style, was a drain upon his purse, a tax upon his exertions, and a
weight upon his mind, that finally crushed him.

As yet, however, all was in embryo and perspective, and Scott pleased
himself with picturing out his future residence, as he would one of the
fanciful creations of his own romances. "It was one of his air
castles," he said, "which he was reducing to solid stone and mortar."
About the place were strewed various morsels from the ruins of Melrose
Abbey, which were to be incorporated in his mansion. He had already
constructed out of similar materials a kind of Gothic shrine over a
spring, and had surmounted it by a small stone cross.

Among the relics from the Abbey which lay scattered before us, was a
most quaint and antique little lion, either of red stone, or painted
red, which hit my fancy. I forgot whose cognizance it was; but I shall
never forget the delightful observations concerning old Melrose to
which it accidentally gave rise. The Abbey was evidently a pile that
called up all Scott's poetic and romantic feelings; and one to which he
was enthusiastically attached by the most fanciful and delightful of
his early associations. He spoke of it, I may say, with affection.
"There is no telling," said he, "what treasures are hid in that
glorious old pile. It is a famous place for antiquarian plunder; there
are such rich bits of old time sculpture for the architect, and old
time story for the poet. There is as rare picking in it as a Stilton
cheese, and in the same taste--the mouldier the better."

He went on to mention circumstances of "mighty import" connected with
the Abbey, which had never been touched, and which had even escaped the
researches of Johnny Bower. The heart of Robert Bruce, the hero of
Scotland, had been buried in it. He dwelt on the beautiful story of