of the old town, and past the university, in the distance of a quarter of a mile, he comes to another bridge, and looking down to see a river and shipping, he sees instead a paved street lined with shops, the stories of which are as far below as they are above him, and all exhibiting the most active bustle of trade-and he exclaims: Is it possible there is a town beneath this town-and another race of beings down yonder? For what have they to do with those above, and how can they get up?

Back again to the new town (although we have not got half through the old one yet), and there is Calton Hill at the east end of the first street, and but a few rods from the bridge-lifting up its head in mountain pride-on the summit of which is an observatory and camera-obscura-a lofty monument to Nelson, one to Playfair, one to Burns, and one to the folly of the nation-because, being begun, it is likely never to be finished. From this pinnacle, one may peep down into the court and apartments of Holyrood, which lie directly under the feet, survey the city in all its extent and undulations-Leith, with all the villages along the Frith; look over the waters to the hills and mountains on the north far away-and so to the west and south. Over Holyrood, just without and impending the city, is a mountain crag-almost exactly such another thing as East Rock, near New-Haven, Connecticut, but twice as high, and much more bold in the form and knitting of its brow.. Very near the crag, and over it directly, is Arthur's Seat, 800 feet high, and very exactly after the pattern of Mount Tom, near Northampton, Massachusetts. On the central ridge, in the middle of the city, the castle, like the mighty elephant of the east standing under his armed tower full of armed men, erects its huge dimensions and lofty battlements, overawing the town and all the region round, itself familiar with the clouds, by reason of the camel-bunch prominence on which it rests, and which lifts it up on high. There too are the Pentland Hills on the south, in all their variegated profileand the beautiful and regularly inclined plane, supporting the new town, and stretching out to the Frith on the north. Everywhere, in and about Edinburgh, there are commanding and interesting views, by reason of the irregularities of the face of the country.

The City of Edinburgh is built of stone throughout. This material gives to the city an air of fitness to endure for everlasting ages. The new town, as it is called, and as it is in fact, lies on the north of the principal ravine, and is altogether admirable for architectural magnificence, for the spaciousness of its streets, and for the extent of its public squares, or gardens, as they are termed, The ground of the new town swells up from the ravine between itself and Castle Ridge for the distance of fifty rods perhaps, and then,

forming a graceful curve, on which is built a principal street running east and west in a line with the ridge, it declines on an easy and beautiful plain to the north, from any part of which and in any street, except a wall intervene, the wide plain below, the shores and bosom of the Frith two to three miles distant, the country, hills, and mountains far beyond -all come directly under the eye. In every street running north and south, and at every door and window on those streets, some very extended rural and mountainous, mingled with a water prospect, may be enjoyed. Indeed, there is scarcely any part of Edinburgh, old town or new, where some peep may not be had at a distant or elevated object, at some commanding eminence, or enchanting prospect. If one is walking in the very bed of its lowest grounds, there is the castle or Calton Hill, or the Crag, or Arthur's Seat, or all together; there, too, is the piling up of house upon house, upon the sides of which may be counted at least ten stories. There are also public edifices of various sorts-steeples, spires, and monuments in honour of the illustrious dead.

The style of building at Edinburgh is generally a pattern of good taste; one does not wish it to be otherwise. I of course speak of those parts where taste has been attempted; and they are not few. There is not a single principal street in the new town-a section large enough, I should think, for 50,000 inhabitants-which does not astonish a stranger in walking through, on account of the uninterrupted line of superior and imposing forms of architecture, which everywhere command his attention. This is a palace; that is a palace; every house seems a palace. "Edinburgh is a city of palaces."

Steeples and spires in Edinburgh are not frequent, and none of them very remarkable. St. George's is the St. Paul's of Edinburgh. St. Andrew's is a fine steeple. Lord Melville's monument is not less conspicuous, and little less elevated. St. Giles, the cathedral, is not worth mentioning. St. Stephen's, at the bottom of Frederick-street, is a perfection of architectural beauty, for a thing of such small

expense.

Churches named after saints in Presbyterian Scotland— and in connexion with the Presbyterian Kirk! Surely they must have degenerated since the days of John Knox. The Presbyterian is the established religion of Scotland, and the King of Great Britain is a dissenter in his own dominions when he gets north of the Tweed. It is curious to see how intolerance is doomed to encounter intolerance. The Church of Rome excommunicates all the world, and in turn by all the world is excommunicated. The Church of England unchurches her legitimate daughter, the Episcopal Church of the United States. The Kirk of Scotland does

the same to the American Presbyterian Church, although the same reasons cannot exist, except that we have proved recreant in divorcing ourselves from the state. American Episcopalians cannot preach in England, nor can American Presbyterians preach in the Kirk of Scotland. England unchurches Scotland, and Scotland England; and both shut out the United States. And in the United States the same spirit is manifested under various names. O Pudor! Shame

upon us all, and upon all the world.

STIRLING.

The sail up the Frith of Forth is exceedingly picturesque, and far more advantageous, I should judge, for interesting views, and to obtain a knowledge of the district, than a ride by land. Several beautiful towns and villages show themselves on the shores, or are displayed in retreat upon the plains and hills. A number of castles and gentlemen's seats are offered successively to the eye as the boat advances. Indeed, there is not a mile in the whole distance from Edinburgh to Stirling, some 50 miles by water, but the attention is claimed by several conflicting and attractive objects at the same time. And there is not a little of shipping upon the Forth, enlivening the scene, and connected with the different port-towns, as far up as Alloa,-which is seven miles below Stirling by land, and 21 by the serpentine course of the river. Hills and mountains are visible everywhere in Scotland, as a matter of course. In ascending the Forth, the constantly and rapidly changing features of this description, some receding and others rushing on the sight, are no small part of the moving panorama. We passed several ships of war of the largest class, lying at anchor in the river, dismantled, and floating up and down on the bosom of the ebbing and returning tide.

The town of Stirling contains about 8,000 inhabitants, and lies almost exactly in the same relation to the Castle, as the old town of Edinburgh to Edinburgh Castle: the south, west, and north of the castles, in either case, make the bold and inaccessible promontories. In both cases also the east makes a gradual descent into the respective towns, and constitutes the only possible way of ingress and egress. One is a twin of the other in all respects, and they have both the same appropriation. From Edinburgh Castle, however, you look down upon a great and magnificent city, spread out from under your feet in all directions; and beyond the city, there is the wide, and widening bosom of the Frith-plains, hills, and mountains, in every direction, except that of the North Sea. But from the summit of Stirling's pride, one forgets there is a little town below. There are the actual regions of nature's own creation, beginning at our feet, and spreading out the long, wide, and fruitful valley of the Forth,

to the east and west, improved in the highest perfection by the hand of man; and every way rising in the distance is some mountain profile, lodged in the clouds-all to chain and enchant the soul, and make it drink in pleasure, as it throws out its affections on the bosom of such a scene. The hills and mountains on the north and south are apparently so near, that the spectator, looking out from the castle heights, imagines, in the springtide and buoyancy of his feelings, that he might leap out upon them with the greatest ease. In the west there are mountains so remote as scarcely to be defined, and so high that their heads are often lost in the clouds. But the sweet vales below and the meanderings of the Forth-there is nothing like it! Did ye ever see the ingenious and active child, smoothing over the face of the sand, and then marking with his finger, or a stick, the most crooked tracery imaginable-more crooked than the serpent, even in his folds, because more variousnow running this way, now that, but always in a curvilinear form? These fantastic tricks of children are not more wild than the windings of the Forth between Stirling and Alloa. And large portions of this strath, or interval ground, when I happened to be there, were checkered into whitened harvest-fields, in many of which might be seen fifty, and in some a hundred women in one line, sweeping with the sickle a whole farm at a single bout; and here and there a man following behind, and binding the sheaves.

BANKS OF THE DEVON.

And I said, " John" (John Stewart was the name of the lad, 14 years of age, who led me up the banks of the Devon, from the village of Dollar, to show me the Caldron Linn, the Rumbling Bridge, and the Devil's Mill), "John," said I, 66 do you know any thing of Burns's Banks of the clear-winding Devon?"

"O yes-I've got it at home."

And when he returned, I said, "John, bring me the Banks of the clear-winding Devon, will you?" John ran below, and in a moment returned with a book of select Scottish poesy, all smoked and blurred, each cover and the title-page lost, and the corners of every leaf rolled and fumbled, as if it had been used to the hands and fingers of unwashed colliers for an age or two, and putting his finger on the place, said"Here it is:"

The Banks of Devon.

"How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devon,
With green spreading bushes and flowers blooming fair!
But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon,
Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr.
Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower,
In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the dew,

And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower,
That steals on the evening each leaf to renew.

"O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes,

With chill hoary wing, as ye usher the dawn!
And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes
The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn!
Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies,

And England triumphant display her proud rose-
A fairer than either adorns the green valleys

Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows."

John was a sensible, clever lad, of genuine Scotch honesty, and soon stole a place and an interest in my affections-as the Scotch are wont to do. Like the Indians of our country, when found in their native simplicity, the Scotch have a peculiar manner of speech, so kind and affectionate, that it always makes way to the heart. Its moral power is irresistible. I know not now to define it, except in the language of the schools: that their speech never makes a cadence. When the qualities of their voice will allow, it is soft and mellifluous, the most natural expression of kind feeling; and whenever they rest, or have done for the time, it is by a singular suspension of voice, the opposite of a cadence, seeming to make an appeal to and a challenge of the best affections of those with whom they converse. I know not the philosophy of it. It is a manifest violation of all the rules of the art of elocution-and yet there is nothing equal to its power. They are not aware of it themselves. It is a peculiarity of the people, and a universal characteristic. It is kindness-and it begets kindness. It is an expression, a manner of speech, which leans upon the good feeling of others, and is sure to gain it. I imagine it has been cradled in the nursery, and reigned in the sanctuary of the domestic circle, where the best feelings are always in play-and by the power of habit has become a national characteristic. Of the fact, all foreigners must be witnesses. There is a great secret of morals in it, worthy of being developed. I have long had my eye upon it, and can never forget it. It makes one feel at home with a people who have so much kindness in their every word.

At the end of three miles, trudging along in the rain, as it poured down in most generous showers, after passing through the premises of a gentleman's well-improved estate, and at the termination of the wall of his garden, we came abruptly upon an impassable chasm, made by a fall of the Devon, eighty-eight feet-which is called most appropriately the Caldron Linn. Linn, in Scotch, means a basin, made by a waterfall in a stream or river-it being worn out, spacious and deep, by the force of a cataract. Such places are ordinarily called fishing-linns. The term Caldron I need not explain. The features of Caldron Linn are most extra