laid any claim to the character of prophet himself. That he was a poet is evident from the fact that the metrical romance of Sir Tristem, of which he was the author, still remains. Of this once admired poem, only one copy is known to exist, which is in the Advocates' library in Edinburgh. This curious work is one of the earliest specimens of Scottish poetry now in existence.

I used to clamber up the old ruined wall, and seating myself on a projecting stone, it was an easy matter, in imagination, to reconstruct the old hall and people it with the lords and ladies of the olden times.

Dryburgh,

MELROSE, AND ABBOTSFORD.

"The monks of Melrose made fat kail

On Fridays, when they fasted,
Nor wanted they good beef and ale
As lang's their neebors' lasted."

SOON after my arrival, I took a drive through some of this romantic neighborhood, rendered classic by the magic pen of Walter Scott. The ascent of Bemersyde Hill is exceedingly fine; the view of the river Tweed and its borders from this elevated position is worth coming miles to see, and is one of the most beautiful and interesting views in the South of Scotland.

The lands and barony of Bemersyde have been in the possession of the Haig family since the days of Malcolm IV. The following rhyme respecting this family is ascribed to Thomas the Rhymer:

"Tide, tide, what e'er betide

There'll aye be Haigs in Bemersyde."

The venerable tower was built about seven hun

dred years ago. It is still in a tolerably perfect state, and, with some modern additions, forms the present residence of the family. I ascended the old tower by a narrow spiral stair-case, with stone steps, to a high balcony, which commands a fine view of the surrounding country. From this I drove to Dryburgh Abbey, which is a fine old ruin, in which the mortal remains of Walter Scott

"Rest with the noble dead,

In Dryburgh's solemn pile,

Where sleep the peer and warrior bold,
And mitred abbots stern and old

Along the statued aisle."

Not far from that of Scott is the tomb of Ralph Erskine, the author of "The Gospel Sonnets," and of his brother Ebenezer, both celebrated Scottish divines. The Abbey is situated in one of the most lovely spots that I ever saw. Surrounded by a fine orchard in full blossom and carpeted with green, the old ruin, overgrown with ivy and covered with moss, presents a most picturesque appearance. The Chapter House is quite perfect, and is arched over with stone. It contains a fine statue of Sir Isaac Newton. In the middle of this room, below the earthen floor, lie the remains of