The heat of July the 23rd was very great and oppressive, and a haze almost hid the beautiful scenery ’twixt Dunbar and Haddington from our view.
Arrived at the latter quaint old town, however, we were soon at home, for, through the kindness of the editor of the Courier, the Wanderer found a resting-place in the beautiful haugh close by the riverside, and under the very shadow of the romantic old cathedral and church adjoining.
The cathedral was rendered a ruin by the soldiery of Cromwell, and very charming it looks as I saw it to-night under the rays of the moon.
The people of Haddington are genuinely and genially hospitable, and had I stayed here a month I believe I would still have been a welcome guest.
It is said that the coach-builders here are the best in Scotland. At all events I must do them the credit of saying they repaired a bent axle of my caravan, and enabled me on the afternoon of the 24th to proceed on my way in comfort and safety.
Not, however, before I had made a pilgrimage to the grave of poor Mrs Carlyle. The graveyard all around the church and cathedral is spacious and well-kept, but her grave is inside the ruin.
It was very silent among these tall red gloomy columns; the very river itself glides silently by, and nothing is to be heard except the cooing of the pigeons high over head. The floor is the green sward, and here are many graves.
It was beside Mrs Carlyle’s, however, that I sat down, and the reader may imagine what my thoughts were better than I can describe them.
An old flat stone or slab covers the grave, into which has been let a piece of marble bearing the following inscription beneath other names: