very veins of each leaf, in stone; and there is a continual variety of
this accurate toil. On the exterior of the edifice there is equal
minuteness of finish, and a great many niches for statues; all of which,
I believe, are now gone, although there are carved faces at some points
and angles. The graveyard around the Abbey is still the only one which
the village has, and is crowded with gravestones, among which I read the
inscription of one erected by Sir Walter Scott to the memory of Thomas
Pardy, one of his servants. Some sable birds--either rooks or jackdaws--
were flitting about the ruins, inside and out.

Mr. Bowman and I talked about revisiting Melrose by moonlight; but,
luckily, there was to be no moon that evening. I do not myself think
that daylight and sunshine make a ruin less effective than twilight or
moonshine. In reference to Scott's description, I think he deplorably
diminishes the impressiveness of the scene by saying that the alternate
buttresses, seen by moonlight, look as if made of ebon and ivory. It
suggests a small and very pretty piece of cabinet-work; not these gray,
rough walls, which Time has gnawed upon for a thousand years, without
eating them away.

Leaving the Abbey, we took a path or a road which led us to the river
Tweed, perhaps a quarter of a mile off; and we crossed it by a
foot-bridge,--a pretty wide stream, a dimpling breadth of transparent
water flowing between low banks, with a margin of pebbles. We then
returned to our inn, and had tea, and passed a quiet evening by the
fireside. This is a good, unpretentious inn; and its visitors' book
indicates that it affords general satisfaction to those who come here.

In the morning we breakfasted on broiled salmon, taken, no doubt, in the
neighboring Tweed. There was a very coarse-looking man at table with us,