As a rule, the visitor to Abbotsford has also Dryburgh as an objective, and ample provision has been made for his ease and comfort in getting thither. By far the most picturesque route is to follow that of Scott's funeral-day. Past Newstead first, quaintest of old-world hamlets, the supposed Roman Trimontium (from the Eildons, at whose base it nestles). Note its wealth of sun-dials. Thence, still keeping by the serpentine Tweed, to Leaderfoot, across its old Bridge--where was Scott's last passing of the Tweed--up by Gladswood and Bemersyde Hill, pausing for a moment or two at 'Sir Walter's gate,' on the crest of the whinny road-- 'Where fair Tweed flows round holy Melrose, And Eildon slopes to the plain.' This was Scott's favourite view, and it has few equals. Did not Elihu Burritt affirm that 'it is the most magnificent view I ever saw in Scotland, excepting, perhaps, the one from Stirling Castle'? Still pursuing our way Dryburghwards, we catch a glimpse of Sandyknowe[36] to the east, the scene of Scott's child-years, and enshrined in some of the noblest verse of 'Marmion.' Then, dipping down through the thickest and tallest of wild-woods, and the most luxuriant of bracken and broom, we reach Dryburgh, which, if it cannot boast the architectural glories of Melrose, far surpasses it for queenly situation. Surrounded on three sides by the Tweed, itself unseen from the Abbey precincts, and amidst a 'brotherhood of venerable trees,' in picturesqueness and seclusion it is perhaps the most charming monastic ruin in Great Britain. And here, in the lap of legends old, in the heart of the land he has made enchanted, and among his ancestral dust (for Dryburgh belonged to his forebears, and might have come to himself but for the stupidity of a spendthrift relative), Walter Scott waits the breaking light of morn. There are the inscriptions which we must read, and as reverent and worshipful pilgrims, heads are bared for this sacred duty. In 1847 a massive granite sarcophagus was placed over Scott's grave, where thousands upon thousands from all the winds that blow have treasured its simple words: SIR WALTER SCOTT, BARONET, DIED SEPTEMBER 21, A.D. 1832. [Illustration: DRYBURGH ABBEY] 'Slender as a reed Is the slim pillar on the transept tall, Where the lush wall-flower blooms, and over all A rowan grows, where some wind-wafted seed Had lodged, and all is silent as a dream, But for a throstle on the ancient yew, But for the low faint murmur of the stream; And sweet old-fashioned scents are floating through The arch from thyme and briar, as for ever Shall his sweet nature haunt this fabled river.' The other inscriptions are: DAME CHARLOTTE MARGARET CARPENTER, WIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT OF ABBOTSFORD, BARONET, DIED AT ABBOTSFORD, MAY 15, 1826.