bridge, so that the two bodies of troops who fought here, might, it is evident, be plainly in sight of each other, before engaging-as they are represented by Walter Scott. A fair vale spreads above, and be low, the river winds between steep, rocky, and wooded banks, making altogether a scene fitted to rebuke the fierce passions that once drenched this spot with blood.

From Bothwell Brig, stretches fourteen miles, I was told, up the banks of the Clyde, the estate of the Duke of Hamilton. I went to the palace. It has one noble portico; but mostly it is low and inelegant, though immense-looking altogether more like several blocks and squares of fine buildings in a city than anything else. I should suppose the possessor might easily entertain some hundred or two of guests. I observed not much less than a hundred bells in one of the lower entries. The furniture was much of it old, but exceedingly rich, mosaics, ebony cabinets, carved work, &c. The ceilings beautifully gilt, and that of the picture gallery exceedingly splendid-approaching the daz zling appearance of the back of a diamond beetle as seen under the microscope. It was this gallery chiefly that I came to see. But I was very much disappointed. There are some paintings said to be of the old masters, but put in such bad lights

DUKE OF HAMILTON'S SEAT.

71

that it is scarcely conceivable that they should be worth much. There is an original Bonaparte of David-a fine countenance, and more natural, easy, amiable, and even more handsome than is usual in the portraits and busts of him. The gallery consists chiefly of commonplace looking men and fair women-mostly Hamiltons; but the chef d'œuvre is a Rubens-Daniel in the Lions' Den. The lions I thought were very good, but I did not like the face of the Daniel. It is pale and livid, and shows fright or distress full as much as reliance. If it is trust, it is the agony, and not the repose of trust. Some may think it surprising that a traveller, raw from the New World, should undertake to criticise a painting. But I say that the painter is to be judged by the general eye, as truly as the orator, and so shall I go on my way criticising as if I had been brought up at the feet of Raphael--criticising i. e. not the technical things of the art-not the mixing of colours, or drawing, or perspective-but criticising the general effect. If the painter means to strike the general mind, the general mind must be his judge.

LANARK, JULY 24. The ride from Hamilton to Lanark is full of beauties. But the Falls of Clyde here are most beautiful. Whether they are as well worth visiting as the Giants' Causeway and

the Trosacks, I will not say; but certainly they raise the emotion of pleasure higher than either. Stone Biers below is well enough; but the chief beauty is above, at Coralinn and Bonnington.

We left Tillietudlem, three miles from Lanark, on the right, two miles from the road, and out of sight. I am told an old woman near there was very much vexed by the inquiries of rambling visiters, after the publication of Old Mortality. She could not conceive what sent all these people, all at once, asking about Tillietudlem.

JULY 25, 26. From Lanark, through Peebles, to St. Ronans. St. Ronans is a neat village; and about half a mile distant, at the foot of one of the hills which surround it on all sides, is St. Ronans Well; but nothing could I hear of any place or ruin called Mobray Castle.

About twenty miles from Lanark, you strike the Tweed, and thence the road to Kelso is chiefly through the vale of the Tweed. It is mostly narrow, and hemmed in on both sides by high, heathery hills. Tweedale, I believe, is the northern confine of the Border-land. Three or four old ruins of castles are to be seen on the road; making the appearance of a chain of castles.

The great objects to-day, (the twenty-sixth,) and

enough to make any day remarkable, are-Abbotsford, Melrose Abbey, and Dryburg Abbey.

Abbotsford takes its name from a ford over the Tweed, near at hand, which formerly belonged to the abbots--of some neighbouring monastery, I suppose. It is well worth visiting, independently of the associations, which make it what it iswhat no other place can be. The structure too— the apartments-the furniture--are altogether in keeping with those associations. Everything is just what you would have it, to commemorate Walter Scott. The building is a beautiful Gothic structure. You will not expect a description from me of what has been already so minutely and so well described. You remember the hall of entrance, with its stained windows, and its walls hung round with ancient armour, coats of mail, shields, swords, helmets--all of them, as an inscription imports, of the "auld time;" the dining and the drawing rooms; the library and the study; the curiosities of the place--choice paintings, curious old chairs of carved work-the rare cabinet of relics, Rob Roy's musket, pistols from the dread holsters of Claverhouse and Bonaparte-and all surrounded and adorned with oaken wainscoting and ceilings, the latter very beautifully carved, yet very simple-everything, indeed, wearing the ap

VOL. I.

pearance of great dignity and

seen it all--I have seen it! before the desk at which he

taste: well, I have

But the study!wrote, in the very

chair, the throne of power from which he stretched out a sceptre over the world, and over all ages, I sat down--it was enough! I went to see the cell of the enchanter-I saw it; and my homage-was silence, till I had ridden miles from that abode of departed genius.

I am tempted here to give you an anecdote, which has been mentioned to me since I came to Europe. An American lady of distinguished intelligence, had the good fortune to meet with Scott frequently in Italy, till she felt emboldened to express to him something of the feeling that she entertained about his works. She told him, that in expressing her gratitude, she felt that she expressed that of millions. She spoke of the relief which he had brought to the heavy and weary days of languor and pain; and said, that no day so dark had ever risen upon her, that it was not brightened by the prospect of reading another of his volumes. And what, now, do you think was his reply? A tear rolled down his cheek: he said nothing! Was it not beautiful? For you feel that that tear testified more than selfish gratification; that it was the silent witness of religious gratitude.