"Here naked stand the melancholy walls, Lash'd by the wint'ry tempests, cold and bleak, That whistle mournful through the empty aisles, And piece-meal crumble down the towers to dust," When viewed by moonlight, the solemnity and grandeur of the effect is charming. An enthusiastic friend of mine, on paying the abbey a visit a year or two ago, had it lighted up with tapers. I subjoin a few passages from a letter I received at the time from him;--"Yesterday, being Valentine's day, in the evening I went to vespers, and had six tapers burning at the high altar in the abbey; also several in each of the (eight) confessionals, holy water, fonts, shrines, and altars.--The church-yard, the abbey, were silent as the grave; you might have heard a pin drop; there was not a breath of air stirring, so the tapers burnt, beautifully." This must have strongly reminded the spectator of the introduction to the _Monastery_, and the visit of the worthy benedictine, accompanied by Captain Clutterbuck, for the purpose of taking up his patron's heart. My friend adds, "not a taper has been burnt in St. Mary's of Melrose since the days of Knox.--On Monday I went to the tower of Glendearg; at the fountain, where Sir Piercie Shafton and Halbert Glendinning fought, I got, with the help of my guide, some curious stones, said to be the work of the _White Lady_." The scenery is picturesque in the highest degree. "Yesterday I went to Old Melrose. The windings of the Tweed there are beautiful; but the tolling the abbey bell recalls me from my wanderings." The impression made on Sir Walter Scott by the ruins may be inferred from the following lines:-- "If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright, Go visit it by the pale moonlight; For the gay beams of lightsome day Gild but to flout the ruins grey. When the broken arches are black in night, And each shafted oriel glimmers white; When the cold light's uncertain shower Streams on the ruin'd central tower, When buttress and buttress, alternately, Seem framed of ebon and ivory; When silver edges the imagery, And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die; When distant Tweed is heard to rave, And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave; Then go--but go alone the while-- Then view St. David's ruin'd pile; And home returning, soothly swear, Was never scene so sad and fair!" One of your correspondents (with whom I had once a disputation on the _weighty_ subject of ghosts) sent you a version of the subjoined epitaph, with a trifling alteration in the spelling, (which is copied from a very ancient tomb-stone in Melrose Abbey,) with these remarks, (see MIRROR, vol. 4, p. 392):--"The following beautiful lines were written by a cow-boy [!] in Sussex on a wall, with a piece of red chalk, [mark the precision.] They have only been inserted in a Sussex paper, and may be quite unknown to many London readers," &c. &c. &c. This is a regular hoax. EPITAPH.