Scotch Presbyterians in Convention—Their Character and Bearing—On the Footpath to Abbotsford—The Home of Scott—Five Miles through the Fields—Melrose Abbey and the Heart of Bruce—Hospitality of a Baptist Preacher—Adieu to Scotland—Merry England—Manchester—Exposition and Prince of Wales—Manchester and Cotton Manufacturers—A $25,000,000 Scheme—Dr. Alexander Maclaren—His Appearance—The Force of his Thought—The Witchery of his Eloquence—His Hospitality Enjoyed—A Promise Made. LEAVING Dundee I run down to Edinburgh to attend the annual meeting of the established church of Scotland. I am anxious to see this venerable body of men, whose deep-toned piety has pervaded the nation, and who wield such a powerful influence over the political and religious thought of the century. Whether around the family fireside, or on the public platform, most of these men are dignified, stiff and formal in their bearing. I can but think that if they were put under the water, the starch would be taken out of them, and they would be more useful to the world. I say to a friend that if I had only a little Baptist water and Methodist fire, I could get up enough steam in half an hour to set the whole convention in motion. We set out on Friday for the home of Sir Walter Scott, some thirty miles distant. One hour brings us to Gallashields. Here we leave our baggage and take the foot-path leading along the banks of the river Tweed and terminating at Abbotsford. The day is fine. The scenery is not grand, but varied and beautiful. The pedestrians are so engaged in contemplating the beauties of nature, that the walk of five miles seems rather to rest than to tire them. [Illustration: ABBOTSFORD.] Abbotsford is situated upon a hillside about two hundred yards from the river. Between the house and the stream there are two high terraces, making two distinct flower-gardens, one being some twenty feet higher than the other. The house is large and quaint and old. It is always open to visitors, and daily many enter its portals. One feels as if he would like to remain here a week, examining the clothes, furniture, books, manuscripts and curiosities once belonging to the lord of letters and of language. Here one sees locks of hair from the heads of the Duke of Wellington and Lord Nelson. Here one sees the bones of many Christian martyrs; also guns, pistols, swords, shot, shells, canteens, and other relics of interest, gathered from the field of Waterloo by Scott himself. But we must not linger here. I want the reader to go with me to Melrose. It is only five or six miles, and I am sure we shall enjoy the walk, as our winding path leads through fields, sheep-pastures, and grassy meadows. It will be sport for us to jump the fences, jump the ditches and babbling brooks. We will take dinner as we sit beside the second stream, whose limpid water will fill our glasses.