fertile plains of Dalkeith; the Castle of Craigmillar, and the towering hills of Pentland, make up a bit of landscape rarely excelled in beauty.

Descending by the Salisbury Crags, after catching a glimpse of glory through one yawning crevice, here by this turnstile is Jeanie Dean's cottage. It was here that

the Laird of Dumbiedikes conducted his unsuccessful courtship, by pertinaciously gazing at the fair object of his admiration with great, stupid, greenish eyes; and it was sitting in that ingle that he achieved the only observation he ever addressed to the beloved one: "Jeanie, I say, Jeanie, it's a braw day out by, and no that ill for boot hose."

Along Nicholson Street, in South Bridge, stands the College of Edinburgh, in the place where that murder of Darnley was committed which has raised such a heat of controversy as to the implication of Mary in the crime. At the end of South Bridge, at the left hand corner, is the Tron Church in which Chalmers poured forth his smooth and rounded periods. Here the famous High Street runs right and left, and turning to the right, past the Exchange and Signet Library, we come to the Parliament House, enriched with fine statues by Chantrey and Roubillac. In the outer hall, now two centuries old, the last Scottish parliament ratified that union which has contributed so much to the present high position of the nation, but was then regarded with such foreboding by every Scotchman. It was on that occasion that Lord Belhaven, now stretched in the abbey church of Holyrood, depicted the ancient mother, Caledonia, like Cæsar sitting in the midst of the senate, ruefully gazing around, wrapping her mantle over her, awaiting the fatal blow, and breaking her last with the exclamation, "And thou, too, my son!"

A little higher up, on the left, is the Cathedral of St. Giles, the tutelary saint of Edinburgh, which was the scene of the abortive attempt of Charles to establish the episcopal form of worship in the capital of Scotland, and which witnessed the exploit of Jenny Geddes. Passing by the Victoria Hall, in which is held the general assembly of the Church of Scotland, we arrive at the Castle of Edinburgh. What struck us most in wandering within its historic walls was, not any of the warlike associations which cluster round them, not the jewels

which have sparkled on so many royal heads, but one thing of light, which sheds a glory on the chamber it occupies—a portrait of Mary Queen of Scots. We have seen how her memory lives in the palace of Holyrood; how tenderly the pilgrim to her shrine may pause in recollection of her beauty and misfortunes over the spot still dyed with Rizzio's blood: but let the man who wonders that the name of a dead woman should yet summon champions from almost every region of the earth as trusting as Don Quixote, and as chivalrous as Richard the Lion-hearted, stand in that room of the Castle of Edinburgh, and gaze upon those eyes that seem to burn the canvas, that forehead cut from Parian marble, that countenance breathing the combined influence of dignity and beauty, reverence and love. In the same apartment there is also a portrait of her son James, and in the adjoining one that second Solomon was born. When not many days old, he was let down in a basket from the window to the bottom of the precipice below, and hurried off to a place of safety at Stirling.

From the ramparts without, the splendid view comprehends that spot, rich with martyrs' blood, whither so many a steadfast Covenanter was dragged to glorify God in the Grass Market. Down the High Street again, and past the Tron Church, we stand to decipher the half-defaced inscription over the portal of John Knox's house: "LVFE

GOD-ABOVE-AL-AND-YOVR-NICHT-BOVR-AS-YI

SELF." Three centuries ago, the stern reformer wrote his great work, "The History of the Reformation," within these very walls.

All this of Edinburgh have we seen in a summer's day; and though the New Town yet remains unexplored, except from Calton Hill and Arthur's Seat, how much have we found to feed the thought.

Down this street, in 1628, to the sound of music, in unprecedented pomp, surrounded by the proudest nobles of the land, who bore his sword and sceptre, passed Charles I., descended from a long line of Scottish kings, to his coronation at Holyrood. Up this street, twenty-two short years afterwards, the last man in his three kingdoms who was willing to die for him or for his race, walked to his place of execution at the Cross of Edinburgh. On the 21st of May, 1650, decked in

rich apparel like his royal master, though for a very different scene, James Graham, Marquis of Montrose, strode as if to victory past that Tolbooth now in view, and there, within an hour, his blood-stained locks were stiffening in the breeze of spring.

One more historical contrast connected with the scene before us, and with a more lasting, because more peaceful revolution. In 1745, rushing in by the Netherbow Gate, a crowd of Highlanders filled, in unresisted might, the space on which we are now looking. There was not a hand raised

THE following strange tale, not, however without some interest, is translated from the French.

It contains the account of rather a strange rencontre of four individuals, who made themselves prominent in France, during the middle and end of the sixteenth century, and is as follows:

One stormy evening, as the rain fell in torrents, an old woman who lived in a miserable hut, in the Forest of Saint Germain, and who passed in the surrounding country for a kind of witch, heard a loud knocking at her door. She opened it, a young man on horseback presented himself, and craved hospitality.

By the dull light of a lamp, which she held in her hand, she perceived him to be a young nobleman. He appeared to be quite young, and his dress denoted rank. The old woman lighted a fire, and inquired of the stranger whether he was hungry and desired food. The appetite of a youth of sixteen is like his heart at the same age, craving, and not difficult to please, and he immediately accepted her offer. A morsel of cheese and a loaf of black bread from the cupboard was all the old dame could produce.

"I have nothing more," said she to the young nobleman; "this is all that your grinding tithes and taxes leave a poor creature to offer a traveller; the peasants, too, in this country, call me a witch and sorceress, and make that an excuse to their consciences for stealing from me the little that my poor field produces."

"Ma foi!" said the young man, "if ever

I become King of France, I will suppress the taxes, and teach the people better."

"God grant it!" replied the old woman.

At these words the gentleman drew to the table to commence his repast; but, at the same moment, a fresh knock at the door arrested him.

The old woman opened it, and perceived another horseman, drenched with rain, who also begged for shelter. The same hospitality was instantly granted him, and on the stranger's entrance, she perceived that he too was young, and judging from his appearance, of noble descent.

"What is it you, Henry ?" cried one.

"Yes, Henry," replied the other both were named Henry. The old woman discovered from their conversation, that they were of the number of a large hunting-party conducted by the king, Charles IX., which had been dispersed by the storm.

"Mother," said the second comer, "have you nothing better to offer us ?"

"Nothing," replied she.

"Then," said he, "we will go shares."

The first Henry demurred, but glancing at the resolute eye and strong frame of the second Henry, said, in somewhat a chagrined tone,

Agreed; we will share equally."

He dared not express his secret motive, but he feared, if not sharing equally, his companion would appropriate the whole. They accordingly sat down on either side of the table, and one had already begun to cut the bread with his dagger, when a third knock was heard at the door. The meeting was indeed singular. It was again a youth,

a nobleman, and a Henry. The old woman looked at them with amazement.

The first comer wished to hide the bread and cheese, the second replaced them on the table, and laid his sword by the side. The third Henry smiled.

"You do not wish then that I should share your supper," said he. "Well! I can wait, I have a strong stomach."

"The supper," said the first Henry, "belongs, by right, to the first comer."

"The supper," said the second, "belongs to him who knows best how to defend it.” The third Henry became red with anger, and said haughtily,

"Perhaps it belongs to him who knows best how to fight for it."

These words were scarcely uttered, when the first Henry drew his poignard; the two others, their swords. As they were first beginning the affray they were startled by a fourth knock at the cabin-door; a fourth young man, a fourth nobleman, a fourth Henry is introduced. At the sight of drawn swords he produced his own, and attaching himself to the weakest party, he joined in the combat. The old woman, terrified, hid herself, and the weapons strike everything in their reach. The lamp fell down and was extinguished, but they continue to fight in the darkness. The noise of the swords lasted sometime, then gradually became less, and at length ceased altogether. Then the old woman ventured to issue forth from her hiding-place, and rekindling the lamp, she perceived the four young men stretched on the ground, each having a slight wound. She examined them carefully, and found that fatigue, rather than loss of blood, had overcome them.

They rose from the ground one after the other, and ashamed of what had transpired in the heat of their passion, they began laughing, and exclaimed :

"Come, let us now sup together, without any more fighting."

But when they came to look for their supper, they found it on the ground, all trodden under foot, and stained with blood. Meagre as it was, they regretted it. In addition to this, the cabin was destroyed, and the old witch, seated in a corner, fixed her pale red eyes on the four young men.

"Why dost thou stare on us thus?" said the first Henry, who was troubled at her

gaze.

"I am reading the fates written on your foreheads," replied she.

“As you have

The second Henry commanded her sternly to disclose them, and the two others laughingly acquiesced. The old woman replied: all four met in this cabin, so shall you all meet in a like destiny. As you have trampled under foot and stained with blood the bread offered you by hospitality, so will you trample under foot and stain with blood the power you might mutually share. As you have devastated and impoverished this cottage, so will you devastate and lay waste France. As you have all four been wounded in the darkness, so you will all four perish by treason and a violent death."

The four young noblemen could not refrain from laughing at the old woman's prediction.

These four noblemen were the four heroes of the Ligne, two as its leaders, and two as its enemies :

Henry of Condé : poisoned by his wife at Saint Jean d'Angely.

Henry of Guise: assassinated at Blois, by the Forty-five.

Henry of Valois : assassinated by Jacques Clement, at Saint Cloud.

Henry of Bourbon: assassinated at Paris by Ravaillac.

THE deep waters of Morecambe Bay are smooth and still this glorious summer evening; they reflect in belts of blue, and crimson, and purple, the sun-set lights above them; and near the coast, the white,

silvery rocks are imaged in a line of trembling light on the long waves that gently break upon the shore.

There are ships far out at sea; red-sailed fishing smacks, bearing outward for a night

on the deep, and stately merchant ships, with white sails swelling homewards to the great port they will gain before nightfall.

Now the panting and whirr of a steamer is heard, and soon the swift vessel is in sight, skimming rapidly across the bay, leaving its long dull trail of smoke behind it. Its crew seem light-hearted and happy; for it is an excursion packet, now conveying back to the Isle of Man the few hundreds who have been spending a gala-day in the public gardens of Liverpool. Some of the crowd on the deck, however, have more of the air of earnest travellers than the rest, and amongst these we notice a gentleman, wrapped in an ample cloak, sitting beside a young and pretty girl, who, like him, seems to feel the evening chilly, as she draws her shawl tightly around her shoulders. These two are in earnest conversation, from which, now and then, they desist to look out towards the dim land-line momentarily gaining upon them-the goal of their voyage.

Presently, far behind, another steamer is seen rapidly bearing on their track, and the captain on the paddle-box sees it, and, with a loud and hasty command below, seems to bid the men at the engine quicken their speed. The gentleman and the young girl hear the command, and its import astonishes them. Why quicken speed that is already faster than any they ever remember steamer to have made on Morecambe waters? They rise and pace the deck, she leaning on her father's arm, and talking to him happily and confidentially in the sweet, liquid tones of a foreign tongue, that attract the attention of the passengers amongst whom they move, but she observes it not.

Suddenly the vessel gives a lurch, an uncomfortable one, that throws more than one person flat on the deck, and jerks from the young girl's hand a basket and book she is carrying. A tall young man, of distinguished appearance, is passing at the instant; he has observed that father and daughter ever since they came on board, and has marvelled at her beauty and simplicity, and has caught and understood many a detached phrase of her Italian conversation as he paced the deck opposite the spot where the two were seated for so long. Now, glad to win from her a glance or a word, he stoops and restores the basket and book, and receives in return an absent "grazie!" which is no sooner pronounced, than the young girl recollects herself, and, blushing, gives the stranger a

"thank you!" of pure English, and he withdraws.

"Father! 99 abruptly, rising on tiptoe to look landward, "Father, all is not right here. We never neared the island by this short cut before. Look at the captain! he cannot stand steady. Father that steamer is gaining on us. We are racing!" She trembles violently; but when, as if by magic, the passengers catch the suspicion that had first occurred to her, she regains her calmness, her lips compress, decision lights up her eyes.

exclaims the young lady

"It must not be, father!" she says. "Who will prevent the destruction that is coming upon us?"

Her father, panic-stricken, as are half the crew, does not reply, for another fearful lurch supervenes, and he holds his breath and leans against the bulwarks in terror. "Mariana! we are lost!" he cries.

"Not if energy can save us," she replies, and looking round with a keen and searching gaze for one, who, like herself, has courage to avert the threatened danger, she fixes at once on the young stranger, who stands with angry eyes looking at the staggering captain, as though he were about to bound forward and hurl the drunkard from his elevation.

"Go, sir!" says the young girl, firmly; "bid him stay the vessel, on the peril of his life and ours."

The stranger strides forward; but he is arrested before he reaches the engine by the heaving of the deck on which he stands, and the roar of the ocean seething upwards to engulph the vessel which has now become its prey. Down falls the captain into the tide, and is seen no more. Fearful cries now rise from the doomed ship; there is a rushing forwards, as though safety were rather in the ocean than on the quivering timbers momentarily parting under foot. It is marvellous to see the energy of that young girl. She knows not the use of the helm; but intuition guides her to the terrified helmsman, who is about to quit his post, but stays at her calm command, and buoys up the stern of the vessel, whither she beckons the affrighted crew. There is a fearful pause.

The young girl stands by

her father, and gazes at him, as one who is taking a death-look. Suddenly a sound, indescribable, is heard, a roaring and hissing of steam, followed by the shrieks of men, women, and children, as, with a vast shock,

the vessel strikes on a rock, and almost all are thrown overboard.

"Padre mio!" cries the young girl, clasping her hands in agony; for her father is launched into the waves, torn from her very grasp. She is leaping after him, when a strong arm seizes her, and lays her on the deck. Up she springs again, and looks down on the sea, calm as a mirror, except where it is ruffled by the crowds of human beings struggling for life on its surface.

She

Oh he will be saved! for that young and powerful arm has circled him. leans over the bulwarks, and lets fall a rope to the brave youth who is swimming onwards with her father, when a crash is heard behind her; a huge iron cramp leaps into the air, discharged from the bursting engine, and as it falls it strikes her father on the head, just as the young man has brought him to the ship's side, and heavily he sinks beneath the surface. Again his young deliverer battles with the tide to rescue him, but in vain; and at length, spent with his exertions, it seems that he too will perish.

"This way!" cries the young girl, beckoning him to the stern, over which she is leaning with the rope. She must save him who would have saved her father. A few more strokes of his weary arms, and he seizes the rope, and, with a strength almost supernatural, she hoists him up the ship's side. The helmsman sees her daring deed; he hastens to her aid, and the youth is saved.

She is conscious of no more till she is safe on land, watched over by the only relative now left on earth.

"Padre mio !" is the first cry that breaks from her with returning consciousness. Who shall describe her agony when first she realizes that a father's voice shall never answer hers again.

And the young man is saved with her by the captain of the steamer which had followed in the wake of the doomed ship. He lies for days at a Manx hotel, unconscious of the world and its concerns; but when he wakes to reality, he remembers that fearful night on the ocean; and he thinks of her who saved him, and of him he would have saved. He asks tidings of her, but can obtain none. At length he gets a clue whereby to discover her, only to lose her again, though, immediately. He hears that, like him, she was ill for days; that she was

taken to the house of an aged, invalid aunt, who tended her during her illness, and, as soon as returning health would allow, took her across the sea again to England, no one knew where.

A few summers ago, as an evening of early August was rapidly dimming into night, all was life and excitement in the halls and passages of Stanley, that ancient mansion which Mr. Eldridge, the iron millionaire, had bought from the last needy scion of a noble line. It was a dinnerparty, no uncommon occurrence at Stanley, but one which never failed to bring confusion into every branch of the establishment, from the mistress and lady's-maid, down to the scullery and stables.

We have said it disordered every branch, but it was not so; for, just at the time of which we write, there had been grafted a new branch to the Eldridge family, under the auspices of one who, having learned from childhood that repose is refinement, was ever unruffled herself by the pomp of display, and toned to calmness all who came under her influence.

But few sounds of the tramp of servants and of festive preparation reached the remote wing of Stanley in which the children's school-room was situated. It was on the second story, the middle room of a suite of three, the children's nursery opening from it on one side, the apartment of the governess on the other. The two little ones had on this evening been removed early from the gentle rule of their teacher, to be subjected to the hot iron sway of curling tongs; and the governess, rejoicing in solitude and leisure, mused awhile over the bright fire, for it was a night of rain and wind, until at length, saddened by thought, she rose, closed the curtains over the broad, mullioned window, and then, opening her piano, drew from its cold keys such tones of sweet harmony as genius only could have inspired. Presently her voice melted into the strain, so softly and soothingly, that her little pupil, Mary, entering at the moment, fairly forgot that she was attired in a crisp robe of starch, and, heedless of nurse's prohibitions, obeyed the impulse of a musical nature, and, sinking on the hearthrug, sat with her face buried in her hands, sweetly dreaming of fairy-land, till the low melody ceased.

Tea was over; the children-curls, frills,