did. I knew the kindness of his disposition--but the truth must be

told. After waiting several minutes, and eliciting no glance from his master, he raised his heavy foot, and placed it impressively on mine. It rested on _the_ very spot! It was not in human nature to bear this unmoved. I withdrew the distressed member, with a convulsive twitch, which brought my knee in contact with the table, with so much violence, that the attention of the whole company was drawn on me, just in time to see the contents of my wine-glass emptied into my plate, and that of my companion into her lap. Kind girl! She exhibited no emotion, but slightly and unseen by the company, shook off the wine, and continued her conversation, as if nothing unpleasant had taken place.

Overwhelmed with mortification, I found it impossible, with all the efforts I could make, to recover my self-possession. I could only reply in monosyllables to her remarks; and, save when she addressed me, I was silent in spite of myself. She touched on various subjects which had usually interested me, in the hope of withdrawing me from the remembrance of the accident; but finding her efforts vain, she adopted another course, and asked me, in a counterfeited tone of censure, when she was to have the lap-dog I had promised to procure for her several days before. The word 'dog' was all that traversed the passage to my mind, so thickly was that passage crowded with keen remembrances. Thinking of my own Newfoundland, I replied, fiercely: 'He dies to-morrow!' Startled at the unusual tone, my fairest companion cast on me a glance of surprise, almost of fear. A tear shone in her eye, and she was silent.

* * * * *

AT last the time of leaving the table came--oh, moment to me most welcome! It seemed to me that we had sat an age at the board; but at the last, my corporeal had been forgotten in my mental pain.

If the reader has any bowels of compassion, he is now hoping that my troubles are over; that I shall go quietly home, take off the offending boot, enclose my foot in an easy slipper, and then, in the evening, with an old boot well polished, pay my respects to my mistress--explain all--receive her forgiveness, and be again happy. Would it were so! But let me not anticipate.

Before we sat down to dinner, it had been arranged, that we--that is, my friend, wife, and sister, myself and Miss L----, should go to the theatre in the evening, to hear, or rather see, a celebrated little French actress, whose star was then in the ascendant. I had no time to make new arrangements; for when we rose from the table, it was even then time to set forth. The fresh air and the lively conversation of my friends nearly restored me to myself; so that when we took possession of our box, I was comfortable both in body and mind. But for my foot there was no permanent peace. There was but a temporary truce with pain. I had not been seated ten minutes, before the enemy returned, rëinforced. I soon felt that to endure until the play was over, would be utterly beyond my power. There was but one course to pursue. I silently slipped my foot from the boot, and sitting close to my companion, succeeded--thanks to the ample folds of her cloak!--in securing my white stocking from observation. The acting was superb--my foot was at ease--my companion agreeable--and I quite forgot that I was bootless.

* * * * *

THE last act was closed, and the curtain fell. My friends immediately left the box. Mr. H---- offered an arm each to his wife and sister, and--you would not expect a lady to wait for her beau!--Miss L---- walked with them, but not without 'a lingering look behind.' The instant they were out of the box, I seized my boot, and attempted to thrust my foot into it; but it had swollen, and the first effort cost me excruciating pain; yet this I did not regard. But all my efforts were vain. I could as easily have thrust an alderman through a key-hole. I seized my pen-knife, and split the offending boot nearly from top to toe. Then planting my foot on the sole, I tied the string of my drawers tightly around the leg, and rushed through the crowd. In my haste, I well-nigh overturned a fat old lady, who was leaning on her son's arm. The old woman cried, 'Oh Lord!' and the youth, in ire, muttered an oath, and raised his cane; but I was two quick for him. I reached the door, amid the screams of the ladies, the deep, though for the most part unspoken, curses of the men, and the cry of 'Seize him!' from the police officers. But my friends and my betrothed, where were they? Lost in the crowd, or shut up in some of the carriages that were pressing around the door? I saw at once that all search was useless. I waited until nearly all had left the house, and then slowly and sadly took my way to my hotel. I went to bed; but the visions of the day were present to my waking thoughts, or haunted my short and troubled slumbers. How often, between sleep and awake, did I long for the boots, and envy the comfortable estate of their free-and-easy wearer, so felicitously described by the author of '_Boots, a Slipshodical Lyric_,' in an early number of this Magazine.

----'What sprawling heels! And holes are cut anigh the spreading toes, As if the ponderous feet in that wide space Had still been 'cabined, cribbed,' and wanted room,-- Or else, that doleful crops of pedal maize, Called by the vulgar corns, had flourished there. I see the wearer plainly. In public haunts He of his self deportment takes no heed, And spitteth evermore. His lips are sealed And juicy, like wind-beparchéd mouth Of ichthyophagous Kamschatkadale; and oft, With three sheets in the wind, in upper tier Midst mirthful Cyprians, he puts his feet Over the box's front, and leaning back, Guffaws and swears, like privateer at sea, Until the pitlings from beneath, exclaim, 'Boots!' 'Trollope!' and he straightway draws them in.'

When I rang in the morning, the waiter brought a note. The address was 'pleasingly familiar' to me. I broke the seal, and read:

'Miss L---- will be excused from her engagement to ride with Mr. D---- to-day. Mr. D---- may spare himself the trouble of calling to inquire the reason.'

And he did!

D.

FOOTNOTE:

[1] 'APOPLEXY--TIGHT BOOTS.--A physician of New-York says, that he has recently attended four cases of apoplexy, caused by wearing tight boots. Many a grown-up man is now grieving over the effects of this folly of his dandyism, in earlier years. Corns, toes cramped in a heap, and tenderness of the whole foot, are the penalty which manhood has to pay for this sin of youth.'

THE POET.

* * * 'LE poéte est homme par les sens Homme par la douleur! * * * L'argile périssable où tant d'âme palpite, Se façonne plus belle, et se brise plus vite; Le nectar est divin, mais le vase est mortel; C'est un Dieu dont le poids doit écraser l'autel; C'est un souffle trop plein du soin ou de l'aurore, Qui fait chanter le vent dans un roseau sonore, Mais, qui brisé de son, le jette au bord de l'eau, Comme un chaume séché battu sous le fléau!'

LAMARTINE.

* * * * *

THOU dark-eyed, pensive, passionate child of song! Enthusiast! dreamer! worshipper of things By the world's crowd unnoticed, 'mid the throng Of beautiful creations, Nature flings The sunlight of existence o'er!

The wings Of the rude tempest are not half so strong As thy proud hopes--thy wild imaginings: Stop! ere their bold and sacrilegious flight Reach a too-dazzling height! Venturing sunward, till the flashing eye Of reason, grown deliriously bright, Kindle to madness, and to idiocy; And, from excessive light To hideous blindness fall, and tenfold night!

Stop! melancholy youth! Though bright and sparkling be the tide of song, And many a sunbeam o'er its waters dance Meanderingly along-- Though it be heaven to quaff of--yet, in truth, A deadlier venom taints its gay expanse, More deep, more strong, Than to the subtlest poison doth belong! A very demon haunts its foetid air, Infatuating with its serpent glance The wanderer there; And, with a sad but most bewitching smile, Luring the credulous one to its desire: Stirring new feelings, passions, hopes awhile, And burning thoughts, whose mad, unholy fire, With its own strength illumes its own funereal pyre!

Stop, if thou'dst live!--or hath life left for thee No charms, that thou its last terrific scene Shouldst with such passion worship? Can it be, That the world nothing hath thou'dst care to win? No gem, no flower, no loveliness, unseen? No wonder unexplored? no mystery, Still undeveloped to the eagle eye Of Genius, or of Poësy?

Where are the depths of the dark, billowy sea? Its peopling millions--its gigantic chain Of gorgeous, glittering waters--wild as free? Where the big-orbéd sun--the blue-veiled sky? And its magnificent, diamond-glittering mine Of ever-burning stars? Oh! can it be, (Thou fond idolater at every shrine Where beauty lingers,) can it be that thou Hast treasured up earth's glorious things, till now Thou deem'st it uselessness to turn. Some unfamiliar object to discern, And so Her loveliest features unregarded go?

Away, vain thought! such phrenzy ne'er were thine! Since, in the humblest, homeliest flower that grows-- Thy very life-breath, as it comes and goes-- There are a thousand things, whose origin, Whose secret springs, and impulses divine, No human art nor wisdom can disclose!

Stop, then, sad youth! for life is not _all_ care, But, hath its hours of rosy-lipped delight; While the cold grave hath little save despair, The weary, world-worn spirit to invite. Stop! I conjure thee! bid the muse away! Her fatal gifts relinquish or resign; Her haughty mandates heed not nor obey: E'en _now_ thy brow hath sorrow's pallid sign-- Thine eye, though bright, is like the flickering ray Of a 'stray sunbeam, o'er some ruin'd shrine,' Lighting up vestiges almost divine, In sad, yet, dimly-beautiful decay! Thy cheek is sunken, and the fickle play Of the faint smile that curls thy parted lip Hath something fearful in it, though so gay! A something treacherously calm, and deep, Such as on sunny waters seems to sleep, When hid beneath some passing shadows gray, The subtle storm-fiend watches for his prey.

Stop! ere thine hour of dalliance be over; Ere Health abandon thee, and quench her light In the dark stream of death, (the faithless rover!) Ere Hope herself take flight Down to the depths of that dark-flowing river, Whose sombre shores are clothed in endless night; Ere thou be wrested from us--and for ever! Blotted, like some loved planet, from our sight! And, save the ties That not e'en Destiny itself can sever, A feeble reminiscence or a name Be all thou leav'st us of thee 'neath the skies-- Or some rude stone, perchance, to greet our eyes, And, with its speechless eloquence proclaim: 'Here lies Another victim to thy love, O Fame!'

_Philadelphia_, 1837. J. S. D. S.

WHO WOULD BE A SCHOLAR?

'A STRANGE question!' says one: let such a reader turn to the next article. 'And a pretty foolish one,' mutters a second: let him do likewise. _Who would be a scholar?_ 'Sure enough!' whispers one, in whom the question finds an echo, (and we know there are such;) him, and all of like sympathy, we invite to meditate a moment with us on the trials of the scholar.

Let it not be feared that we are about to disparage learning; although it should not be forgotten, that we have the highest authority on our side, when we venture to speak of evil and hardship in connection with that which is pronounced 'a weariness to the flesh;' and the classic muse is with us, when we claim it as a universal fact, that 'no one is satisfied with his lot, but each one sighs for change.' The tired soldier exclaims, 'happy tradesman!' and the tradesman, 'happy soldier!' The bard who vies with Homer, both in antiquity and honor, places the beggar and the poet in the same category; for it is the object of one of his noble hexameters to say, that

'Beggar envies beggar, and bard envies bard.'

Does not our question appear to some to border on profanity? There are those who are wont to feel that Mind and all its achievements are more sacred than the things of sense. And this is in some measure true. But why is not the toil and plodding of the scholar as earthly as any other? We must insist that it is; and we claim that an unfounded presumption in favor of mental effort, as such, be not suffered to face us on the threshold of our argument.

Go with us then--for our appeal shall be to actual examination--to the chamber of the philologist. A cadaverous being dwells there; his sepulchral voice bids us enter, and his sepulchral look--shall we say welcomes us? No! The heart, the social principle, has perished in this atmosphere of dusty lore. You enter. Before a table piled with books, sits the _genius loci_. On either side of him stands a chair, loaded with huge volumes, and others stand on end upon the floor around. As you place your hat upon a dust-covered volume which lies in the window, you catch the title, '---- on the Digamma.' As you take your seat, you have in view the worn titles of other venerable tomes; 'Scholia in Homerum,' 'De Metris Choricis,' 'De Dialecto Ionicâ,' 'Tenebræ Lycophrontis,' etc., etc. Shall we record a portion of the conversation? After the usual salutation, and the partial return of the student's mind to present realities, we begin:

'Well, Sir, we find you deeply engaged in study: are you laboring upon your edition of Æschylus?'

'I am; but for two or three days past, I have been more particularly occupied with the investigation of some collateral topics of considerable interest. I have been examining the accentuation of an obsolete form used by this poet, in order to determine whether the accent should be the _acute_ or the _circumflex_. I have read the ancient grammarians on this point, and the invaluable discussion of Blomfield on the accent of this particular word, which occupies four pages in his elaborate commentary.'

'Are not the dramas of Æschylus quite obscure and difficult?'

'They are so regarded, but they are rich in the treasures of the Greek language, and open a wide and inviting field for investigation. I have often been richly repaid for spending a week upon a single sentence.'

'Do you suppose that the text is generally as Æschylus left it?'

'It had become much corrupted and interpolated; but the labors of our great critics have probably nearly restored it to its original purity. Many of the manuscript copies were evidently erroneous. The great German scholars have made many conjectural emendations, of unspeakable value. Indeed, hardly any department of philological criticism has been cultivated with more zeal, and more astonishing results, than that of _conjectural emendation_.'

'But do you not suppose that Æschylus would object to some of the improved readings, if he could see them?'

'Oh! you now call to mind a dream which I had last night. If I were a believer in dreams, it would make me quite discouraged; and as it is, my mind has been rather gloomy this morning. I dreamed that as I was studying the 'Prometheus,' all at once Æschylus himself made his appearance. How, or whence, I did not seem to inquire; but in some way, (for you know dreams are incoherent and unaccountable,) I knew it to be Æschylus. His appearance was noble and imposing. He was past the middle age; his hair was 'of a sable-silver,' about midway in its progress toward the whiteness of old age, and fell carelessly over his elevated and strongly-marked forehead. His features were strong and almost severe, and his complexion brown and hardy. His whole appearance was not that of the pale scholar, nor of the well-fed nobleman, but of the man of action and exposure--strongly constituted, and sternly disciplined in the world. I told him I was studying his dramas. He seemed astonished. 'I supposed,' said he, 'they had perished long ago, or had been laid aside as specimens of the early and untrained efforts of the mind. I wrote them with labor indeed, but I wrote them for my own age, and did not dream that they would occupy the attention of posterity. You certainly must have those which are much better.' I then told him of our labors in the perusal of his writings, and our delight in them. In order to convince him of the reality of such efforts, and of their success, I opened before him the commentaries of our first scholars. He seemed amazed. 'Can it be,' he replied, 'that so much explanation is necessary?' My hearers never complained of obscurity.' 'But,' replied I, 'we live in a distant age, and speak a different language; in order, therefore, to see and feel the beauties of your writings, much explanation is necessary.'

'As to beauties,' said he, 'I wrote as well as I could, and aimed at securing the attention and gratification of my auditors, and at nothing more. But allow me to see what you regard as '_my beauties_.' I then read to him one of those rich and masterly notes, in which B---- has so finely brought out the hidden sense of the poet. He thought a moment, and then, with a smile, replied: 'Well, that is helping me out finely! I am sure I never thought of such a construction as possible, but it is very good.' To my utter astonishment, he treated several of those ingenious elucidations in the same manner. I then pointed him to one of the important conjectural emendations of the text, as a specimen of modern scholarship. 'What!' said the wondering dramatist, 'you have mistaken: surely, this is not in my writings; whose is it? I hardly see what the passage itself can mean.' I then showed him that it was a part of 'Prometheus Vinctus.' 'Oh!' he exclaimed, 'I now understand; you have copied it wrong.'

'My astonishment interrupted my dream, and awoke me. Dreams are nothing, to be sure; but how could my mind run into such a fiction?'

'You are right in saying that dreams are not to guide our conduct: but may it not be, that some of your nocturnal suppositions come close upon the truth?'

'Oh no! I should as soon expect to catch Wolf tripping in Homer, as to find any such suppositions correct. I can easily account for my discouraging dream. I had been laboring the whole day upon a passage, of which the original was not indeed controverted, but the sense is given by two learned commentators in direct opposition to each other. One of them, after giving his rendering, says: '_Sensus cuique obvius est_.' The other says of this interpretation: '_A genio linguæ Græcæ prorsus abhorret_.' But this difference between scholars shows only how wide is the field for investigation.'

Let us now leave the philologist to his studies; to pore over difficulties which time has created, and scholar-like blunders magnified; to extort sense from passages which never contained it; to perplex himself with the attempt to form an opinion where the greatest differ, and where evidence is wanting to the human mind; to solve questions which are of no conceivable importance to human knowledge, and to labor life away upon that which can at best only serve as a monument of patient effort, like the achievement of the monk with his scissors or pen-knife, which represents only the expenditure of years. We would clearly recognise the value of the study of ancient languages in youth, when mind is in its forming state; when discipline is secured by close attention, and systematic action of the faculties by the study of system; but we deem it quite another thing to make the means the end; to pursue the lessons of boyhood, when the time of them is past, and all their benefits secured; to narrow the mind down to the perpetual investigation of minutiæ which have no bearing on human happiness, except as they may create a fictitious fame; to live among trifles, and for them.

Shall we be pronounced traitors to the cause of learning? Is it the object of learning to be learned? Is it not rather to make man a being of higher resources, and nobler action? We confess we are giving utterance to thoughts which have forced themselves upon us, when called to take a survey of the field of learning, to examine its divisions, to become acquainted with its laborers, and to labor ourselves upon its margin. If these thoughts should be derided as proceeding from an indolent or even an ignorant view of the case, we would reply, by asking two questions: _First_, Is there a limit to study, of the members pursuing it, and the extent of its pursuit? and, _second_, Where is that limit? Let it not be replied: 'We should fix no limit to the cultivation of the mind.' We are speaking of _study_, in its common acceptation, and in this acceptation we offer these questions. If this be a strange course of inquiry, is it an unreasonable one?

But let us not be too serious. The mistakes of men may sometimes be laughed at; and if any are found to spend their lives in seeking unprofitable knowledge--if any one delves all his days over learned trifles,

'And prizes Bentley's, Brunck's or Porson's note, More than the verse on which the critic wrote, This much at least we may presume to say, The premium can't exceed the price they pay.'

Such men might certainly be worse employed, and if time is _wasted_, it is not mischievously abused.

A young friend came lately, in great dejection and discouragement, to ask some advice respecting the obstacles which he had encountered in reading the Iliad. 'I am now studying,' said he, 'the catalogue of the Grecian fleet; and I am exceedingly puzzled to find out the exact situation of all the places which Homer mentions, and to trace all the nations and tribes to which the Grecian army is referred. I have studied carefully all the notes of Heyne and Clarke, but these are not full enough.'

'And why do you wish to trace them?'

The young student was mute with surprise: 'This is a strange question,' muttered he to himself, 'to come from a teacher, and an admirer of Homer!' 'What, Sir, must I not _study out_ all the proper names? I supposed I could not be a good scholar without it.'

'_Why should you?_ If you will think of this question, and give me a satisfactory answer, I will set myself at once to helping you.'

'But why did the commentators study so much upon these things?'

'That is another question for you to think of; and instead of answering it myself, I will wait for you to give me your best conjecture on the subject.'

The poor fellow was amazed. Never had he been more entirely confounded: 'My teacher asks me, why should I learn it! How strange!' Such were his thoughts, as he returned to his studies. In a few days he called again. He seemed not to know how to begin the conversation.

'Well, have you made out an answer to the questions which startled you so much?'

'Why, Sir; I cannot say that I am able to give any satisfactory answer.'

'Well then, my young friend, I charge you not to spend time and strength in searching for the situation of Homer's Nisyrus, Crapathus, and Casus, until you give some valid reason for so doing. As to the commentators, what will not men do for fame? How many labors have men performed with this motive, which were not only useless, but pernicious?'

Such a reply was indeed unexpected. The young pupil seemed at once bewildered, and relieved from anxiety, by such a _paradoxical_ sentiment. His mind had imbibed the common feeling that, _mental_ labor never constitutes an abuse of time. The maxim, 'No item of knowledge is contemptible,' had misled his mind, and he had been accustomed to feel that _learning_ must be great and good.

There is a sense, in which it may be truly said that nothing in the universe of God is despicable, except moral evil. The most minute portion of matter--the slightest organization--the obscurest fact in nature--is worthy of the notice of Mind. But are there not choices to be made? Is EVERY man justified in spending his life in the comparing of the blades of grass, or the pebbles of the sand? No work of human skill is to be despised; and yet who may sit down to cut paper, or tie knots, as the business of his life?

We once called at the study of a fine young man, who had set out to do his best, and to make a scholar. He was pale with long and severe study, and seemed to labor under some special dejection. On inquiring into his course of study, he made the following statement.

'I have lately begun to read Cicero de Oratore. I have always been accustomed to hear Cicero spoken of as the prince of Latin writers, and I resolved to make myself master of one at least of his treatises, and to _realize_ the whole benefit of a thorough and scholar-like acquaintance with this author. I commenced with the commentaries of Ernesti, Pearce, Proust, Harlessius, etc., etc., and resolved to know the whole. I soon came upon a passage which was obscure. I resorted to the Notes. Here I found six different readings proposed, and long comments on each. I read all the remarks of my commentators, which occupied me an hour. The conclusion to be derived from them was, that the original language of the sentence was not to be decided upon, and that the meaning of the author was left to conjecture. I then undertook to investigate the meaning of a legal term used by Cicero. After reading several pages of notes, and consulting half a dozen books of reference, I made myself master of the suppositions of the learned on the subject. I next took up the name of a Roman orator whom Cicero mentions. I read at great length, and discovered that his name had been found in several instances in the Latin writers, and that critics supposed that two persons of the same name had been alluded to in these instances. I had commenced the study with resolution, and had determined not to come short of the advantages of the thorough scholar. But, for an hour before you come in, I had been thinking, 'What am I doing, and what end am I securing? What if I should know a thousand things of this kind? _Cui Bono?_ I do not intend to be indolent or fickle, but these thoughts have, I confess, made me dejected.'

The young man's honest and heart-felt account of himself was calculated to make one pause. Here was a high-toned and vigorous mind wearing away its energies, and narrowing its scope of vision, under the bondage of that public opinion respecting true learning, which took its rise and its form in the cells of the monastery, where the mind will seize upon any aliment rather than prey upon itself, and expend itself upon trifles, because it is shut away from the _great_ realities of life. A mind which was made to display its energies in the highest track of thought, and on the widest field of action, is imprisoned to count its beads, and mutter its task, in the temple of monastic lore. Public opinion must be subjected to frequent revision--let us not be pronounced radical--or errors will cling to the community, with the tendency of a mill-stone about the neck. An error, hallowed by strong and widely-connected associations, is not easily exterminated. It passes on unharmed by those agitations which overwhelm the errors of a lower grade and humbler origin; and while the generation living in its shadow have never known the light which it intercepts, they regard it as a part of the system of things, and one of the conditions of their being. Thus has the high regard which mankind accord to mental efforts, as distinguished from physical, had the effect to hallow even the follies of intellect, and to prolong the existence of those errors respecting the cultivation of the mind, which lead us to regard it rather as a receptacle of hoarded knowledge, than as a thing of active powers; to seek the acquisitions of the scholar as valuable in themselves, rather than as giving scope and expansion to the energies of a noble existence, and in the high estimation which Education has properly imparted to the _means_ of education, to make that mistake which comprehends so many others; to make the means the end.

JUNE.

THE violet peeps from its emerald bed, And rivals the azure in hue overhead; To the breeze, sweeping by on invisible wings, Its gift of rich odor the young lily flings, And the silvery brook in the greenwood is heard Sweetly blending its tones with the song of the bird.

The swallow is dipping his wing in the tide, And the aspect of earth is to grief unallied; Ripe fruit blushes now on the strawberry vine, And the trees of the woodland their arms intertwine; Forming shields which the sun pierceth not with his ray-- Screening delicate plants from the broad eye of day.

Oft forsaking the haunts and the dwellings of men, I have sought out the depths of the forest and glen; And the presence of June, making vocal each bough, Would drive the dark shadow of care from my brow: The rustling of leaves, the blithe hum of the bee, Than the music of viols is sweeter to me.

When the rose bends with dew on her emerald throne, And the wren to her perch in the forest hath flown; When the musical thrush is asleep on its nest, And the red-bird is in her light hammock at rest; When sunlight no longer gilds streamlet and hill, Is heard thy sad anthem, oh sad whip-poor-will!

The Indian, as twilight was fading away, Would start when his ear caught thy sorrowful lay, And deeming thy note the precursor of wo, Would arm for the sudden approach of the foe; But I list to thy wild, fitful hymn with delight, While the pale stars are winking, lone minstrel of night!

Brightest month of the year! when thy chaplet grows pale, I shall mourn, for the bearer of health is thy gale: The pearl that young Beauty weaves in her dark hair, In clearness can ne'er with thy waters compare; Nor yet can the ruby or amethyst vie With the tint of thy rose, or the hue of thy sky!

H.

RANDOM PASSAGES

FROM ROUGH NOTES OF A VISIT TO ENGLAND, SCOTLAND, FRANCE, SWITZERLAND, AND GERMANY

NUMBER THREE.

THE HIGHLANDS--PERTH, STIRLING, ETC.

TUESDAY, JUNE 15.--At 7 o'clock, on a fine morning, I left Edinburgh for the lakes and highlands. My route for the day was the same as that of the Antiquary and Lovel. The coach, however, was much more prompt than in the days of Mrs. Macleuchar, and started off while the clock of St. Giles was striking, from Waterloo-place instead of High-street. Arrived at Queensferry, seven miles, after a beautiful ride, modern improvements were again visible; for, instead of having to wait for the tide, as did Oldbuck and his friend, we drove down a stone pier, at the end of which the water is always deep enough, and transferring our luggage and ourselves to a sail-boat just sufficiently large to contain the coach's company, guard, and coachee included, the canvass was spread, and in a few minutes we were at North Queensferry, on the other side of the Frith of Forth. Here we breakfasted; the landlord, who could produce a dinner 'peremtorie,' has been succeeded by one who has it already on the table at the moment the coach drives up.

The ride from this place to Kinross is not particularly interesting; neither is the scenery about Loch Leven. I stopped, however, of course, at the village, and walking down to the lake, over some marshy flats, made a bargain with a couple of fellows to row me over to the castle, on the same side from which Queen Mary escaped. There is a boat, it seems, kept by the cicerone of the place, who charges five shillings sterling to each visitor--a great imposition. My men had to keep out of sight, lest they should be fined for trespass! The whole lake is owned by one person--Lord Somebody, who leases the privilege of angling in it, for £500 per annum, and the lessee charges a guinea per day for sub-privileges! It abounds with fine trout. The castle, which is quite a ruin, only one tower remaining entire, looks more like a prison than a place of residence.

'No more its arches echo to the noise Of joy and festive mirth; no more the glance Of blazing taper through its window beams, And quivers on the undulating wave: But naked stand the melancholy walls, Lashed by the wintry tempests, cold and bleak, Which whistle mournfully through the empty halls, And piecemeal crumble down the tower to dust.'

The entrance to the chamber pointed out as Queen Mary's is not more than four feet high, so that you have to stoop in entering it. The gate through which she escaped, with Douglas, is on the opposite side of the castle from her apartments, and not the usual place for leaving the island. The spot where she landed is yet called Queen Mary's Knoll.

After leaving Kinross, there is some fine scenery, particularly near Perth, where I arrived about half past two. It is a large and handsome town, on the banks of the Tay. In my first walk through it, I noticed, as rather singular, a number of 'fair maids.' There is one, however, an inn-keeper's daughter, who seems to bear the palm, and is distinguished, I was told, _par excellence_, as 'The Fair Maid of Perth.' I saw several vessels, coaches, etc., thus named; and yet I could not find in the whole town a single copy of Scott's novel! Wandering down to the river, I saw a steam-boat just starting for Dundee,[2] twenty-two miles' sail on the beautiful river and Frith of Tay, and the fare nine-pence! So, not being very particular in my destination, I jumped on board, and was off in a trice, without my dinner, which I had ordered at the hotel. The trip was very pleasant, for it was a lovely day; and at six o'clock I dined in the best style, on 'three courses and a dessert,' in a handsome parlor, at the Royal Hotel, Dundee, for two shillings--the cheapest dinner and trip I have had in his Majesty's dominions. Dundee is a very large and flourishing place, and carries on more trade and commerce than any other town in Scotland, Glasgow perhaps excepted. It is admirably situated, and has quite a city-like appearance. The docks would be an honor to New-York. After dinner, I walked out to Broughty Ferry, four miles, along the banks of the Frith, to call on Dr. DICK, the author of the Christian Philosopher, and several other very able and popular works. He has a little of the pedagogue in his appearance and conversation, but seems to be a very plain, kind-hearted man. He is very much interested in our country and its literature, and had many questions to ask respecting his correspondents here. He thinks we are far before Great Britain on the score of education; and says that such a work as Burritt's Astronomy would be quite too deep and scientific to be used in schools there. Of course, he touched upon slavery. He did not understand why the blacks should not be admitted into society, and considered as equals in intellect with the whites! In the little attic room, are a variety of scientific instruments, such as telescopes, orreries, etc. Among the books were his last one, 'The Mental Illumination and Moral Improvement of Mankind,' English and American editions. After tea, it being ten o'clock, and yet light enough in this northern latitude to read without a candle, the doctor kindly escorted me nearly three miles on my way back to Dundee.

* * * * *

THURSDAY MORNING, at six o'clock, I mounted a coach returning to Perth, with a fine clear sky, and the warmest day I have experienced in Britain. The road is along the banks of the Forth, and is very quiet and pleasant, passing several splendid seats; among them Kinfauns Castle, (Lord Gray,) in the bosom of the hills, fronting the water. Near this, on the banks, are found fine onyxes, cornelians, and agates. There is a handsome stone bridge over the Tay at Perth. This is a lovely river, the current being very swift, and the water deep, clear, and dark. After breakfast, I walked two miles along the banks north to the palace of Scone, where the Scottish kings were formerly crowned. I saw the celebrated _stone_ on which they were crowned, in Westminster Abbey, whither it has been removed. The present palace, is a modern and very splendid edifice, the finest I have seen of the kind, situated in an extensive park or lawn sloping to the banks of the river. It is occupied by the Earl of Mansfield, grand-son of the famous Lord Mansfield. The apartments on the ground-floor are very magnificent, particularly the drawing-room, which I imagine is the _ne plus ultra_ of modern elegance, and a fine specimen of a wealthy nobleman's apartment. The tables and cabinets are inlaid with brass, the ceiling carved with great taste, and the walls covered with superb silk furniture, furnished in the richest manner. It is as large as four or five good sized parlors. The library is of the same size. This, and some other rooms, contain paintings by Lady Mansfield herself, which are vastly creditable to her ladyship, and would be to a professed artist. The gallery is one hundred and fifty feet long, and contains a large organ. In the chambers, are bed-curtains, etc., wrought by Mary, Queen of Scots, when at Loch Leven.

Rode in the afternoon to Dunkeld, fifteen miles. Near this town, we enter the grand pass to the highlands, which here commence in all their beauty and grandeur. On the road; we passed Birnam Wood, (which it seems has not all 'moved to Dunsinane,') a mountain twelve miles distant, and seen from the top of Birnam. Dunkeld is beautifully situated, in a vale on the banks of the Tay, which is here even fairer than at Perth, surrounded by lofty and picturesque mountains, which closely overlook the town. The scenery here exceeds any thing I have seen; yet this is but the mere gate to the highlands; and I may as well reserve my enthusiasm.

The principal landed proprietor in this region, is the Duke of Athol, whose pleasure-grounds alone are said to extend fifty miles in a strait line. We walked though the charming garden on the banks of the river, to the half-finished palace which had been commenced by the present duke, but now remains in _statu quo_; for the 'poor rich man' became insane, and is now confined in a mad-house, near London. Crossing the rapid current of the river, in a boat, we climbed up to 'Ossian's Hall,' a pretty bower on the brink of a deep precipice, and in front of a beautiful waterfall, which comes tumbling down a rocky ravine from an immense height, and is enchantingly reflected in the mirrors of the bower. From this height, is a fine view of the Grampians, where

'My father feeds his flocks.'

* * * * *

STIRLING, JUNE 17, P. M.--The Abbey of Dunblane and the battle-field of Sheriff-Muir were the only objects of interest during the ride from Perth: and there is little to excite curiosity in the old and irregular town of Stirling, except its noble castle, scarcely second to that of Edinburgh in fame and importance. Entering the esplanade, I happened to meet the commanding officer, who inquired if I was a stranger, and politely escorted me to every part of the extensive fortification. 'In _that_ room,' said he, 'James VI. was born;' _this_ palace was built by James V., (the 'Knight of Snowdon, James Fitz James,') who often travelled alone in various disguises, etc. The views from the ramparts of the castle are very extensive, and in many respects have been pronounced unrivalled. They reach from Arthur's Seat, on one side, to the highlands of Loch Katrine and Loch Lomond on the other, a distance of sixty-five miles. Eleven counties, comprising most of the places celebrated in Scottish history, may be seen from these battlements. On the south, two miles distant, is the memorable field of Bannockburn, where thirty thousand Scotchmen under Bruce routed the English army of one hundred thousand men, thirty thousand of whom were killed. During the battle, when victory was yet doubtful, the boys ('_killies_') who had charge of the Scotch luggage, curious to know the result of the contest, came with their carts to the top of the hill near by, and the English, supposing them to be a fresh army, took fright and scampered. So the place is called 'Killies' Hill,' to this day.

At five P. M., set off for Callender, fifteen miles, crossing the Forth, and passing 'the Banks and Braes of Bonnie Doune,' (but not Burns',) and the ruins of Doune Castle, a strong fortress, where Waverley was confined. A little farther, we ride along the Teith, pass the seat of Buchanan, where Scott spent much of his boyhood, and had his taste for the sublime and beautiful in nature inflamed into a noble passion, by contemplating the scenery spread before him.

Callender is a retired and quite a rude little village, at the south-west entrance to the highlands, and is the usual stopping place for tourists. The people here generally speak Gäelic, and the children wear the highland kilt. The inn is the only decent house in the place. Joined an agreeable party from Edinburgh, and walked out to Bracklinn Bridge, and a beautifully-romantic waterfall. For eighteen hours out of the twenty-four, at this place, at present, (June) it is light enough to read without a candle; and at eleven P. M., it is as light as our twilight.

* * * * *

STEWART'S INN, LOCH ACHRAY, FRIDAY EVE.--This has been a most delightful day. It was a soft and brilliant morning, and we walked eight miles before breakfast to the celebrated Pass of Leven, one of the grandest in the highlands. Ben Ledi, 'the Hill of God,' (where the natives are said to have worshipped the sun,) lifts its lofty summit on one side, and at its base are two lovely little lakes, their glassy surface reflecting clearly the splendid picture around.

After an excellent breakfast, M'Gregor, our host, furnished us with the 'Rob Roy' car, and we were soon ushered into the classic and romantic region of the 'Lady of the Lake;' Ben Ledi being on our right, Ben An and Ben Venue frowning upon us in front. Riding along the banks of Loch Vennachar, on our left, we see Coilantogle Ford, where was the 'Combat', in which Fitz James mastered Roderick Dhu:

'By thicket green and mountain grey, A wildering path! they winded now Along the precipice's brow, Commanding the rich scenes beneath, The windings of the Forth and Teith, And all the vales between that lie, Till Stirling's turrets melt in sky.'

Our course was the same as that of the Knight of Snowdon, reversed; and every turn of the road brought new beauties to view, in the splendid landscape. On the opposite shore of Loch Vennachar, we saw the 'Gathering Place of Clan Alpine,' where, at the shrill whistle of Roderick Dhu, and to the surprise of Fitz James:

'Instant through copse and heath arose Bonnets, and spears, and bended bows; On right, on left, above, below, Sprang up at once the lurking foe; From shingles grey their lances start, The bracken bush sends forth the dart; The rushes and the willow-wand Are bristling into axe and brand; And every tuft of broom gives life To plaided warrior, armed for strife.'

Every visitor here must remark the singular _accuracy_ of the pictures of scenery throughout this poem. We can find the original of every passage of local description, and I cannot help quoting some of them.

The 'plaided warriors' are now scarcely to be seen this side of the Braes of Balquiddar. How similar is their case to that of our American Indians! Like them, they were the original possessors of the soil, and roved in lawless freedom:

'Far to the south and east, where lay Extended in succession gay, Deep waving fields and pastures green, With gentle slopes and groves between: _These_ fertile plains, _that_ softened vale, Were once the birth-right of the _Gäel_; The _stranger_ came, with iron hand, And from our fathers reft the land.'

And as Roderick continues, addressing the king:

'Thinkst thou we will not sally forth To spoil the spoiler as we may, And from the robber rend the prey?'

A short distance beyond Loch Vennachar, we came to Loch Achray, about a half mile long, and so placid and beautiful, that an Englishman took it for a work of art, and remarked that it was 'very well got up!' On the banks of this lovely lake, surrounded by the grand and lofty _Trosachs_, is the rustic little inn of _Ardchinchrocan_, where we stopped for the day. It 'takes' a Scott to do justice to this charming spot, and the wild but majestic scenery around. It seems far removed from the noise and trouble of the 'work-day world.'

After dinner, we took a walk to _Loch Katrine_, through the most sublime and difficult of all the passes through the Grampians--that formed by the Trosachs, or 'bristled territory.' All that is wild and stupendous in mountain scenery here unites:

'High on the south, huge Ben Venue, Down to the lake its masses threw; Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurl'd The fragments of an earlier world.'

Not a shrub nor a plant can be seen on these heights. Their rough, gloomy sides form a strange contrast to the green vales below. The _echo_ from them is remarkably distinct. We passed through the shady ravine, where the green knights' gallant grey fell, exhausted after 'the chase.' A few steps from this, the charming Loch Katrine suddenly appears. The upper part only is visible at first, 'the Island' obstructing the view, so that new and varied beauties are discovered at every step. The scene is calculated to inspire and elevate the nobler feelings of the visitor. Passing along the banks, we came to 'the beach of pebbles white as snow,' opposite 'the Island,' where Fitz James first saw Ellen:

'I well believe,' the maid replied, As her light skiff approached the side, 'I well believe that ne'er before Your foot hath trod Loch Katrine's shore.'

The 'promontory,' 'the bay,' 'the brake,' 'the pebbles,' are all here; and to enliven the scene, there was an old man who might have been Allan Bane, playing wildly on a flute; and he gave us some fine old Scotch airs, which were quite a treat. We had a thunder-shower, too, and taking shelter in a cave, we heard 'heaven's artillery' echoed through these mighty mountains, with most impressive grandeur. On our return, with much exertion, I at length achieved the summit of one of the minor heights, and was amply repaid by the prospect therefrom. It was at sunset; and the whole of the three Lochs Katrine, Achray, and Vennachar, with the snow-capped Grampians on the north, and the distant ocean on the west, were distinctly seen. The cattle on the nearest mountains appeared not larger that cats.

* * * * *

INVERARY, HEAD OF LOCH FINE, SATURDAY, 11 P. M.--With the moon-lit lake under my window, I resume my disjointed narrative. Yesterday we had seen the Trosachs in the clearest atmosphere, but to-day they were encircled with the mists which rolled majestically along their sides, while their summits were 'bright with the beams of the morning sun.' Our hostess at Loch Achray provided us with a boat and oarsmen, and we proceeded through the pass from which

'Loch Katrine lay beneath us roll'd-- In all her length far winding lay, With promontory, creek, and bay, And islands that empurpled bright, Floated amid the livelier light; And mountains that like giants stand To sentinel enchanted land.'

How accurate and graphic the picture! This lake is about seven miles long, and perhaps half a mile wide. We sailed over its smooth and brilliantly-dark, transparent surface, and touched the banks of Ellen's Isle:

'The stranger view'd the shore around, 'Twas all so close with copse-wood bound, Nor track, nor path-way might declare That human foot frequented there.'

Our boatmen here gave us a specimen of the wonderful echoes.[3] His shrill call was answered _three times_, with perfect distinctness, and apparently from a great distance. He had a pithy way of talking, this rower. 'Do the sun's rays,' I asked, 'ever reach that glen under Ben An?' who here

'Lifts high his forehead bare.'

'Yes,' he said; 'they just give it a peep, to say 'How-dye-do?' and are off again.'

'Is it five _English_ miles across the next pass?'

'English miles, but a _Scotch road_.'

We passed the goblin cave, and enjoyed all at which 'the stranger' was enraptured and amazed; 'that soft vale,' and 'this bold brow,' and 'yonder meadow far away.' On landing, our boat-party found ponies in waiting to take us over the rough and dreary pass to Loch Lomond. Our cavalcade, with the guides, straggling along between these wild hills and precipices, was a subject for the pencil. There were some odd geniuses among us, too, who contributed much to our amusement. Arrived at Loch Lomond, we descended a rocky steep, to the banks where the steam-boat from Glasgow was to call for us. The place is called Inversnaid; but the only habitation in sight was a little hut, at the foot of a pretty cascade, where Wordsworth wrote:

'And I, methinks, 'till I grow old, As fair a maid shall ne'er behold, As I do now--the cabin small, The lake, the bay, the water-fall, And thou the spirit of them all.'

The boat took us to the head of the loch to see _Rob Roy's Cave_, (which also once gave shelter to Robert Bruce,) and then reversed her course toward Glasgow. As we proposed to see Inverary, and some of the Western Islands, we landed at Tarbet, opposite Ben Lomond. The sky looked too black to warrant an ascent; but with glasses we could see several persons on the sugar-loaf summit. A tourist wrote on the window of the inn here, in 1777, a chapter of metrical advice to those

'Whose taste for grandeur and the dread sublime Prompt them Ben Lomond's dreadful height to climb.'

From Tarbet, we took a car and rode through the grand but dreary pass of Glencroe, Ben Arthur frowning upon us for six miles, and went round the head of Loch Long to Cairndow, on Loch Fine, where we again took boat for Inverary, and had a charming moonlight sail. This is a very neat and pretty little village, belonging almost entirely to the Duke of Argyle. The houses are mostly white, and evidently arranged for effect, being clearly reflected in the quiet lake, like Isola Bella, in Italy. The duke's castle, near the village, is an elegant modern edifice, of blue granite, with a circular tower at each corner. We had a ride through the extensive parks and pleasure-grounds, which are filled with every variety of valuable exotic trees. The owner of this fine estate has not been here for fifteen years--no great argument for his grace's good taste, or justice to his tenants. Some of the most eminent British artists have found ample employment for their pencils in this neighborhood. The loch is celebrated for its fine herrings, which is the chief article of trade of Inverary.

* * * * *

MONDAY MORNING.--At three o'clock we were awakened for the steam-boat, and were not more than half dressed, when the steam ceased from growling, and the bell from tolling; nevertheless, we caught up what garments remained, leaving a few as wind-falls to the chamber-maid, and fled to the dock. The steamer was off, sure enough, but came to, and sent a boat for us, on seeing our signals. It is now broad day-light, and was, indeed, at two o'clock! The sail down Loch Fine is rather tedious. It is a salt-water lake, from thirty to forty miles in length, and the shores are low and barren as the sea-coast.

We stopped at several places for passengers, and passing between the isles of Bute and Arran, (celebrated in 'The Lord of the Isles,') we entered the Kyles of Bute, where the shores are verdant and interesting.

At the town of Rothsay, on the Isle of Bute, we saw the ruins of the famous Rothsay Castle; and a few miles farther, we passed the Castle of Dunoon, and several pretty summer-villas on the banks of the water. Entering the Frith of Clyde, we stopped at the flourishing ports of Greenock and Port Glasgow, and the strong fortress of Dumbarton, built on a lofty and picturesque rock, at the mouth of the river Clyde. From here, is a fine view of the Vale of Leven, and the whole outline of Ben Lomond, about fifteen miles distant. The pretty vale in the fore-ground is the scene of Smollet's beautiful ode:

'On Leven's banks when free to rove, And tune the rural pipe to love.'

In sailing up the Clyde, the most remarkable sight was the immense number of steam-boats which passed us in rapid succession. We met no less than _twenty-one_, of a large class, on the river, all bound out; and I was told that upward of eighty are owned in Glasgow alone. We landed at Glasgow, after a voyage of twelve hours, during which we had stopped at as many different places. I was surprised at the extent and elegance of Glasgow, as much as at its evident importance as a manufacturing and commercial city. It seems to be scarcely second to Liverpool, and is certainly the third city in Great Britain on the score of population and trade.

It is too far up the river for a seaport, so that Greenock is a sharer in its prosperity. The buildings, like those of the _new_ town of Edinburgh, are nearly all of a handsome free-stone, which is found in great abundance near the city, and is the cheapest as well as the best material they can use. Loss by fire is especially rare. Some of the private residences would do honor to the west end of London. The streets fronting the Clyde, on both sides, are very imposing, and are connected by four handsome stone bridges, while the banks of the river are substantially walled with granite, surmounted with iron railings. There is a public park, pleasure-ground, and gymnasium, near the river. The streets, particularly the Broadway of the town, Trongate-street, were literally thronged, quite as much so as Cheap-side and Fleet-street in the Metropolis. In this street I saw the remaining tower of the Tolbooth, where Rob Roy conducted Frank, and met Baillie Nichol Jarvie. From thence I walked up High-street to the venerable University, of which Campbell, the poet, who is a native of Glasgow, was lately principal.[4] The structure is very antique, and encloses three squares. I passed through college after college, looking as learned as possible, and graduated in the 'green,' where Frank Osbaldistone encountered Rashleigh. Farther up the street, I arrived at the old _cathedral_, one of the largest in Britain. It is now divided into three churches for Presbyterians. The pillars which support the great tower are immense. I measured my umbrella twice on _one side_ of a single square pillar. The _crypt_ (basement) where Frank Osbaldistone attended church, and was warned by Rob Roy, extends the whole length of the cathedral, and is the most curious part of it. In the grave-yard I noticed monuments to John and McGavin, author of the Protestant.

* * * The Merchants' Exchange is a splendid Corinthian edifice, and contains a noble public hall, and an extensive reading-room, where I was glad to find the _Knickerbocker_. I was surprised at the extraordinary cheapness of rents, both here and in Edinburgh, compared with those in our good city of Gotham. The very best finished three-story houses, of stone, of the largest class, and in desirable situations, may be had for four hundred and fifty dollars per annum. Our New-York landlords would demand for a similar residence, at least twelve hundred dollars. In Edinburgh, as it is not a commercial place, rents are still lower. Very superior houses, with large gardens, etc., are let for eighty pounds per year.

After seeing Langside, about two miles from Glasgow, where the cause of the ill-fated Queen of Scots was finally overthrown, I rode to Linlithgow, for the sake of a glance at her birth-place; the palace once so famous and 'fair.'

'Of all the palaces so fair, Built for the royal dwelling, Above the rest, beyond compare, Linlithgow is excelling.'

The walls remain nearly entire, but the interior was totally destroyed by fire, during one of the civil feuds. The town, as well as that of Falkirk, a few miles beyond, is dull and gloomy. Some of the old houses in Falkirk were once occupied by the knights of St. John, who had a preceptory near the place. The field where the great battle was fought, in which Wallace was defeated, is a short distance from the town. I reached Edinburgh at ten P. M., in the canal-boat from Glasgow, which goes at the rate of nine miles an hour, and landed under the batteries of the castle; having passed the most of a week, of delightful weather, among the most interesting parts of Scotland. I have been agreeably surprised at the evident marks of industry and prosperity which are almost every where apparent. The Scotch are notoriously shrewd, industrious, and thriving; but we yankees, like other nations, are apt to think ourselves far before the rest of the world in 'inventions and improvements;' and though a foreigner would sneer at my presumption, I have really felt pleased when I have seen any thing abroad 'pretty nearly' as good as _we_ can show at home. It is folly, at the same time, for us to flatter ourselves that we can in no wise take profitable example from our father-land!

FOOTNOTES:

[2] The 'Fairport' of the 'Antiquary.' Within the last twelve years, it has doubled in size and importance.

[3]

'Father!' she cried: 'the rocks around Love to prolong the gentle sound!'

[4] This office, as is well known, is now held by SIR ROBERT PEEL.

SONNETS: BY 'QUINCE.'

ADVERSITY.

WE sometimes strike the madman to the earth, And mercy deals the pain-inflicting blow, That body's suffering may give reason birth, And with slight anguish mitigate much wo. When 'neath the surgeon's hand the patient lies, Whose mortifying limb requires the knife, With fortitude he bears his agonies, Nor heeds the torture that will save his life. Thus heaven doth strike us with adversity, Thus should we bow to its omniscient will; Then through dark clouds bright sunshine we should see And sweetest comfort draw from direst ill. All is not sad, that to us seems to be, Nor all adverse, we call adversity.

AGES.

AGES! to trace thy path, my curious eye Pierces the vista of forgotten time: Ye awe me with your vast sublimity, Ye moving mysteries, that will consign The breathing form that wonders at your might, Like unto myriads o'er whom ye have swept, To the dark lethe of impris'ning night; Where I must sleep, and where they long have slept. Like the majestic ocean's waves ye roll, Which o'er the sweetest, fondest memories ride, Slow journeying toward your destined goal, With all of earth mysteriously allied. Sweep on, Time's chroniclers! yourselves shall be Engulphed at last in vast eternity!

ANGELS.

THE infant sleeping on its mother's breast, Or seeking in her eye a sunny smile-- The heart that boasts as calm and pure a rest, As spotless, and as free from earthly guile; The eye that weeps calamity to see, The hand that opens in its might to give; The crushed and sinking heart, that yearns to be Bathed in His blood who died that it might live; The pure out-gushings of the fervent soul, The God-like thoughts that raise our hearts to heaven, Have each an Angel's spirit; and control The sordid clay, to shrine our spirits given. This is all felt--but Nature bids us trace The Angel in earth's glory--woman's face.

WILSON CONWORTH.