nests in the ruins. In this fortress the chief of the English nobility were confined after the battle of Bannockburn. If a man is to be a prisoner, he scarcely could have a more pleasant place to solace to his captivity."

In a sonnet written during a tour in Scotland, Wordsworth says:

"Immured in Bothwell's towers, at times the Brave
(So beautiful is Clyde) forgot to mourn
The liberty they lost at Bannockburn.
Once on those steeps I roamed at large, and have
In mind the landscape as if still in sight:
The river glides, the woods before me wave.

Memory, like sleep, hath powers which dreams obey,
Dreams, vivid dreams, that are not fugitive:
How little that she cherishes is lost!"

The real force of these last lines will be re

alized best by the light of the pretty story so
quaintly told by old Richard Verstegan in his
book published at Antwerp in 1605, and en-
titled A Restitution of Decayed Intelligence in
Antiquities concerning the most noble and re-
nowned English Nation. This is the story:-
gentleman travelling in Palestine, not far from
Jerusalem, as he passed through a country
town, he heard by chance a woman, sitting at
the door dandling her child, to sing-
"On the blythe Beltane, as I went
By myself attour the green bent,
Wharby the glancand waves of Clyde
Through haughs and hangand hazels glide,
There, sadly sitting on a brae,

"So fell it out of late years that an English

"It was exceedingly delightful to enter thus | ing of the larger ones, that had made their unexpectedly upon such a beautiful region. The castle stands nobly overlooking the Clyde. When we came up to it I was hurt to see that flower-borders had taken place of the natural overgrowings of the ruin, the scattered stones, and wild plants. It is a large and grand pile of red freestone, harmonizing perfectly with the rocks of the river, from which no doubt it has been hewn. When I was a little accustomed to the unnaturalness of a modern garden, I could not help admiring the excessive beauty and luxuriance of some of the plants, particularly the purple-flowered clematis, and a broad-leaved creeping plant without flowers, which scrambled up the castle-wall along with the ivy, and spread its vine-like branches so lavishly that it seemed to be in its natural situation, and one could not help thinking that though not self-planted among the ruins of this country, it must somewhere have its native abode in such places. If Bothwell Castle had not been close to the Douglas mansion, we should have been disgusted with the possessor's miserable conception of adorning such a venerable ruin; but it is so very near to the house that of necessity the pleasure-grounds must have extended beyond it, and perhaps the neatness of a shaven lawn and the complete desolation natural to a ruin might have made an unpleasing contrast; and besides being within the precincts of the pleasure-grounds, and so very near to the dwelling of a noble family, it has forfeited, in some degree, its independent majesty, and becomes a tributary to the mansion; its solitude being interrupted, it has no longer the command over the mind in sending it back into past times, or excluding the ordinary feelings which we bear about us in daily life. . . We sat upon a bench under the high trees and had beautiful views of the different reaches of the river, above and below. On the opposite bank, which is finely wooded with elms and other trees, are the remains of a priory built upon a rock; and rock and ruin are so blended that it is impossible to separate the one from the other. Nothing can be more beautiful than the little remnant of this holy place: elm-trees grow out of the walls and overshadow a small but very elegant window. It can scarcely be conceived what a grace the castle and priory impart to each other; and the river Clyde flows on, smooth and unruffled below, seeming to my thoughts more in harmony with the sober and stately images of former times, than if it had roared over a rocky channel, forcing its sound upon the ear. It blended gently with the warbling of the smaller birds and the chatter

VOL. IIL

I heard a damsel speak her wae.
"Oh Bothwell bank, thou bloomest fair,
But, ah, thou mak'st my heart fu' sair;
For a' beneath thy holts sae green
My love and I wad sit at e'en;
While primroses and daisies, mixed
With blue-bells, in my locks he fixed.
"But he left me ae dreary day,

And haply now sleeps in the clay;
Without ae sich his death to roun,
Without ae flouir his grave to croun!
Oh, Bothwell bank, thou bloomest fair,
But, ah, thou mak'st my heart fu' sair.'
"The gentleman hereat exceedingly won-
dered, and forthwith, in English, saluted the
woman, who joyfully answered him, and said—
She was right glad there to see a gentleman of
our isle; and told him that she was a Scotch
woman, and came first from Scotland to Venice,
and from Venice thither; where her fortune was
to be the wife of an officer under the Turk, who
being at that instant absent and very soon to
return, she entreated the gentleman to stay
there until his return. The which he did; and
she, for country's sake, to show herself more
kind and bountiful unto him, told her husband
65

"There is a hope will linger within,

When earthly hope is vain,

But, when ane kens the very worst,
It turns the heart to stane!"

"Oh wae is my heart, John Carr,' said I,
"That I this sight should see !'
But when I said these waefu' words,

He lifted his een to me.

"O art thou there, my kind ladye,

The best o' this warld's breed,
And are you ganging your leefu' lane

Amang the hapless dead?'

"I hae servants within my ca', John Carr,
And a chariot in the dell,

And if there is ony hope o' life,
I will carry you hame mysell.'

"O lady, there is nae hope o' life;

And what were life to me?

Wad ye save me frae the death of a man,
To hang on a gallows-tree?

"I hae nae hame to fly to now,

Nae country, and nae kin;

There is not a door in fair Scotland
Durst open to let me in.

"But I hae a loving wife at hame,

And twa babies, dear to me;

They hae naebody now that dares favour them,
And of hunger they a' maun dee.

"Oh for the sake of thy Saviour dear,

Whose mercy thou hopest to share,
Dear lady, take the sackless things
A wee beneath thy care!

"A lang farewell, my kind ladye!

O'er weel I ken thy worth.

Gae send me a drink o' the water o' Clyde,
For my last drink on earth.""

"O dinna tell me ony mair, ladye,

For my heart is cauld as clay; There is a spear that pierces here, Frae every word ye say."

"He wasna feared to dee, Janet,

For he gloried in his death,

We forget in what book it was, many years ago, that we read the story of a lover who was to win his mistress by carrying her to the top

And wish'd to be laid with those who had bled of a mountain, and how he did win her, and For the same endearing faith.

"There were three wounds in his buirdly breast, And his limb was broke in twain,

And the sweat ran down wi' his red heart's blood,

Wrung out by the deadly pain.

how they ended their days on the same spot.1

We think the scene was in Switzerland; but the mountain, though enough to tax his stout heart to the uttermost, must have been among

1 The story forms the subject of Mr. Moir's poem of Genevieve.

the lowest.

Let us fancy it a good lofty hill in the summer time. It was, at any rate, so high, that the father of the lady, a proud noble, thought it impossible for a young man so burdened to scale it. For this reason alone, in scorn, he bade him do it, and his daughter should be his.

The peasantry assembled in the valley to witness so extraordinary a sight. They mea sured the mountain with their eyes; they communed with one another and shook their heads; but all admired the young man; and some of his fellows, looking at their mistresses, thought they could do as much. The father was on horseback, apart and sullen, repenting that he had subjected his daughter even to the show of such a hazard; but he thought it would teach his inferiors a lesson. The young man (though a small land proprietor, who had some pretensions to wealth, though none to nobility) stood, respectful-looking but confident, rejoicing in his heart that he should win his mistress, though at the cost of a noble pain, which he could hardly think of as a pain, considering who it was that he was to carry. If he died for it, he should at least have her in his arms, and have looked her in the face. To clasp her person in that manner was a pleasure which he contemplated with such transport as is known only to real lovers; for none others know how respect heightens the joy of dispensing with formality, and how the dispensing with the formality ennobles and makes grateful the respect.

which he moves off, slow but secure, and as if encouraging his mistress. They mount the hill; they proceed well; he halts an instant, before he gets midway, and seems refusing something; then ascends at a quicker rate; and now being at the midway point, shifts the lady from one side to the other. The spectators give a great shout. The baron, with an air of indifference, bites the tip of his gauntlet, and then casts on them an eye of rebuke. At the shout the lover resumes his way. Slow, but not feeble in his step, yet it gets slower. He stops again, and they think they see the lady kiss him on the forehead. The women begin to tremble, but the men say he will be victorious. He resumes again; he is half-way between the middle and the top; he rushes, he stoops, he staggers; but he does not fall. Another shout from the men and he resumes once more; two-thirds of the remaining part of the way are conquered. They are certain the lady kisses him on the forehead and on the eyes. The women burst into tears, and the stoutest men look pale. He ascends slowlier than ever, but seeming to be more sure. He halts, but it is only to plant his foot to go on again; and thus he picks his way, planting his foot at every step, and then gaining ground with an effort. The lady lifts up her arms as if to lighten him. See: he is almost at the top: he stoops, he struggles, he moves sideways, taking very little steps, and bringing one foot every time close to the other. Now he is all but on the The lady stood by the side of her father, top: he halts again; he is fixed; he staggers pale, desirous, and dreading. She thought A groan goes through the multitude. Sudher lover would succeed, but only because she denly he turns full front towards the top; it thought him in every respect the noblest of is luckily almost a level; he staggers, but it is his sex, and that nothing was too much for forward. Yes-every limb in the multitude his strength and valour. Great fears came makes a movement as if it would assist himover her nevertheless. She knew not what see at last: he is on the top; and down he falls might happen in the chances common to all. flat with his burden. An enormous shout! She felt the bitterness of being herself the He has won. Now he has a right to caress burden to him and the task: and dared neither his mistress, and she is caressing him, for to look at her father nor the mountain. She neither of them gets up. If he has fainted, fixed her eyes now on the crowd (which never- it is with joy, and it is in her arms. theless she beheld not) and now on her hand and her fingers' ends, which she doubled up towards her with a pretty pretence the only deception she had ever used. Once or twice a daughter or a mother slipped out of the crowd, and coming up to her, notwithstanding their fears of the lord baron, kissed that hand which she knew not what to do with.

The father said, "Now, sir, to put an end to this mummery;" and the lover, turning pale for the first time, took up the lady.

The spectators rejoice to see the manner in

The baron put spurs to his horse, the crowd following him. Half-way he is obliged to dismount; they ascend the rest of the bill together, the crowd silent and happy, the baron ready to burst with shame and impatience. They reach the top. The lovers are face to face on the ground, the lady clasping him with both hands, his lying on each side.

'thou

"Traitor!" exclaimed the baron, hast practised this feat before on purpose to deceive me. Arise!" "You cannot expect it, sir," said a worthy man, who was rich enough

to speak his mind: "Samson himself might As 'neath thy rays, from earth yet moist with rain, take his rest after such a deed."