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pleasure of my trip the little half-hour acquaintances which I frequently formed in passing from place to place.
I arrived at Perth about noon, and put up at the George Hotel—the same at which the Queen spent a night during one of her visits to Scotland ; and it is believed that this is the only public establishment in the kingdom that was ever ho. nored by accommodating a British sovereign with lodgings.
Perth is one of the most famous towns of Scottish history. Near it was the old Scone Palace, where the Scottish kings were crowned. It lies on the west bank of the Tay, in the middle of a spacious plain, with a plot of public ground on . each side of it, called the North and South Inch. On approaching it from Edinburgh, it is seen first from a neighboring hill. The view of the town from this elevated position is one of the finest in the north. When the Roman army, endeavoring to conquer Scotland, (which, by the way, they never succeeded in doing,) arrived at the top of this hill, looking down on the lovely Tay winding through the beautiful plain, they exclaimed, with the greatest enthusiasm, 66 Eccė Tiber,'' 6 Ecce
Campus Martius.” Leaving the railway at Perth, I procured a gig to take me to Kinross, passing by the way through the Carse of Gowrie, one of the richest agricultural localities in Scotland. Afterwards, the road winds through Glenfarg, a narrow and most romantic defile of nearly five miles in extent. Kinross is on the banks of Loch Leven. In the middle of the Loch is a small island, on which stand the ruins of Loch Leven Castle, celebrated for being the prison-house of Mary Queen of Scots. The little village of Kinneswood, on the north-east shore of the Lake, was the birth-place of Michael Bruce, the poet, author of those beautiful and well known verses, entitled, an " Ode to the Cuckoo.” He died at the age of twenty-one, before his poetical genius was fully matured. Three miles from Kinross lies the parish of Cleish, where the sainted Mary Lundie spent the closing years of her life, and in the churchyard of which lie her mortal remains.
It had just cleared off, after a violent shower, when two friends and myself, friends too of Mary's, set out to visit the parish, of which she was so long the ornament. As we drove along, the sun burst forth, shedding a lustre of glory. on the dis.
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.”
“ Farewell, ye bills of glorious deeds,
And streams renowned in song:
The time allowed for my visit to Scotland hav. ing 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