Then his enthusiasm got the better of him, and forgetting the abbey he began to point out the beauties of the valley of the Jed, over which we had a far-reaching view, and to recite snatches of the poetry of Burns appropriate to the scene. I had thought that I knew a little of the beauty and spirit of Burns, but it all seemed to take on new meaning from the lips of the quaint old Scotsman. It was worth a journey to Jedburgh, and a long one, to hear him recite it. Then he began to point out the things of interest about the abbey, and so many they seemed to him that he had difficulty in choosing which he should enlarge upon during our short stay. He showed us the Norman doorway, the most elaborate in the Kingdom, so remarkable that the Marquis of Lothian, the owner of the abbey, has caused an exact duplicate to be made in the wall near by to preserve the wonderful detail nearly obliterated in the original. He led us among the great pillars, still intact, springing up into the mighty arches of the nave, and pointed out the gracefulness of the numerous windows with slender stone mullions. There are many notable tombs, among them one with a marble effigy of the late Marquis of Lothian, a really superb work of art, by George Frederick Watts. Nor did he forget the odd gravestones in the churchyard with epitaphs in quaint and halting verse, telling of the virtues of the long-forgotten dead, of one of whom it was declared: "Here Lyes a Christian Bold and True, An antipode to Babel's Creu, A Friend to Truth, to Vice a Terrour; A Lamp of Zeal opposing Errour. Who fought the Battels of the Lamb, Of Victory now Bears the Palm." And there is another stone with a threat as grim as that of the Bard of Avon, for the epitaph expresses the wish that "Whoever Removes this Stone Or causes it to be Removed May he die the last of All his Friends." The stone lies flat, above the grave, and our guide declared, "I had an unco hard time to get a photo of it for my book, for I did na fancy moving it, to be sure." "Your book? And have you written a book?" He was off in a moment and with almost boyish enthusiasm brought forth a neat volume, "Poetry and Prose of Walter Laidlaw, F. S. A.," and we found on later perusal that it has not a little of true poetic fire, of which an example or two may not be amiss. It is not strange that one so full of patriotism and admiration for his native Scotland should deprecate the tendency of her people to emigrate to foreign lands, and he expostulates as follows: "What ails the folk? they've a' gane gyte! They rush across the sea, In hope to gather gear galore, 'Way in some far countree.