Carlstown.

THOMAS THE RHYMER, &c.

"Sweet scenes of youth, to faithful memory dear,
Still fondly cherished with the sacred tear,

When in the softened light of summer skies,

Full on my soul life's first illusions rise!

Sweet scenes of youthful bliss, unknown to pain!

I come to trace your soothing haunts again."

THIS is the town where I was born. He who, after eighteen years of absence in a foreign land, returns to his native shores, to his native village, to the house in which he was born, must feel an enthusiasm and an interest such as but few earthly scenes can excite. As the names of places were mentioned to me by the driver, in the immediate vicinity of this sacred spot, names which were familiar to me as household words, I felt a mental excitement almost beyond control. These feelings were greatly increased when I stood at last in the place itself. As I saw the home in which I spent my days of childhood, and round whose old walls I had gamboled in all the frolicksome glee of

thoughtless innocency, a flood of recollections, many of which had been entirely obscured, rushed vividly back upon me, and I could imagine myself once more the child I had been twenty years before.

"Thou spot of earth, where from my bosom
The first weak tones of nature rose,
Where first I cropped the stainless blossom
Of pleasure, yet unmixed with woes;
Where, with my new-born powers delighted
I tripped beneath a mother's hand-
In thee the quenchless flame was lighted
That sparkles for my native land.”

In a retired village like this, the arrival of one from America is a marked era in its history, and I soon found myself the object of the kindest attentions.

On Sabbath I attended service in the United Presbyterian Church—a singular antiquated edifice, built of rough stone. The primitive simplicity of the internal arrangements contrasted curiously with the sumptuous elegance of our American places of worship. I passed up the aisle over the clay floor to an old-fashioned, straight-backed, uncushioned pew, which according to our notions would be considered both antiquated and uncomfortable. A high pulpit projected from one side of the church, in front of which stood the precen

tor's desk. The whole aspect of the place indicated the remote date of its erection.

The history of this church may be considered remarkable even for Scotland. Two holy men of God discharged the duty of the pastoral office in it for one hundred years. The first of these, Rev. Mr. Dalziel, was between fifty and sixty years their preacher; and the last, the Rev. Wm. Lauder, has been for nearly fifty. I took great pleasure in the society of this venerable man, for it was he, who, a quarter of a century ago, administered to me the rite of Christian baptism, and he had long known both me and mine. Although with him this mortal must soon put on immortality, yet he is as lively and cheerful as though in his prime, and is a bright example of a

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happy Christian." The pastoral duties are now discharged by his associate, the Rev. Mr. Hamilton. The Kirk, or established church, has long been under the pastoral care of the Rev. Mr. Gordon, an earnest preacher and faithful pastor. There is also in the village a small Free Church, and another United Presbyterian one, so that the people are well supplied with gospel ordinances.

To show the religious habits of these people, I

might mention a remark that my father has often made, that had you gone through this village at nine o'clock in the evening (when he was a young man), you would have found every household engaged in family worship.

One morning I arose early to take a stroll, while breakfast was preparing. The sun was shining brilliantly over me, every breeze wafted the fragrance of some neighboring garden, and every tree was vocal with the music of birds. I followed the meanderings of the beauteous Leader, its waters sparkling in the sunbeams, and the yellow trout gliding through its tiny waves. I soon found myself in a rich meadow. No one, who has not seen it, can conceive of the peculiar verdure and softness of a Scottish meadow. It sometimes happens that these lawns are allowed to lie for half a century, or more, without ever being disturbed by the ruthless plough-some of them, in fact, have lain for ages undisturbed. They thus acquire a softness which I can compare to nothing but a rich and downy carpet. In strolling along, ere I was aware of it, I found myself on the estate called the "Cowdenknowes," celebrated in song for its bonny broom which waves from a neighboring hill. The house

is pleasantly situated on the banks of the Leader. As I wandered through these grounds, laid out with all the skill that art can lavish upon nature, I ceased to wonder that Scotland, where the elements of the romantic and the beautiful so richly abound, should be a land of poetry.

One of the first objects that arrests the eye of a stranger on entering this town, is an old ruined wall, the greater part of which has crumbled to the dust, though one firm corner remains, defying, as it were, the rage of the elements. Every stone which remains seems to grow firmer in its bed of mortar as years roll on-and I doubt not it will remain, unless removed by the ruthless hand of modern improvement, till that day when the "elements shall melt with fervent heat." This was a place of no ordinary interest to me, as I am somewhat of an antiquarian. Ages have succeeded ages since this once lordly mansion became a ruin. For centuries it was the family residence of the noble Learmonts, and was called "Learmont Hall." Its last and most renowned occupant was the great Sir Thomas, commonly called "Thomas the Rhymer." was esteemed a prophet not only by the ignorant populace of a succeeding generation, but by many

He