horses, darted off in a second. She gave a piercing shriek, looked
wildly round her, and abandoned herself to the most agonizing despair;
exclaiming in a tone of the utmost pathos, "ah! deceitfu' man, hae ye
beguiled me too!"--and then she sunk back in the carriage, and buried
herself in the deepest silence. * *

18th August. Set out to view the ruins of Dryburgh Abbey. Called
on Capt. (now Sir David) Erskine, from whom I received the politest
attention. His housekeeper acted as my cicerone, and conducted me over
the venerable pile. These time-worn ruins stand on the north bank of
the Tweed, by which they are almost surrounded, and are backed by hills
covered with wood, of the richest foliage. The abbey as well as the
modern mansion house of the proprietor, is completely embosomed in wood.
Around this sylvan spot the Tweed winds in a beautiful crescent form,
and the scene is extremely interesting, embracing both wood and water,
mountain and rock scenery. The whole gives rise to sentiments of the
most pleasing, devotional tranquillity. The place, however, at which I
paused, was St. Mary's Aisle: "here," I said to myself, "will the mighty
minstrel sleep, when his harp shall be silent!"--and here I offered the
votive tribute in anticipation, which thousands will follow me in, now
that he is, too truly, alas! no more. At the little iron palisading I
stood, and said, "here Scott will sleep:" in this, fate has not deceived
me. He rests there now. Peace to his manes!

August 20. Down at the Abbey this night. It would be absolute folly
to note down what I saw or thought of this most remarkable monastic
structure. Every album possesses it, in all the beauty of its fairy
architecture; its tabernacles, its niches and canopies, and statues,
pinnacles, pediments, spires, and the tracery of its vaultings.