It seems, however, that some of the descendants of the "barons" had a more modern covering than their "iron panoply;" for, about two years ago, upon the death of an old earl, it was decided to bury him in this vault; and it was accordingly opened, when two huge coffins were found at the very entrance, completely blocking it up, and which would have broken in pieces in the attempt to move them. The present earl, therefore, ordered the workmen to close the old vault, and his father's remains were interred in a new one in the chancel, built about eighty years ago, where the inscription above his remains tells us that "James Alexander, third Earl, died 16th June, 1866."
Bidding adieu to this exquisite little building, we will take a glance at another, or rather the ruins of another, that owes much of its fame also to the interest with which Walter Scott has invested it—one which he loved to visit, and much of whose beautiful architectural ornamentation he caused to be copied into his own Abbotsford. I refer to Melrose Abbey; and, as no tourist ever thinks of leaving Scotland without seeing it, a sketch of our visit may possibly be but a new version of an oft-told story; but now that I have seen it, I am never tired of thinking and reading of its wondrous beauty.
Melrose is thirty-five miles from Edinburgh by rail; and on arrival at the station, we were at once pounced upon by a number of drivers of vehicles in waiting, who were desirous of securing us, or of having us secure them, for a drive to Melrose Abbey, Abbotsford, or Dryburg Abbey, and if we had not been cautioned, we should have been warned by a card which was thrust into my hand, and which I give for the benefit of other tourists who may go that way, informing them that the "Abbey Hotel," herein mentioned, is less than five minutes' walk from the little railroad station.
"The Abbey Hotel, Abbey Gate, Melrose.
"This hotel is situated upon the abbey grounds, and at the entrance to the 'far-famed ruins.' Parties coming to the hotel, therefore, are cautioned against being imposed upon by cab-drivers at the railroad station and elsewhere, as this is the only house which commands the views of Melrose Abbey.
"An extensive addition having been lately built to this establishment, consisting of suites of sitting and bed-rooms, it is now the largest and most handsome hotel in Melrose.
| "One-horse carriage to Abbotsford and back | 6s. 6d. |
| "One-horse carriage to Dryburg and back | 7s. 6d. |
"These charges include everything."
Upon the reverse we were treated to a pictorial representation of this "most handsome hotel," an unpretending, two-story mansion, which, we were informed, was kept by Archibald Hamilton, who also kept various "horses, gigs, and phaetons for hire; wines and foreign and British spirits for sale." A rush of twenty visitors would have overrun the "establishment," to which "an extensive addition" had been made. The Abbey Hotel was a comfortable English inn, and we found, on arriving at it, that it almost joined on to the very abbey itself; while another little building, the dwelling of the widow and two daughters who showed the ruins, as we found, for a consideration, was close by—too close, it seemed to us, to this glorious old structure, which, even in its ruins, is an object of universal admiration, its magnificence and gracefulness entitling it to be ranked as one of the most perfect works of the best age of this description of ecclesiastical architecture.
Melrose was built in 1146, destroyed by the English in 1322, and rebuilt with two thousand pounds sterling, given by Robert Bruce, in 1326—a sum of money equal to about fifty thousand pounds at the present time. So much for its history. But let us pay the sexton's pretty daughter her shilling, for here she is with the key that unlocks the modern iron-railing gate that excludes strangers who do not pay for the privilege; and following her a few steps, we are in the midst of the grand and glorious ruins of the old abbey that we are familiar with in song and story, and from the many counterfeit presentments that we have, time and again, gazed upon in luxurious illustrated books, or upon the walls of art galleries at home.