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thankful that no more serious consequences had resulted from the accident. We soon came to St.

Catherines, the seat of Sir William Rae, Bart., where, my friend told me, was a celebrated place in popish times, called the "Balm Well of St. Catherine." We passed in at the gate, and soon found the well, but the shrine of the saint that formerly stood over it is now gone. The following circumstance, says tradition, was the origin of it: "St. Catherine, having a commission from Margaret, Queen of Malcolm Canmore, to procure a quantity of oil from Mount Sinai, wherewith to anoint the head of her eldest son, the heir apparent to the throne, by some accident spilled a few drops at this place. In answer to her earnest supplications that not a drop of so precious a fluid might be lost, this well, with all the miraculous powers ascribed to it, gushed forth from the earth. It was covered with a dark, oily looking substance, brushing which aside, we drank of its waters beneath, and found them unpleasantly bitter. After thus refreshing ourselves with this holy water, we proceeded on our way. We soon reached the village of Loanhead, where we were joined by the clergyman of the place, whose social qualities, and inti

mate acquaintance with the scenes which we were about to visit, added not a little to the interest of our party. It was one of those fine days, not too warm, but just agreeable for walking, when persons usually feel in good humor with all around them, and when nature seems to put on even more than her usually pleasant aspect. We walked on through a most beautiful road down to the valley of the romantic Esk, over which we crossed by a fine bridge.

On the sloping side of the hill, overlooking the lovely dell of the Esk, I saw a beautiful cottage embowered in trees, and around the door and windows of which the woodbine and the honeysuckle were sweetly entwined. It seemed indeed a delightful retreat. "That," said the clergyman, "is the residence of the celebrated Thomas de Quincy, the English opium eater."

We passed through an estate called Springfield, the grounds of which are beautifully laid out. By a romantic and very curious path, along the banks of the Esk, we reached Hawthornden, the classical habitation of the poet Drummond, who was the friend of Ben Jonson and Shakspeare. The old mansion is built on the lofty projecting summit

of a rugged rock, overhanging the river. It is said Jonson walked on foot from London to see Drummond. There is a large tree in front of the house, under which the poet was sitting at the time Jonson arrived. Observing him approach, he exclaimed

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Welcome, welcome, Royal Ben."

to which Jonson at once replied,

Thank ye, thank ye, Hawthornden.”

The house stands in one of the most retired and delightful positions I ever saw. "This romantic spot seems to have been formed by nature in one of her happiest moments. All the materials that compose the picturesque seem here combined in endless variety; stupendous rocks, rich and varied. in color, hanging in threatening aspect, crowned with trees that expose their bare branching roots; here the gentle birch hanging midway, and there the oak, bending its stubborn branches, meeting each other; huge fragments of rocks impede the rapid flow of the stream, that hurries brawling along, unseen, but heard far beneath, mingling in

the breeze that gently agitates the wood." Under the mansion are various subterraneous caves, hewn out of the solid rock, and connected by long passages, one of them leading to a well of great depth in the court-yard. These caverns must have been the result of long and patient labor, and were probably made as places of refuge in troublous times, when the ordinary habitations were unsafe. One of them, called the "Library," is curiously excavated, the walls all around being dug out like shelves for books. In one of these caverns, we were shown what is said to have been the sword of King Robert the Bruce-a long ponderous blade of great weight, which must have required some mighty arm like his to wield. The building, like many other old Scottish mansions, consists of a square vaulted tower, the walls of which are enormously thick. At the end of the mansion, on the verge of a lofty precipice, is a summer seat, hewn out of the solid rock, overlooking the river. The tablet to the memory of the poet, which is in the wall of the house, has the following appropriate motto from Young

"O! sacred solitude! divine retreat!

Choice of the prudent, envy of the great;

By thy pure stream, or in thy waving shade,
I court fair wisdom, that celestial maid;
There, from the ways of men laid safe ashore,
I smile to hear the distant tempest roar;

There, blest with health, with business unperplexed,
This life I relish, and secure the next."

Without returning to the main road, which is at quite a distance, we were permitted to pass over the estate by a beautiful and romantic little foot-path, running along the course of the river to Roslin. The distance is about a mile, and the path passes through scenery of the grandest description. At one time we would wind through a little meadow, as the hills opened; anon, the hills drawing nearer together, we would find ourselves on the summit of a towering precipice looking down to the Esk, flowing in the deep ravine below; again descending, our path would conduct us to the water's edge. At one place the action. of the waters of a spring on the side of the hill has drilled little holes in an overhanging rock, through which they are continually dripping, thus forming a natural shower-bath. The bed of the river abounds with beautiful pebbles, of various colors, some of which I picked up, and brought with me.

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