sure prognostic of rain; in fact they are the barometer of the district.  I then prevailed on my two companions to forego their visit to the Abbey that night.  We therefore had in old Davidson, the landlord of the Inn, and my companions submitted him to an interrogatory of three long hours’ duration.  One little anecdote of fresh occurrence struck me as possessing some interest.  I will record it.  About a month before, a poor maniac presented herself at the gates of Abbotsford.  She desired to see Sir Walter.  The servant denied her admittance, but such was the earnestness of the poor creature, that auld Saunders, on her pressing application, went and informed his master, “that a puir demented lassie was at the gett (gate) greetin’ like a bairn.”  Sir Walter had the kindest of hearts; “O admit her puir thing,” he said.  The woman no sooner entered than she fell on her knees in reverential awe before Sir Walter.  Her story was simply this.  She belonged to Aberdeen; she was married to a young farmer in that neighbourhood and had not long before given birth to a beautiful infant, the first pledge of their loves.  The pains of birth had injured her mental equanimity, and eluding the vigilance of her keepers she set forward one evening in search of the great enchanter, whose works had in happier hours beguiled her with their beauty.  She travelled for a week; the distance from Aberdeen to Abbotsford was about a hundred and fifty miles.  She had walked every step.  Sir Walter did what he could to soothe her distracted mind, and get her wasted frame recruited.  But after some time he deemed it advisable to exercise his judicial power and put her in a place of security, until definite intelligence could be procured of her friends and relations.  Jedburgh is the county town of Roxburgh; and thither all wanderers of this and a less gentle race are sent.  A post-chaise was sent for from old Davidson, of the George, and when it was at the door of Abbotsford, Sir Walter induced the poor girl to enter it, promising to accompany her “out a ridin’.”  She entered—­looking for him to follow.  The door was instantly closed, and the post-boy lashing and spurring his 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