columns, seven at each side, and two at the east end. All the arches of the side-aisles are elaborately ornamented with curious mouldings. The capitals of the columns and the friezes are decorated with foliage, and a great variety of emblematic figures, principally consisting of scriptural representations. At the base of one of the pillars there is a large flat stone, which, it is supposed, covers ten Barons of Roslin, who were buried in full armor, and all of whom died before 1690. According to an ancient tradition, this chapel was supernaturally illuminated on the death of any member of the family of Roslin. Walter Scott alludes to this in his exquisite ballad of Rosabelle. This lady, according to the ballad, while attempting to cross the Frith, in the night, was drowned:

"O'er Roslin all that dreary night

A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;
"Twas broader than the watch-fire light,
And redder than the bright moonbeam.
It glared on Roslin's castled rock,

It ruddied all the copsewood glen;
"Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak,

And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.
Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud,

Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffined lie;

Each baron, for a sable shroud,

Sheathed in his iron panoply,

Blazed battlement and pinnet high—

Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair-
So still they blaze when fate is nigh

The lordly line of high St. Clair.”

At the south-east corner of the chapel, immediately under the high altar, is a flight of twentyfour steps, much broken, which conducts to a subterraneous chapel, supposed to have been used as a vestry.

A kind of melancholy steals over one while wandering amid ruins like these. Every chiseled column and elaborately carved capital must have been the result of patient industry and untiring genius. The whole building was probably the labor of many years for hundreds of men, and, though the work of their hands remains, yet who can tell aught of the workmen? When completed, thousands thronged these now deserted aisles— generation of worshipers succeeded generation— but now, though the temple where they congregated remains, they have become as the clods of the valley. The hope of immortality is the only relief to this dark picture; and though their religion was one of superstition and ignorance, yet we are not without hope that some of them may have found the way of life, and are now rejoicing

in that temple "not made with hands, eternal in the heavens."

After satisfying our curiosity among these interesting scenes, we turned our steps once more toward Loanhead, where we arrived about six o'clock, somewhat fatigued with our long walk, but ready to do justice to a substantial meal which we found awaiting us. After enjoying for a short time the Christian intercourse of the clergyman's family, we bade him farewell, and, mounting once more the top of the coach, were soon whirled into Edinburgh. Thus ended my pleasant ramble through the picturesque dell of the river Esk-a ramble which included much fine scenery, some of which, though rough and rugged, was, at the same time, as beautiful and romantic as any I ever beheld.

Linlithgow

"Of all the palaces so fair,

Built for the royal dwelling,

In Scotland, far beyond compare,
Linlithgow is excelling."

ABOUT half way between Edinburgh and Glasgow lies the venerable old town of Linlithgow, on the shore of the beautiful lake (or loch, as it is called in Scotland,) of the same name. The name signifies "the lake of the broad valley," from the fact that it is situated in the centre of a fine fertile plain, and not surrounded with rocks and hills, as sheets of water like this usually are.

Like many old towns, it consists of but one street, and that a very crooked one, of about three quarters of a mile in length, containing a population of 4,000 souls. Few places are more intimately associated with Scottish history than this. It was connected with the wars of Wallace and Bruce was the birthplace of Queen Mary-while its palace was long the residence of the Stuarts. Too much cannot well be said of the exceeding

beauty of the lake; while upon its banks, on a charming grassy knoll, one of the most lovely positions that could well be imagined, stands the ruins of the old palace. The town itself is a queer looking place; most of the houses are very old and venerable-some standing with their gable ends to the street. One of these bears the date of 1597, and has for a motto, "Ve Big Ye Se Varly," (we build you see securely.) Some of the houses are finished inside with stuccoed ceilings and wainscoated walls, and are vaulted with stone on the ground floor-having been, in former times, the residences of the nobility. One old edifice near the railway station belonged to the Knights Templars, and afterward to the order of St. John.

I was much interested in wandering through this strange old town: it is the best preserved specimen of the past I have ever seen. The railway seemed to be the only prominent modern interpolation. This town is celebrated for its fine water, with which it is bountifully supplied. Surmount. ing one of the hydrants, stands a statue of St. Michael (to whom the town is dedicated), with the inscription below, "St. Michael is kind to strangers." In front of the townhouse stands the