The famous Abbey is close to the town, and is approached by a narrow street having a hotel on the one side and some small cottages on the other. The entrance-gate, which is only opened on lawful days, is strictly guarded. The present keeper well remembers Scott, and recalls many reminiscences of him; but the duties of guide are now undertaken by his daughter, a very estimable lady, who having written a guide-book to the Abbey, can give, and does give a mass of information more or less interesting to any who care to listen; but we must plead guilty to hating guides and guide-books with a perfect hatred, and have little wish to usurp their functions: but, how is it possible to describe the Abbey without borrowing something from our friend the guide or her book? And yet what description ever did do justice to the magnificent buildings, the ruins of which alone remain to remind us of the greatness of their forgotten builders. When we stand in the aisle, and see how complete the ruin is, and are reminded of Knox's fierce advice to the people of his time, "Pull down the nests and the rooks will fly away," we cannot help thinking that after all, the nests were worth far more than all his teaching; and their keeping in repair would have been somewhat better than the spirit of bitter intolerance which followed their destruction. Let not an admiration of the temper which led to the destruction of the great religious establishments erected in the 12th and 13th centuries lead one to forget, that even at their worst, they provided home and refuge for the common people. The first feeling which arises in the mind on seeing the ruins is one of surprise at their extent, and their strength. It takes some time to realize their beauty. Melrose does not differ much from other ruins of the same kind. It was built at different times and by different hands, and the evidence of this is apparent in the varying styles employed-Norman archways and cloisters, gothic windows, and columns enriched with superbly carved capitals in which lilies, ferns, fir-cones, and oakleaves all unite and combine to produce a glorious effect.

It is hardly possible to avoid seeing it by moonlight, and by the light of the moon undoubtedly the ruins are seen at their best; but so are all ruins, and Melrose does not gain more from silver light than other ruins do, but the famous lines of Scott send crowds to view the abbey at night. It may be that not a little disappointment is experienced, for the power of imagination so present with Scott is not the common property of mankind, and the nearness of a crowd is a disturbing element even to the most imaginative; and yet it is impossible to see these famous ruins by night without the eerie feeling stealing over one. The lights and shadows move in great masses, now resting upon the forgotten grave of some Border Chieftain, and now lighting up a chapel beneath the floor of which lie the remains of some family famous in border story; while through the windows can be seen the green mounds upon which the moonbeams appear to linger lovingly as though loth to leave the place.

"Where in their narrow cell for ever laid

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep."

A few miles from Melrose, across the foot bridge, by a winding road leading to the Bemerside hill (from the top of which a beautiful view of the Tweed Valley is seen) Dryburgh is reached. The ruins of the old abbey are very picturesque, though not extensive, they illustrate the art common to all monastic ruins of the 12th, 13th, and 14th century. While the ruins are undoubtedly fine, it is in the sweet seclusion of the place that the greatest charm will be experienced; on every side rise gentle hills; trees, the growth of many centuries, surround it, the Tweed murmurs as it flows between high banks overhung with woods of wild luxuriance. In the Lady Aisle lie the remains of Scott. The ruins of the chapel are singularly beautiful, and form a fit resting-place of the last Scottish minstrel. Unfortunately those who have the keeping of the place do not display such taste as one could wish; a huge block of granite lies over the grave, and a strong iron railing, more suggestive of a prison than a tomb, surrounds it. Anything more out of harmony with the surroundings of the place could hardly be conceived. We should like to see the place bright with flowers, or if this cannot be, yet bright with the purple heather the poet loved so well. As we look upon the name, deep cut in the granite slab, we feel how far more deeply it is graven in the hearts of his readers. Wherever the English tongue is spoken, the name of the poet is a household word. By the great service he rendered to the intellectual life of the race, and by his high personal character, he won for himself a name

"On fame's eternal bead roll worthy to be filed."

T. C.

OLD MEN.

AM always very much interested at our Annual Meeting, in looking round and simply observing the assembled manhood there gathered together. It is quite an imposing and thrilling sight which presents itself to one who comes in rather late, as I nearly always do, and sees those long tables crowded with intelligent, and for the time-being, happy men. Tea is at its height, and conversation is so general, and indeed flows in such a torrent that its roar is quite perceptible for several yards before the door of the great room is reached. Everybody is at his best. The cares and worries of professional or business life are for the time utterly forgotten. Large families and small incomes, bills coming due and official notices under the Bankruptcy Act, awkward fluctuations of prices, and nuisances of all similar kinds are left in the cloak room. Perhaps the only anxious men in the room are those who have to make speeches, and even their corroding solicitude succumbs for the time to the universal good-will and cheerfulness which everywhere prevail. Everybody talks, eats, drinks, and laughs with vigour. Everybody is amiable. Everybody dispenses with the grave and judicial countenance which he sometimes feels it incumbent upon himself to assume, and is, at least for this night, his natural self; which is better than his business self, or his town-council self, or his church or chapel self, or his ordinary common-place self; which are always more or less distorted, and sat upon, and "sicklied o'er" by circumstances.

One of the speculations which occurs to me at such times as I look round the tables is "how will these men look when, they are quite old?" I amuse myself with selecting an individual, and in imagination taking out his teeth, wrinkling his forehead, whitening and thinning his hair (in some cases to the extent of baldness, according to whether such a change will make him more venerable or not), bending his back, abating or, as the case may be, increasing his rotundity of person. I make his voice grow less lusty and strong, and put into it the unmistakable tone of age. I stop somewhat the current of his speech or, in some cases, I increase it, for there are some to whose old age we look forward with hope, as we think it may bring the expression of sentiments which at present they keep jealously locked up in their own breasts, especially when debates are "on." I provide spectacles and eye-glasses which are affixed to the nose with somewhat trembling hands. In a word I do the very reverse of what Madame Rachel did, for while she made people young, I, in imagination, make them old.

Sometimes, when the fit is strong upon me, I pursue my fancy of metamorphosis in the mass, and see the tables peopled by a company

of old men. I know them all, of course, for from my world of fancy I banish fickleness, faintheartedness, and want of steadfast zeal, as I do such incidents as death and change. The old boys are as happy at their annual meeting as ever. The president beams, and the old and new treasurers perambulate as assiduously as of yore. The old gentlemen who are to speak don't think about the speeches they are to make more than twice in five minutes. The last new number of the Magazine is passed round, and the old joke that the Editor is going to resign this year creates no end of laughter. "Just what he said five-andtwenty years ago," says one. "But we knew better than to let him," says another. "Always let well alone has been our policy," says a third.

By the time I have got thus far in my fits of futurity, the waiters have generally cleared the table, and the serious business of the evening is proceeded with. But this record of them will enable me to introduce my subject of Old Men.

There are indeed plenty of old men to be met with who form interesting subjects of observation and comment, without resorting to the process of prematurely ageing our contemporaries, after the manner of the manufacturers of old masters. There are grand old men, disagreeable old men, big old men, little old men, foppish old men, conceited, industrious, lazy, poor, rich, and even young old men. I propose to set down a few notes on the aged variety of the male human creature, with especial reference to some whom I have personally known, and whom I have had the opportunity of sketching from life.

He

Old Mr. Squires was my next-door neighbour for several years. was a retired manufacturer, rather stern of temper, and of a heavy and large build of body. We used to call him Behemoth-not to his face, for, to tell the truth, we were rather afraid of him. He was inclined to be severe in his judgments of people, and we were conscious that in many things we came short.

In those days we had a little strip of land at the back of the house which we tried to make into a garden, and which adjoined a similar strip at the back of Mr. Squires's; and the first time I saw our neighbour he was standing as immoveably as a statue looking over the hedge that divided the two strips. I felt an instinctive dislike to that proceeding on his part. It showed what I afterwards found was one of his characteristics, an overweening curiosity as to the affairs of his neighbours. We were new comers, it was possible we might be going to begin to "do something" at the garden, and he was very anxious to know what we were going to do, and how we were going to begin.

It was a mild Saturday afternoon in autumn, and the leaves were just beginning to fall from the trees at the bottom of the garden, and to drift away on the quiet breeze that now and then stirred their branches. I had bought some garden tools in town, and wanted to begin to work with them among the neglected flower-plots and salad beds. My tools, with their green labels, were as new as possible. But they were not more unused to gardening than I was. I felt quite as green as their

labels. I could no more have gone down the garden and begun to work before the critical eye of that large severe-looking man than I could have flown. Why should he stand looking over my hedge when he, retired person of means as he was, had the whole week to himself, whereas I had only my precious Saturday afternoon? I felt a great antagonism to the man. I wished that he might be taken sick; might suddenly sink up to his neck in some disused dumb-well; might be sent for by his wife to read a telegram demanding his immediate presence at Hanover.

I came to the conclusion that I would temporise. I would untie my tools and scrape the bright green labels off them. I had heard that bright green paper contained arsenic, and I persuaded myself that if I began to work with those tools in their green-labelled state I should poison my hands. But I believe that if old Squires had not been leaning over my fence I should not have taken this precaution at all. Then I thought that I might as well have a pipe over this operation, so I went into the house to fetch one, hoping on my return to find him gone. But no, there he stood as immovable as Sir Robert Peel's statue.

I began to muse on the relativity of things. How differently people act in different cases and with different witnesses thought I. How subdued a lot of street boys are if a policeman happen to turn the corner, though they may have been in the wildest state of hubbub a moment previously! How different is the tone of the kitchen when the mistress makes her appearance from what it was a short time ago when Sarah Jane was telling Emma about her "young man!" And here was I, who had come home rampant with my new garden tools, and full of wild but indefinite ideas of subduing the earth, suddenly reduced to a state of ignominious inactivity, by the mere passive presence of a large old man. I was still scraping the labels off very carefully, when the partner &c.,

came out.

"Oh you lazy man! why I thought I should find the garden half done," she said.

I regarded her benignantly.

"I thought it would be quite done by this time," I said.

She took the rake, she just looked up at him, bowed just enough for politeness and no more, and began to rake about the beds in a womanish way. I could see at once that she had as much effect on the old man as he had had on me. He looked slightly uncomfortable, pulled off his hat in an old-fashioned manner, and said "Good afternoon, Madam," very reverentially. Then he moved respectfully away. wondered if he would have done the same for me. But then, I could not have gone raking about the beds in that inefficient way, which made my wife so happy, that she came up soon quite hopeful, and said she thought we should soon have the garden looking nice, and that we must get some seeds." At which of course I smiled in a superior manner, for even I knew that seeds were not sown in September.

It was still light, when next day, I came home, as was my wont, to tea. My wife was not visible, and I went out into the garden to find her. She stood by the hedge at the bottom of the garden talking to