"A Caledonia stern & wild,
Meet nurse for a poetic child:.
Land of brown heath & Shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain & the flood,
Laud of my sires, what nartal hand
Can ere untie the filial band.
That Knits me to thy rugged Strand?"

after procuring my baggage frim the Custom House, I made my way to the Carlisle railroad depot as fast as possible.

all the

railway trains leaving Liver

- pool proceed from one

Common Centre.

19

Scotland

From the depot we were

drawn by

a

Stationary engine

a mile and a half in length, under the city of Liverpool,

in total dainess.

thee fairly under weigh way, we swept on with great speed, and reached Carlisle, Carlisle, in

the north of England, about wine & Clock Pim,

we

Suring the afternoon, passed within a few miles of Windermere, of

residence

the

the late

Welliam Wndsworth, froch

Laureate

This port of

which is

the Country, mediate

in

the unme

вит

vicinity of the Cam berland lakes, is exceedingly beautiful,

Car

lisle is a pretty town, and has an old castle of some celebrity in English history, which interested me very much, it being the first one I had seen. I found the soldiers very civil and obliging in showing it to me. A great wall encloses the buildings, through which there is an entrance by a massive gate.

As I went up the narrow stairs and into the arched room formerly occupied by the Warder, I was in imagination carried back to the days of other years, when war was considered the most ennobling occupation. But as I looked from those rugged turrets on the beautiful fields, all carpeted with green, by which it was surrounded, I felt how much higher and holier were the pursuits of peace.

I left Carlisle on the top of a stage coach, having secured a seat beside the driver, that I might see the country. I found him an intelligent Scotchman, and very communicative. We drove on with tremendous speed, over a road nearly as smooth as a parlor floor. So beautiful a country I had never seen before. In every direction, all was under the highest cultivation. The scenery was enchanting-the beautiful meadows; the

sprouting grain; the luxuriant hedges; the fine road; the massy stone bridges; all were magnificent. I have seen much of the grand in nature, but I never before saw so much of the beautiful. The twenty-one miles seemed to be one universal garden-not a dull, monotonous flat-but intermingled with hill and dale-an ever varied, and yet ever beautiful panorama.

By the side of the road flows the sweet river Esk, a most romantic stream, which we passed over four times during the journey. When about half way, we crossed the border into Scotland, and after an absence of eighteen years, I stood once more on my native soil. My enthusiasm was unbounded. I felt in full force the poet's language :

"Breathes there a man with soul so dead,

Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native land?
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned,
From wandering on a foreign strand?”

What poetry and romance-what deeds of daring and of skill-what hallowed memories of martyr suffering and religious zeal, are associated with the history of Scotland. The Scotch are pre-eminently a religious people-the religion of the Bible forms