MELROSE ABBEY BY MOONLIGHT.

If thou wouldst see fair Melrose aright,
Go view it by the pale moonlight.

LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL

AFTER visiting the far-famed mansion of the "Wizard of the North,"-Abbotsford, I proceeded to explore the neighboring ruins of Melrose Abbey. It is a magnificent old pile-the finest, I think, of the Abbey Ruins: at least it interested me more than any other-partly, perhaps, through the power of association. Many of the pillars and arches are in a perfect state of preservation, and parts of the original roof remain the outer walls, also, are nearly entire. A flight of stone steps leads to the top, whence a fine view is obtained of the whole ruin, as well as of the surrounding country. In one of the old towers a bell still hangs, and in connection with it there has been inserted a modern clock,—an addition not altogether in keeping with the character of the place, but very useful, no doubt, to the inhabitants of the neighboring village.

As I stood looking from the top of the wall down on the great eastern window, the line from the "Lay" came to my mind,

"The moon on the east oriel shone."

What a world of associations came thronging upon my mind at the recollection of those words! Back flew my imagination across the wide sea to the pleasant village where I first read that poem, on a sweet summer's evening. The tender remembrances of home and friends mingled themselves with the poet's fancies and with the picturesque ruins before me, and gave a double charm to the scene. I found what life and interest are given to dead matter by the power of association. I compared my present enraptured feelings with those which I had experienced in viewing the ruins of Fountaynes and other Abbeys, which, beautiful at they are, had not, like these, been embalmed by the poet's verse. Those were merely objects for the eye,-these for the soul. Fond memory, in truth, can wreathe the stone with ornaments more beautiful either than those of the chisel or of the creeping ivy: imagination can gild a scene with lights richer than that of either sun or moon. After all, it is association, association, that is the charm: without its investing, what power is there in wood or stone to give more than a passing and outward pleasure to the mind ? A respectable-looking old man acted as guard and guide to the ruins. Guides in general, indeed, at such places as this, are sadly in the way;—their remarks, like the notes of commentators on Shakspeare, interrupting painfully the train of one's thoughts, with their cold, critical pointing out of beauties; as if the eye capable of seeing them at all, would not find them out. However, both commentators and guides, no doubt, are occasionally useful.

Some of this guide's remarks entertained

me. As I was speaking of Scott and his poems,with which the old man seemed not unacquainted, especially so far as they were connected with the Abbey-he turned to me and said brightly, " And your country had some fine writers, too: there is Dr. Dwight-Dwight, isn't it? and Dr. Brainard, and-and so on." The good man's acquaintance with American literature was evidently not very extensive; but it was pleasant to find one in that retired place who knew anything about our worthies. As to Dwight, I may remark, I have often been surprised to observe what theological classics his works are in this country-even more so, it seems to me, than in our own: you see his great quartos in the windows of all the principal bookstores. And as to the youthful and devoted Brainard, he is, as he deserves to be, the admiration and love of pious minds in England as in America: his pure and noble example has stimulated not a few of the loftiest spirits of Britain to increased devotion to the service of God and the good of mankind: among these was the pious Henry Martyn, missionary to Persia, who often refers to him. Brainard died at Northampton, Massachusetts, so long ago as the year 1747,-more than a hundred years since. It is pleasing to reflect, that our country, young as it is, has already produced men, who have been, and continue to be, models to the great and good in England and throughout the world.

"But I guess," continued the old guide, "you will not soon have a better man than Washington, after all:"-a position to which I readily assented.

He then made a remark precisely in agreement with an idea that had occurred to myself a day or two before: "He is like our Wallace," said he. "Yes!" I replied, "that is just what I had been thinking of, in regard to your Wallace: he was the Scottish Washington."

Soon after this conversation, I took my departure, --secretly resolved, however, to get another view of the Abbey under more favorable circumstances. I had a full remembrance of the poet's lines :

"If thou wouldst see fair Melrose aright,
Go view it by the pale moonlight;
For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray.

When the broken arches are black in night,
And each shafted oriel glimmers white;
When the cold light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruined central tower;
When buttress and buttress, alternately,
Seemed framed of ebon and ivory;

When silver edges the imagery

And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;

When distant Tweed is heard to rave,

And the owlet hoots o'er the dead man's grave:-
Then go-but go alone the while,

Then view St. David's ruined pile."

These instructions of the poet chimed in with my fancy exactly, and I determined fully to obey them, -to come again, by moonlight and alone. From the top of the ruins, I had noted a place in the church-yard wall, over which I could climb; and by that way I was to make my approach, like a thief, in the silent hours of the night, to steal a moonlight view of the Abbey.