being both floored and vaulted with stone. There was an immense fire-place, and in it a most ancient iron grate, the bars of which were worn extremely thin with age. This was declared to be the very original grate of Wallace's day, but that seemed improbable. Within the chimney, a little way up, and not easily discovered, is the entrance to a subterranean passage, extending, it is said, under the garden as far as Wallace's tree. This passage, as I learned, had been lately explored. It was intended, no doubt, as a hiding-place, and one would think it a secure one. How astonished would his enemies have been, if, after seeing Wallace enter this room in his flight from them, they had broken in and found no one there! In those barbarous ages, when men hunted each other like wild beasts, all these stratagems were had recourse to.

We may talk of

the chivalry and romance of the middle ages, but, after all, how much happier are our own peaceful days.

In the garden, at a short distance from the house, is another ancient tree, called "Wallace's Yew." It wears the mark of great age, but it has borne time's brunt much better than the oak, for it is still green and flourishing, and supporting a progeny of spreading branches. This is a better emblem than the oak, of Wallace's fame, which will be ever green.

"Wallace," says the historian of Paisley, "was the second son of a Scottish knight. His uncle, a priest, took great pains to inspire his nephew with free and generous sentiments. One maxim, which

he strove to impress strongly upon his

memory, was the following, which the hero seems to have made the motto of his life:

Dico tibi verum, libertas optima verum ;
Nunquam servili sub nexu vivito, fili.

(I will tell you a truth-the best of possessions is liberty; never, my son, live beneath a servile yoke.) While valor in war," continues the historian, "fortitude in adversity, and disinterestedness in peace, shall be deemed cardinal virtues of mankind, the name of Wallace will be remembered in Scotland with deep veneration."

TANNAHILL'S HOLE.

-Dreadful attempt,

Just reeking from self-slaughter, in a rage
To rush into the presence of our Judge.-
Duty requires we calmly wait the summons,
Nor dare to stir till Heaven shall give permission:
Like sentries that must keep their destined stand,
And wait the appointed hour, till they're relieved.
Those only are the brave, who keep their ground,
And keep it to the last.

BLAIR.

ON the way to Wallace's Tree, I stopped to contemplate with melancholy feelings a spot called "Tannahill's Hole," where that unhappy poet drowned himself. It is by the side of the canal that leads to Glasgow. Here, a small stream, called the Candron Burn, falls into a deep hole, some ten feet in diameter, and, passing under the canal, rises on the other side. This was the miserable place into which the unfortunate man plunged, to rise no more. He was, no doubt, immediately carried by the force of the current under the canal, so that it was not in his power to extricate himself, even supposing that he had at once repented, as so many others have under similar circumstances done, of the rash and fatal step he had taken. His hat and coat were found on a stone at the top, and thus plainly pointed out where and how he had perished.

A black man, a diver, called "black Peter," was at once employed to search for the body; and he found it, as was expected, under the canal. The family of Tannahill were so grateful to Peter for this effort, that, to the end of his life, they gave him a house rent-free; and when he died, the only surviving brother of the poet followed his remains to the grave as chief mourner. He died a few years ago, at a good old age, and, as my informant expressed it, "the best of the town was at his funeral." nahill's death took place in 1810, when he was but thirty-six years old,—about the same age as Burns and Byron.

Tan

It is really time that these tragedies of poetic life were ended: we have had enough of them: in fact, the thought of them begins to be painful and disgusting rather than interesting. I must confess, that I feel more inclined to blame than to pity these self-immolators. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, if not in all cases whatever, their miserable ends have been the result of their own want of moral and religious principle. The poet, indeed, by the necessary constitution of his temperament, is sensitive and excitable; his nerves are more finely strung than those of most men, for otherwise he would not be susceptible of those delicate impressions which he receives and utters again in song ;just as, without its peculiar form and tight-drawn strings, the Æolian harp could not catch and breathe forth the music that is hidden in the wind. But this delicacy or susceptibility of constitution is no sufficient excuse for misery or self-murder. The good Creator, who gave that sensitive temperament,