It were a fine field for a story writer to analyze the conception and growth of an abbey or cathedral as it formed itself, day after day, and year after year, in the soul of some dreamy, impassioned workman, who made it the note book where he wrought out imperishably in stone all his observations on nature and man. I think it is this strong individualism of the architect in the buildings that give the never-dying charm, and variety to the Gothic: each Gothic building is a record of the growth, character, and individualities of its builder's soul; and hence no two can be alike. I was really disappointed to miss in the abbey the stained glass which gives such a lustre and glow to the poetic description. I might have known better; but somehow I came there fully expecting to see the window, where-- "Full in the midst his cross of red Triumphant Michael brandished; The moonbeam kissed the holy pane, And threw on the pavement the bloody stain." Alas! the painted glass was all of the poet's own setting; years ago it was shattered by the hands of violence, and the grace of the fashion of it hath perished. The guide pointed to a broken fragment which commanded a view of the whole interior. "Sir Walter used to sit here," he said. I fancied I could see him sitting on the fragment, gazing around the ruin, and mentally restoring it to its original splendor; he brings back the colored light into the windows, and throws its many-hued reflections over the graves; he ranges the banners along around the walls, and rebuilds every shattered arch and aisle, till we have the picture as it rises on us in his book. I confess to a strong feeling of reality, when my guide took me to a grave where a flat, green, mossy stone, broken across the middle, is reputed to be the grave of Michael Scott. I felt, for the moment, verily persuaded that if the guide would pry up one of the stones we should see him there, as described:-- "His hoary beard in silver rolled, He seemed some seventy winters old; A palmer's amice wrapped, him round, With a wrought Spanish baldric bound, Like a pilgrim from beyond the sea: His left hand held his book of might; A silver cross was in his right; The lamp was placed beside his knee: High and majestic was his look, At which, the fellest fiends had shook, And all unruffled, was his face: They trusted his soul had gotten grace." I never knew before how fervent a believer I had been in the realities of these things. There are two graves that I saw, which correspond to those mentioned in these lines:-- "And there the dying lamps did burn Before thy lone and lowly urn, O gallafit chief of Otterburne, And thine, dark knight of Liddesdale."