by zeal to rescue his country from ruin, than to recover the just rights of his family-when we see him through so many difficulties, landing in a remote corner of his country, ill furnished with accommodations-when we see this banished, proscribed, darling Prince march on foot above one hundred and fifty miles, from a distant part of his dominions to the capital of his ancient kingdom, without effusion of blood, without striking a blow, or any ill accident happening, and in six weeks after his landing safely lodged in the palace of his ancestors, where none of his family had been for sixty-three years before ;-what can we conclude, but that this Prince is the care of Hea. as well as the darling of his people?" In another column it says, "On Saturday last, there was a message sent by the Prince to the ministers of the gospel of this city, desiring them to continue to preach as usual, only that they should forbear names if they should pray for the King or Royal Family; which accordingly was notified to them that evening, at their respective dwelling houses; and in consequence thereof the bells were ordered and did ring yesterday for both forenoon and afternoon sermons, but none of the ministers

ven,

appeared at either diets, so we had no preaching in the churches yesterday." It seems then that there was one class and that the most learned and well-informed one, which did not join in the general joy at the Pretender's success-for well they knew that if he succeeded to the throne, Popery would be once more forced upon themand though he, like all the other Stuarts, might be fair in his professions to the contrary, like the rest, he would prove the bitter enemy of protestant Presbyterianism.

This ancient sheet is 12 by 18 inches, about one quarter the size of its representative of the present day, for the "Caledonia Mercury" is still in existence, and I dare say is as loyal to her Majesty the Queen, as was its ancestor to Prince Charlie.

Bawthornden and Roslin.

"There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold
Lie buried within that proud chapelle ;

Each one the holy vault doth hold,

But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle."

ONE fine morning, my antiquarian friend mentioned in a former chapter, and myself, found ourselves seated on the top of a coach, on our way to visit the beautiful and romantic localities of Roslin and Hawthornden. The driver cracked his whip, and we dashed down Minto street, on our way out of the city. This street is lined on both sides with neat houses, having court-yards or gardens in front, which are the residences of wealthy merchants doing business in the city. The distance we were to go with the coach was five miles, and we had accomplished about one-half, when, as we were ascending a slight inclination, the coach gave a tremendous lurch to one side, which almost overset us. Leaping off to see what was wrong, we found one of the axletrees broken. ing impatient of delay, we pushed forward on foot,

Be

thankful that no more serious consequences had resulted from the accident. We soon came to St. Catherines, the seat of Sir William Rae, Bart., where, my friend told me, was a celebrated place in popish times, called the "Balm Well of St. Catherine." We passed in at the gate, and soon found the well, but the shrine of the saint that formerly stood over it is now gone. The following circumstance, says tradition, was the origin of it : "St. Catherine, having a commission from Margaret, Queen of Malcolm Canmore, to procure a quantity of oil from Mount Sinai, wherewith to anoint the head of her eldest son, the heir apparent to the throne, by some accident spilled a few drops at this place. In answer to her earnest supplications that not a drop of so precious a fluid might be lost, this well, with all the miraculous powers ascribed to it, gushed forth from the earth. It was covered with a dark, oily looking substance, brushing which aside, we drank of its waters beneath, and found them unpleasantly bitter. After thus refreshing ourselves with this holy water, we proceeded on our way. We soon reached the village of Loanhead, where we were joined by the clergyman of the place, whose social qualities, and inti

mate acquaintance with the scenes which we were about to visit, added not a little to the interest of our party. It was one of those fine days, not too warm, but just agreeable for walking, when persons usually feel in good humor with all around them, and when nature seems to put on even more than her usually pleasant aspect. We walked on through a most beautiful road down to the valley of the romantic Esk, over which we crossed by a fine bridge.

On the sloping side of the hill, overlooking the lovely dell of the Esk, I saw a beautiful cottage embowered in trees, and around the door and windows of which the woodbine and the honeysuckle were sweetly entwined. It seemed indeed a delightful retreat. "That," said the clergyman, "is the residence of the celebrated Thomas de Quincy, the English opium eater."

We passed through an estate called Springfield, the grounds of which are beautifully laid out. By a romantic and very curious path, along the banks of the Esk, we reached Hawthornden, the classical habitation of the poet Drummond, who was the friend of Ben Jonson and Shakspeare. The old mansion is built on the lofty projecting summit