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tant hills, while directly over us hung a heavy cloud, which seemed to gather blackness by the contrast. This is one of the most retired parishes in Scotland. A high hill runs along the south of the little village, (if the few houses around the church and manse can be called such,) from the base of which the ground gradually rises to the foot of the Ochill Hills, that lie several miles to the north. We first passed the manse, where Mary lived, an excellent stone house, with a pretty garden in front, well filled with bushes and trees. Procuring the keys from the sexton, and accompanied by his wife, (in whose memory the image of Mary Lundie is still fragrant,) we proceeded into the church. It is a plain and rather small edifice of roughly-hewn stone. In the porch, opposite the entrance, is the marble tablet, with a black framework, on which is the inscription to her memory, copied in the end of her biography. I went forward, and sat down in Mary's pew, while a flood of recollections of that amiable young creature, so soon cut down, rushed upon me.

Her grave is in the south-west corner of that little burial-place. A plain slab of marble marks the spot, on which is the following inscription :—

"To the memory of Mary, wife of the Rev. Wallace W. Duncan, minister of Cleish, born April 26, 1814. Married July 11, 1836. Died January 5, 1840. Luke x. 42; Col. iv. 2; Rev. vii. 14-17." Over her grave grows a sweet little rose-bush, planted by her husband, which is flourishing fair and beautiful, fit emblem of her who lies beneath. I plucked a branch from the little bush, as a remembrance of the spot where sleep until the resurrection morn all that is earthly of the Scottish pastor's wife. Her mother, in Mary's biography, has said, "The snow-drop may droop its pallid head over the turf that covers that precious clay, and the primrose that she loved may open its fragrant petals amid the grass, showing that the hand of lingering affection has been there; mourning love may raise its modest tablet to tell whose child, whose wife, whose mother and friend is taken from the earth; that is the work of those who are left to struggle out their pilgrimage—but she is united to that family which cannot be dispersed or die, adopted to that glorious parentage which endureth for ever, and dwelling in that light which is ineffable and full of glory."

Voyage Bome.

"Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds,
And streams renowned in song:
Farewell ye blithesome braes and meads
My heart has loved so long."

THE time allowed for my visit to Scotland having now elapsed, I took passage in the good steamship "City of Glasgow," under the command of the veteran Captain Matthews. As we left the quay at Glasgow, thousands thronged the banks of the river for a great distance, to see us off. When the farewell gun was fired, as we got fairly under weigh, the welkin rang with the hearty and enthusiastic cheers of the vast multitudes of spectators.

The first day was very fine; the sea was calm as the Hudson, and our vessel pursued her course as smoothly as do the river steamers on their way to Albany on a summer evening. During the day we drew near enough the Irish coast to obtain a good view of that extraordinary natural wonder, the Giant's Causeway. At the distance from

which we saw it-perhaps three or four milesit resembled somewhat the Palisades on the Hudson River.

We had, upon the whole, a remarkably pleasant voyage. The prevailing weather was fine, with one or two rough days,—just enough to exhibit Old Ocean in his varying moods, and enable us to get some kind of an idea of a storm. At one time, while it was blowing what seemed to me at least considerable of a gale, I scrambled upon deck, resolved to "improve my opportunities," and witness, for once in my life, "the raging of the sea," even at the risk of some inconvenience and discomfort. Casting about for a secure location, I finally fixed myself on a wooden grating near the ship's funnel, where, by bracing my feet against two protruding pieces of iron, and holding fast to the grating, I could retain my position without difficulty. According to my landsman notions, we had a very respectable storm. The sea seemed boiling and seething like a cauldron all around us. The waves, though they did not "invade the skies," and were not as large as some which have figured in descriptions of tempests at sea, seemed really mountainous, and as they came tumbling

confusedly in great raging masses toward our ship, hissing and roaring in their course, each seemed sufficient of itself to overwhelm and engulph us in its surging bosom. Our good ship, which, lying at her dock, loomed up a mighty structure—a veritable ocean leviathan-appeared a mere cork in the midst of these swelling and tumultuous billows.

When about a week out, we encountered a number of icebergs, which presented a truly gorgeous spectacle, by the variety and brilliancy of the colors which they reflected.

"Just at the far horizon's verge,
A mountain 'mid the main,
As erst Philistia's giant towered

O'er Israel's tented plain,

While hoarsely o'er the wave it seemed

A threat of terror sped,

"Who thus, with foot of fire, hath dared

My realm of frost to tread.'

Yet on the gallant steamship pressed,

Her flaming heart beat high,

And boldly flowed her fervid breath,
In volumes o'er the sky."

It was a beautiful Sabbath morning, just about the break of day, when five of these visitants from the northern seas appeared in sight.

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