amily came out to see us depart. Passed the monastery
gardens, which are yet gardens, where there are many remarkably large old
pear-trees. We soon came into the vale of Teviot, which is open and
cultivated, and scattered over with hamlets, villages, and many
gentlemen's seats, yet, though there is no inconsiderable quantity of
wood, you can never, in the wide and cultivated parts of the Teviot, get
rid of the impression of barrenness, and the fir plantations, which in
this part are numerous, are for ever at war with simplicity. One
beautiful spot I recollect of a different character, which Mr. Scott took
us to see a few yards from the road. A stone bridge crossed the water at
a deep and still place, called Horne's Pool, from a contemplative
schoolmaster, who had lived not far from it, and was accustomed to walk
thither, and spend much of his leisure near the river. The valley was
here narrow and woody. Mr. Scott pointed out to us Ruberslaw, Minto
Crags, and every other remarkable object in or near the vale of Teviot,
and we scarcely passed a house for which he had not some story. Seeing
us look at one, which stood high on the hill on the opposite side of the
river, he told us that a gentleman lived there who, while he was in
India, had been struck with the fancy of making his fortune by a new
speculation, and so set about collecting the gods of the country, with
infinite pains and no little expense, expecting that he might sell them
for an enormous price. Accordingly, on his return they were offered for
sale, but no purchasers came. On the failure of this scheme, a room was
hired in London in which to exhibit them as a show; but alas! nobody
would come to see; and this curious assemblage of monsters is now,
probably, quietly lodged in the vale of Teviot. The latter part of this
gentleman's history is more affecting:--he had an only daughter, whom he
had accompanied into Spain two or three years ago for the recovery of her
health, and so for a time saved her from a consumption, which now again
threatened her, and he was about to leave his pleasant residence, and
attend her once more on the same errand, afraid of the coming winter.

We passed through a village, whither Leyden, Scott's intimate friend, the
author of Scenes of Infancy, was used to walk over several miles of
moorland country every day to school, a poor barefooted boy. He is now
in India, applying himself to the study of Oriental literature, and, I