praying with a lot of solemn Scotchmen from six in the afternoon till three in the morning, in order to lull suspicion, and create the impression that he was quite godly.

The view from Stirling Castle is magnificent, only surpassed in Scotland by the view we enjoyed to-day from the Castle of Edinburgh. Below are the garden spots once laid out by the mother of Queen Mary, and to the north is a small castle, where so many executions took place, and where the death axe sounded so frequently.

Not far, is the scene of one of Sir William Wallace's most splendid engagements, where he disputed the passage of the Forth by the English army under Cressingham. The Highlands stretch with a bold sweep upon the distant horizon. From Stirling towers, where often the spectator of many a bloody fray stood poised betwixt hope and fear, we took our final view of those homes of song and story,-those Highlands, where the mist seems continually to hover, and the hardy heather seems ever to bloom.

The railroad whirls us past many a scene renowned, prime among which is that famous field of Bannockburn, where Bruce won the day against more than double his number.

We have spent two days in Edinburgh, never ceasing to admire its architectural elegance, both in church and mansion, in castle and monument. But most is the city to be remembered for its Acropolis-that feature which makes it akin to Athens. The view from it is inspiriting and noble, expanding the soul, and almost fitting it with wings "wherewith to scorn the earth.” But wherever we go, whether to Scott's monument, to the Old Parliament House, to St. Giles, where Knox talked gospel, where Regent Stuart lies, and Napier the author of the Logarithms reposes, and where the Covenant was signed, to Calton Hill, where monuments and a fragmentary temple mark it prominently; whether to the old Tolbooth or down Canonsgate; in old town or new; whether we enter the old room where Queen Mary slept, in the castle, or look at the palace of Holyrood, the talk and the cry

is "the Queen! the Queen!!" and sure enough, at three o'clock all Edinburgh, and the adjacent country had assembled near the ancient Holyrood, and under the shadow and upon the green sides of Salisbury crags, to see Victoria and her handsome husband. We mingled with the mass, saw the royal folk (plainly dressed people, and really human), and can avouch that no ostentation was displayed by royalty on this occasion. The Queen wore a very ordinary bonnet, without ribbons, shading a reddish ordinary countenance; while Prince Albert looked like a sensible, good-natured, honest German gentleman, as he undoubtedly is. Had we no other evidence of the latter fact, we might find it in the model house which he invented and caused to be erected near the Exhibition Palace, for the purpose of showing how comfortably the poor might be provided for, with little expense.

There was great excitement in the city. The Provost was knighted by a tap on the shoulder from the little Regina ; Holyrood smoked and gleamed with life; the people were in groups about it; the railroad cars stood crowned and garlanded near; for the Queen was there in that old home of power, about to leave; and Loyalty stood without, ready to hurrah and throw up its hat!

From Edinburgh our course was over the Border; not omitting, by the way, a visit to Melrose Abbey, the delicate beauty of whose ruins, Poetry has for ever enshrined; to Dryburgh Abbey, the place of sepulture of Sir Walter Scott, and rich in an old Druidical umbrage and in its ivied hangings; to Abbotsford, the repository of the Antiquary's curiosities, and the home of the Author of Waverly; to Fountain Abbey, in North England, —an immense ruin in the noble park of Earl Grey, with all the relics of the monastic age still clustering about tower and transept, nave and prison, kitchen and cloister; and not omitting either the castles, gray and black, which frowned in early days defiant at each other across the Border, now in the decrepitude of age, but, like old soldiers, still vaunting their wounds and

strength even in decay. Such visits were not made, be it ever remembered, without crossing thy stream, rushing, romantic Tweed! nor without admiring the select diversity of pastoral beauty, majestic hills, arching bridges, splendid palaces, and the wizard enchantment which dwell in thy sweet valley, Teviotdale!

XXXVI.

Crossing the Border, and the Old Abbeys.

"Within the quiet of the convent cell,

The well-fed inmates pattered prayer, and slept,
And sinned, and liked their penance well."

Bryant.

TH

THIS last day of summer has met us with a most delightful sunshine in this capital of North England, the ancient city of York. It comes, too, upon the holy day, when the air is hushed. A quietude of unaccustomed delight seems showered upon field and grove, minster and wall, as the sunlight glances upon the earth. The cool air, which has so long followed us through Scotland, and down to this city, gently gives way before the warming radiance. The influence woos one from the fireside.

Through manifold turnings, the ancient walls of the city are gained, and easily ascended. How exhilarating is the Sabbathmorning walk along the gray battlements! Spring hath come again in seeming. The birds in the apple-trees below are almost as numerous as the fruitage, and twitter with so transporting a melody, that Silence herself seemeth to listen. It is indeed a 'merry, merry sunshine.' The green hedges glisten with the freshening morning. The lowing of the kine, ever and anon, is borne toward the walls from the country beyond; while, as I turn, the city appears to rest solemnly and still as the gray walls themselves. Chimney-stacks no longer stream with smoke. Their week-day work is done. They join the spires in their

silent gesture upward. The Minster-that old York Minster, so celebrated in annals, and so glorious in structure-stands out prominently in the glistening air, with its lofty tower of solid masonry, companioned by two other towers, with spiry turrets crowned,' high above the Gothic arches and niches which grace the body of the immense pile. The eye glances at many an old and humble church, with stained windows and blackened stone, half hid in the green copses and red-tiled houses which, intermingling, give the city a rural aspect. The slate roofs here and there may be seen by the dazzling glance of the sun upon them, which, upon this last summer day, makes all nature shimmer in the grateful sheen. The chimes begin their morning hymn, inundating the glittering landscape with viewless waves of sound.

This is a scene that awakens many a memory which the English classics have implanted by their faithful delineations of English town and country. Cowper and Thomson are beneath my eye in their placid, bright, original features. How blessed is that country which can boast so glorious a landscape-so green, so goodly, so pleasing,' that the harp of Orpheus is not more charming How doubly blessed is that country whose native genius hath painted, in undying language, the quiet beauty and cheerful spirit that brood over field and city, dale and hill!

6

There is a similar pensive beauty clinging to the country throughout the North of England and the South of Scotlandand which may be called the Border-that pleases, and engenders a deep devotional spirit while it pleases. Was it not this peculiarity which led to the erection of such piles as Melrose Abbey, Dryburgh Abbey, and Fountain Abbey? But of these by and by, when we take the reader over the border.

The tramp of many feet upon the pavements indicates the church-going crowd. We have been too long absent from worship not to wish for an hour's communion in the house of God. A stranger need not inquire the way to York Minster; for it is its own great guide to its own great temple. It cannot be sur