the river Tyne as it runs through the fertile valley, of the rich pasture-land lying on every side, and stretching far away to the Lammermoors; and in the outskirts of the town of the beautiful abbey, one of the oldest and most interesting abbeys in Scotland.

Approaching the town, the first building which meets the eye is the municipal building, or "townhouse," standing at the apex of a triangle of streets, and surmounted by a graceful" steeple." To the right, only a stone's throw away, is the house so long occupied by Dr. Welsh, and where Jane Welsh was born. The house is approached through a narrow passage, and is thus hidden away from the main street. reach it one passes the building in which Edward Irving held his school. The burgh chronicles intimate that his salary was £20, with the fees of 15s. per quarter for mathematics and IOS. for geography! There is nothing impressive about the house from this side, but within the rooms are large and comfortable, and the windows

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at the back look into a fine garden. The back view is shown in the illustration on page 22.

It was in the month of May, now eightytwo years ago, that there met in that upper room with the large window three young people then unknown to fame, but all destined to leave a deep imprint of their lives behind. Irving, who was at this time a teacher in Glasgow, brought his friend Carlyle on a visit to his favourite pupil, in whose house he was ever a welcome guest. Mrs. Welsh had then been a widow for three years. "An air of sadness lay on her," said Carlyle, "and she soon withdrew." Of the three Irving was the eldest; tall and ruddy, with a strikingly handsome face, marred only by a slight squint, loyal and generous in nature, deeply spiritual and refined, he was the gentlest, and perhaps the most lovable. of the three. Next Carlyle, then a raw youth, with face and frame hewn out of the solid granite, fantastically awkward, grimly defiant, yet even then battling with demons,

flashing forth in broad Scots his biting invective, or letting his imagination play with lambent flame along the high mountains of thought. Last of all, the inspirer of their speech, Jane Welsh herself; small in stature, with black hair and flashing dark eyes, clad in mourning garments, which she never put off until her wedding-day, intensely alive to every shade of the changing conversation, drawing forth the inmost and hitherto unexpressed aspirations of both by her own intense sympathy

woman; she loving Irving, yet hopeless; Carlyle the deus ex machina, yet blind to the underlying tragedy through his colossal egoism. more engrossing, or more hopelessly vain, than to ask, as all who recall the sorrows of their after lives must ask: "What if she had married Irving?" That there would have been "no dreams" is likely true; but would she have been happier? would any of them have been as great, or greater, without or with the other? Arrange the pieces as

Nor are there many questions

you like, the game ends in a hopeless impasse.

This famous visit lasted three or four days, and sealed the fate of each of them. Irving returned to Glasgow, and soon after accepted the call to London, married Miss Martin, and became a potent in the religious world, his life, alas! going out in darkness and tribulation. A few years afterwards Jane Welsh also went forth to her long companionship of forty years as the wife of Carlyle.

Twenty-three years elapsed before she visited again this, to her, dearest and

saddest of places. No letter ever written by her contains more self-revelation than that in which she describes this eventful visit:

"There was I at the end of it! Actually in the 'George Inn,' Haddington, alone, amid the silence of death!

"I sat down quite composedly at a window, and looked up the street towards our old house. It was the same street, the same houses; but so silent, dead, petrified! It looked the old place just as I had seen it at Chelsea in my dreams, only more dreamlike! Having exhausted that outlook, I rang my bell, and told the silent landlord to bring tea, and take order about my bedroom. The tea swallowed down, I notified

my wish to view 'the

old church there,' and the keeper of the keys was immediately fetched me. In my part of stranger in search of the picturesque, I let myself be shown the way which I knew every inch of, shown the 'school-house,' where myself had been Dux, 'the play-ground,' the 'boolin' green,' and so on to the church-gate where, as soon as my guide had unlocked it for me, I told him he might wait, that I needed him no further.

not tell me. That place felt the very centre of eternal silence-silence and sadness, world without end! When I returned, the sexton, or whatever he was, asked: Would I not walk through the church? I said 'Yes,' and he led the way, but without playing the cicerone any more; he had become pretty sure there was no need. Our pew looked to have never been lined since we occupied it; the green cloth was becoming all but white from age! I looked

"The churchyard had become very full of graves; within the old ruin were two smartly got-up tombs. His (her father's, to whom she was passionately attached) looked old, old; was surrounded by nettles; the inscription all over moss, except two lines, which had been quite recently cleared -by whom? Who had been there before me, still caring for his tomb, after twentynine years? The old ruin knew, and could

at it in the dim twilight till I almost fancied I saw my beautiful mother in her old corner, and myself, a brightlooking girl, in the other ! It was time

to come out of that! Meaning to return to the churchyard next morning to clear the moss from the inscription, I asked my conductor where he lived with his key. 'Next door to the house that was Dr. Welsh's,' he answered, with a sharp glance at my face; then added gently, 'Excuse me, me'm, for mentioning that, but the minute I set eyes on ye at the "George," I jaloosed it was her we all looked after when

ever she went up or down.' 'You won't tell of me?' I said, crying like a child caught stealing apples; and gave him half-a-crown to keep my secret, and open the gate for me at eight the next morning."

But long before eight she was up, and climbing over the railings of the old churchyard, was again at the side of her father's grave.

It is a beautiful spot, this old "kirkyaird" of Haddington, where the dust of so many generations lies; beautiful in situation and surroundings, beautiful in

sacredness and peace. In this hallowed place both the sting and the bitterness of death seem taken away, for the sunshine seems to love to rest on the graves where the grass is so green, and the flowers so pure and abundant. The place where Knox was born is only a stone's-throw away, and along the banks of the gentle river which flows between, he must often have walked, disturbed in spirit and deep in thought. The sound of the river floats to the ear as it gently glides along, and its pensive lullaby seems only to deepen the sense of rest. And the crown and joy of this sacred spot is the noble Abbey, standing in tender silence, watching each generation that worshipped within its walls laid mournfully to rest around it. The western part, which has been recently restored, is used as the Parish Kirk, but the eastern part is in ruin, and it is in this eastern part, shown in the illustration, that the Welshes lie. The door in the wall on the left opens into a vault belonging to the Lauderdale family, and the famous "Lousie Lauderdale," a name once feared and hated,

lies mouldering in a leaden coffin within. The large window is a modern restoration, to honour the memory of a much-respected minister of the parish.

It was into this ruined choir that Jane Welsh, in that early morning of which she gives so graphic an account in her letters, stole to clear the moss away from the inscription on her father's tombstone; and it was in this same spot that she herself was laid to rest seventeen years later. It was a covenant of forty years' standing that on her death she should be buried beside her father, love for whom was the one passion of her life. Carlyle was in Scotland at the time, and hastily returning to London he, with a few friends, accompanied the body to Haddington. An old servant of the Dods family, in whose house Carlyle stayed while on this mournful errand, and from whence the funeral set out on the following day, gave the writer of this article the following description: "The coffin was taken into the passage at the side o' the hoose, and Carlyle himself came in, looking sair broken doon. After a while he went