. Three weeks in the British Isles . We register with a pen which might have be-longed to either of them, so carefully is it wipedand put away when we are through with it. Thechair in which we sit is hollowed from a treetrunk. Out into the sunlight we go again and walkpast an old juniper tree five hundred years old,whose feeble limbs are supported by crutches. Before we re-cross the bridge we clamber upa hill to look at a memorial to James Thompson,the poet, whose odes to the various seasons werewondrous creations, not only because of theirundoubted merit, but because of the difficulty ofwriti
. Three weeks in the British Isles . We register with a pen which might have be-longed to either of them, so carefully is it wipedand put away when we are through with it. Thechair in which we sit is hollowed from a treetrunk. Out into the sunlight we go again and walkpast an old juniper tree five hundred years old,whose feeble limbs are supported by crutches. Before we re-cross the bridge we clamber upa hill to look at a memorial to James Thompson,the poet, whose odes to the various seasons werewondrous creations, not only because of theirundoubted merit, but because of the difficulty ofwriting about Scotch weather without swearing. A rough hewn and weather-worn statue toWilliam Wallace is barely visible from the road-way as we drive back to Melrose. It rains on our way to Abbotsford, and we areforced to put up the carriage top. It clears alittle as we drive up to Sir Walter Scotts resi-dence. We leave the carriage and follow a walkto what looks suspiciously like a rear garden is much more beautiful than in. ?-.,;««« SIR WALTER SCOTTS TOMB IN DRYBURGH ABBEY Melrose and Abbotsford 145 Scotts day, for the trees are older and the lawnmore velvety. Walter Scott was born in Edinburgh. He wasnot distinguished as a scholar, but was by nomeans as stupid as some would have us massive head proves that, not only in por-traits, which might be made to lie, but in the piti-less death mask in his study at Abbotsford. Hewas a voracious reader. He turned from writ-ing poetry to prose because he thought he sawsigns of deterioration in his verse, and fanciedthat Byron overshadowed him. No one morethoroughly pooh-poohed this idea than Byron. With Scotch caution he published Waverleyanonymously for fear of failure. His ambition was to be a landed proprietormore than to be a writer. He worked to enlargeAbbotsford rather than his fame. He also wrote a travel book, Pauls Lettersto His Kinsfolk, as a result of a visit to Water-loo. It is the painful duty of a ch
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