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rich in its tones that ever awoke the sympathies of my heart: it has been beautifully compared to the far-off melody, with which the great poet of Italy has broken the repose of his autumnal evenings. To give you an idea of Mr. Alison's style, I will quote two beautiful passages from his sermons, although I do not subscribe to the political opinions he displays: “ England has been called to guard the fortunes of the human race; to preserve, amid her wavés, the sacred flame that was to relume the world; and, like the cherubim that watched the gates of Paradise, to turn every way her flaming sword against the foes of God and man." “ It seemed to our desponding eye, as if the old age

of the human race had come,the sun of Righteousness was about to set amid the shadows of evening, and one long night overspread the moral world. These days and these terrors are passed. The Spirit of God again moved upon the face of the deep, and the order and the harmony of creation is again beginning to appear.” Mr. Alison resembles, in his elegant manners and in the poetic imagery of his style, Dr. Glendy of Bal. timore, whom I know you so much admire. It is not alone his oratorical talents which make Dr. G. so deservedly a favourite with every person of taste.

The amiable tolerance of his religious opinions, and the cheerful piety and active philanthropy which breathe through his whole deportment, set him in glaring opposition with those gloomy fanatics,

who “ show us the steep and thorny way to Heaven," whilst they secretly perhaps primrose path of dalliance tread."

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Where Esk, throwoods, rolls o'er his rocky bed,
The tower of Roslin rears its ancient head.
Destructive Time has urg'd the pile's decay;
Intestine war has swept bis strength away:
The white thorn rises from the yawning walls,
The gadding ivy o'er each buttress crawls;
And in those chambers where the fair reclin'd,
Crows roost, and jackdaws chatter to the wind.

Ruins of Roslin.

Edinburgh, April 28th, 1819. I HAVE been spending the two last days at Roslin, about nine miles from Edinburgh. After an early dinner, I began my walk with a couple of intelligent friends, who are almost as great enthusiasts of nature as myself. We arrived at Roslin just time enough to make our arrangements for our next day's excursions, In the morning, leaving my companions in the arms of Morpheus, I sallied out early enough to see the stars which spangled the firmament

'gin to pale their ineffectual fires.” After strolling about for some time, I beheld the first rosy beams of the dawning day, and then walked to an eminence, to enjoy a country covered with hanging foliage, and either swelling into

lofty hills, or sinking into deep dells, with the most delightful variety. There was a breathless stillness in the air; the mists had not yet disappeared from the valley below--but the fog soon drew up, and, like the rising curtain of a theatre, displayed the hitherto concealed beauties of the landscape. I discerned the rich openings of the valley unfolding its charms before me. Proceeding onwards, along the banks of the Esk, I soon found myself in a landscape through which flowed a crystal rivulet; it meandered amid the flowery grass, and, at length, rushing over the rocks, it wandered murmuring through the beautiful vale. The scene before me appeared with all the fresh bursting brightness of novelty! I took a hasty sketch of it; but I felt that the best picture would do no more than merely recal to life a few of those images whose floating variety keeps a picturesque region as magnificently changeable as the great sea itself.

After a breakfast in the true style of Scotch profusion and luxury, which the great novelist appears to take such delight in describing, we accompanied a cicerone to see Roslin chapel, which is in fine preservation. As the Scotish history recals no classic allusions, and is involved in the darkness and barbarity of the feudal times, the view of this splendid relique, however perfect, does not give half the pleasure which the most ruined pile of Roman magnificence inspires into the admirer of those former masters of the world. The guide, of

course, first went through his precious round of learning about the colonne torse, built, as he gravely observed, by an apprentice, when his master was at Rome, studying sculpture. When the master came home, (with his pocket full of plans, no doubt,) he fell into such a passion at the presumption of the apprentice, that he, like a true Scot, knocked out his brains with a hammer! The roofs and walls of this chapel are overloaded with decorations of sculpture-some of the pillars are ornamented with Arabesque figures; leaves, flowers and groups are scattered about with profusion-and the whole is blended in one harmonious tinge of green and mossy dampness. The chapel is. topped by an elegant Grecian dome, adorned with rosaces, done with exquisite fineness.

The castle is in a state of dilapidation-its very ruins ruined! But its yellow shattered walls are agreeably contrasted with the surrounding oaks and pines, which cast a shade as dark as night. In order to enjoy the view to advantage, I took a seat at a distance

“ Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out

Upon the brook that brawls along the wood.” The banks of the Esk are fringed with the interlacing boughs and foliage of the trees, whose pomp of verdure deepens as it recedes

There is a beautiful contrast between the rocks which present "the gray and grief-worn aspect of old days,” and the inextricable richness of the groves in the

from the eye.

course of the rivulet; and, as they advance towards the horizon, they mingle into one dim magnificent amphitheatre, over which, says an elegant author, some presiding spirit of soothing loneliness seems to hover like a garment. We accompanied the guide into the vaults, hewn out of masses of rock. The rooms through which we passed contain loop-holes, from which the arrows were shot on the enemy—some cells were destined for the victims of those nauseous wretches, the feudal barons.

From this place, we walked to Hawthornden, about two miles below Roslin. The rock is topped by a solitary building, which hangs over the frightful precipice and the Esk, whose waves dash against the intercepting masses of stone. The old castle in which Drummond entertained Ben Jonson, no longer exists; but every object recals to mind that period,

“When Jonson sate in Drummond's social shade'We walked along the river side, which cost us no small trouble and pains, but at length we got into the broad frequented path which leads to Edinburgh.

St. Bernard's well attracts a great many pilgrims to the shrine of Hygēia. The water from the well has the taste and smell of rotten eggs, and contains sulphuretted hydrogen in abundance. The precious records kept by the porter, (who looks like old Dr. Johnson near Howard's park, Baltimore,) attest the almost miraculous powers of the mineral fluid. Over

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