"I rocked her in her cradle,
And laid her in her tomb-

She was the youngest-oh! what fireside circle
Hath not felt the charm of that sweet word,
The youngest ne'er grow old."

Ir was twilight, and I sat watching the decaying embers, when my attention was arrested by the sound of voices in the adjoining apartment. I heard nothing except, "Ah! you are the youngest!" in a tone of mingled reproach and fondness The youngest! what an echo has it awakened! I lately heard those words among the hills of New Hampshire, connected with a touching tale of truth, which I shall not soon forget. I was riding along the bank of one of those bright and tranquil little sheets of water, which hide away among the mountains, as if fearful that aught less pure than the heavens should be mirrowed in their blue depths. This had been one of the most sequestered and beautiful; but a narrow strip of level green sward, between its margin and the surrounding hills, had tempted the avarice of man.

The hard hand of rustic toil had been busy there, and the plash of oars sometimes ruffled the calm surface of the lake. But enough of quiet and of nature's wildness yet remained in its green islands to afford a

sure retreat to the wild loon, who wheeled, screaming, around, as if to protect her last retreat from the intrusion of man; and the water lily still reposed in its calm beauty, like trusting infancy on its mother's breast.

Turning an angle around the base of a hill that came almost down to the water's edge, I found the shore of the lake extended to a broad level glen, which wound for some distance among the hills. A little brook, with that sparkling purity peculiar to mountain streams, stole through the valley. Just at the point where it mingled with the lake was a farm-house, with nothing in its first appearance to distinguish it from the ordinary dwellings of New England yeomanry. But as I drew nearer, I saw that the hand of taste had been there. The most delicate wild flowers of the surrounding hills and forests had been transplanted to the garden, which sloped gradually from the house to the water's edge. The colors and shades were arranged with a painter's taste, and the effect was surpassingly beautiful. By the doors and windows of the humble mansion, the sweet briar and the pure white rose mingled their delicate blossoms with wild creeping plants, which had been trained up the sides of the house. My curi

The day was

osity was strongly excited. warm and sultry, and I ventured to crave a stranger's privilege-rest and a glass of water. An elderly female, whose homely garb and manner told that those tasteful ornaments were no work of hers, was the only occupant. I ventured to remark in an inquiring tone on the beauty and arrangement of the flowers; but for a while tears were my only answer. “Oh,” said she at last, "it is the work of my daughter, who sleeps by the side of her two sisters under the shade of those old elms. She was my youngest and so good and gentle, that it was hard parting with her. Her elder sisters had drooped and wasted just as they arrived at womanhood. I thought perhaps they had worked too hard, for we have always earned our bread by the sweat of our brow, and never knew what it was to be idle. Janet was the last, so we put no tasks upon her, but suffered her to work or play, just as she pleased. Our boys were all well to do in the world, and had good farms of their own, except John, who run to learning, and must needs go to college It was sorely against our will; but he talked so well, and coaxed so much, and told how much good he would do when he became a minister, that we at last consented. After he went away, Janet never seemed like herself. Formerly she would go singing about her work so brightly, that her father called her his lark. But now she looked so sad and lonely, that it made my heart ache to see her. John came home in vacations, and brought her heaps of books; and then she would look happy, and speak and sing in her own clear tones again. When they wandered about in the woods, she would come home with such red cheeks, and her face so covered with glad smiles, that I thought she at least would be spared to my old age. But when he left she drooped again like a caged bird. Her only happiness seemed to be in reading the books he brought, and tending the flowers he had planted. She took no interest in assisting me; but still she was so kind and obedient, I could not find fault. The summer passed away, and autumn came, and I saw with many a heartache that her forehead and ears grew pale, very pale, while the red on her cheeks grew deeper and brighter. She began to have a slight cough, and her clear voice became faint and low; but oh! how sweet it sounded when she took some of the last flowers of autumn, and told me how they spoke of a Heavenly Father's love, and

that he who thus cared for the flowers would surely care for us. See, dear mother,' she would say, how carefully the little flower is protected by its clasping leaves, so that it has braved the storm, as tender and delicate as it looks. God has taken care of it, and he will take care of you,' and her voice faltered when she added, even if you were left alone.' It was the first time she had spoken of what I feared, yet dared not whisper even to myself. I wept bitterly, and told her, selfish that I was, for I saw that this dark world was as a prison to her, that she must not die. And then she put her arms around my neck, and talked to me of heaven, and how sweet it would be to be there with Agnes and Mary and little Godfrey, and how soon I, too, should be there with them, till I wept no more, and only longed to go with my blessed child.

"We still thought she might live many months, and she talked cheerfully of the happiness she would enjoy when John came home in his winter's vacation. But all at once she grew very sick; we sent for a doctor, and he said she could not live three days. I told her the heavy tidings, for her poor father was broken down with this last trouble, and could not speak of it. So soon!' said she; but after a moment's pause she added, clasping her thin hands and looking upwards,

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"Thy will be done!" But, John-I can't die till I have seen him. You must send for him, and I shall live till he comes.' I told her he was so far off it would be more than a week before we could get him here. No matter for that; dear, dear mother, do send for him, and I know I shall not, I cannot die till I have seen him. We sent, and every day she grew weaker and her breath grew fainter. But how sweetly even then did she talk of heaven and of a Saviour's love. Almost every hour she would ask, 'Has John come yet?' The doctor came again and again, and said he wondered what it was that kept her alive. Why, Doctor,' said she with a faint smile, I can't die till I have heard his voice in prayer once more.' At length the seventh day came It was the Sabbath, and one of the brightest of early winter mornings. She roused from a deep lethargy, which we had thought would prove her last sleep, and asked me to give her a rose-bud from the bush which stands there in that window. Just then we heard the sound of a horse's hoofs; he had come. meeting.

But I cannot tell you of their My eyes were too blinded with

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tears to see it, and my heart too full to remember much. I only remember that in a few moments she showed him the rose-bud, and told him her lot was like that of the flower. But he told her no; the flower perished, but she would bloom again in heaven, where nothing is ever blighted or withered more. She thanked him fervently, and in the clear, musical voice of her brightest days, for all his love to her-for his patient teachingfor instructing her to see a Father's hand in the trees and flowers, in the sunshine and the storm. And more than all, my brother, I bless you for pointing me to a Saviour's love

for leading my wandering, exiled soul to Calvary I shall now soon be with him. Kneel, my brother, and commend my departing soul to him.' We all knelt by the bedside, and my poor boy, with her thin, wasted hand clasped in his, in a few broken petitions implored the blessed Saviour to be with her where the love of earthly friends could avail nothing in her passage through the dark valley. When we rose, her eyes were closed, and a sweet smile played upon her lips. We thought she slept, but it was the sleep of death. Her last wish was accomplished, and she had gone to heaven!"

Yes, well, or never could thy mind
Have named the strange, the undefined
Sensation of youth's opening morn,
The impulse of a bliss just born,
Before unknown, and ne'er expressed-
The first faint flutter in the breast-
The gleam of joys that ne'er expire-
The rapture of the first desire —
The uncontrolled, impetuous roll
Of passions springing in the soul.

The confidence, the love of truth,
The inextinguishable flame

That lit the onward paths of youth,
Nor dreamed that "friendship was a name,"
Northought how cold the world would prove-
The world, the fancied home of love-
The Eden where the pulses waked
The font, the thirsty spirit slaked.

Oh, childhood! youth! come back again!
Come back with all your gilded train;
Cluster my path of life once more,

Ere I towards an unknown shore
My footsteps turn. Thou canst not come !
Then take me to thy heavenly home,
Where youth, immortal youth appears,
Radiant with smiles, undimm'd by tears.
Sag Harbor, L. I., 1846.

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We

I EMBARKED on the evening of the 27th of August, in company with my daughter, on board the steam packet Royal Adelaide, in London, for Leith. This ship is about 160 feet in length, 45 feet, including her paddle-wheels, in breadth, and 650 tons burthen. She has two engines of 100 horse power each, 56 inch cylinders, and 5 feet stroke. All the marine engines in England are condensing engines, No high pressure engines are used, and the calamity, so common in the United States, of boilers bursting, is of rare occurrence. left London at half-past 12 o'clock at night, and ran down the river without the slightest interruption. In the morning we were off the coast of Essex. The voyage was extremely interesting, as the coasts of Essex, Suffolk, Norfolk, Lincoln, and the north of England, with the towns adjacent, and ten thousand objects of attraction, constantly presented themselves in succession to our view. The general aspect of the coast, in the northern part of England and the southern part of Scotland, is that of bold cliffs of a dark slaty appearance, almost entirely destitute of wood or of any natural ornament. The ruins of ancient baronial castles and the modern seats of noblemen occasionally, and the harbors, villages, and towns, constantly met the eye.

We arrived at Leith on the 29th, at 12 o'clock at night, performing the passage from London, a distance by water of 480 miles, in 48 hours, averaging 10 miles an hour. Full half the time the wind and sea were ahead, and we may thence conclude that the ship ran her average speed. We had about 90 passengers in the cabin, and ample room for the accommodation of all. The ship finds provisions, the expense of which is included in the $15 passage money, but the passengers purchase on board their wine, porter, liquors, &c., &c.

As it was ebb tide and the harbor of Leith will not admit ships at low water, we came to anchor in the roads. Some of the passengers, whose friends reside in Edinburgh, went on shore; but others, and we amongst the number, remained on board until morning.

Leith is the port of Edinburgh, at the mouth of the Frith of Forth. The houses are of stone, utterly destitute of architectural beauty,

the streets generally narrow and dirty; the whole exciting but one feeling-a desire to get out of it as soon as possible.

The road leading to Edinburgh is broad, and one feels that he is far enough from the houses and by-lanes to breathe freely and sweetly a luxury one can hardly appreciate until he has visited Scotland. We reached Edinburgh, a distance of about three miles from Leith, at 9 o'clock in the morning, to breakfast. We were recommended to MacKay's Hotel, in Princes street, and found comfortable apartments, attentive waiters, and a good table. As we were exceedingly fatigued and exhausted by want of rest, and the weather cold and wet, we remained within doors for the day. The following morning, however, we sallied forth in good earnest. There was much to be seen, and we were just upon the threshold of our journey. Edinburgh is one of the most remarkably situated cities in Europe. It is divided by a deep ravine into the old and new towns; and although this ravine is partially filled up, and you see gardens, markets, slaughter-houses, workshops, and cottages at the bottom, still there is no communication between the one and the other but by bridges and an earthern mound, recently constructed. The new town may be called the court side, and is handsomely laid out in streets and squares, the former broad, clean and airy, the latter spacious and elegantly built, the whole of free stone, which abounds in this part of the country.

The old town is very old, the houses very lofty, six to eight stories, a few even ten stories. Most of the public buildings are in this part of the town.

Mountains, detached peaks, rugged cliffs, surround the city, excepting the northern part of the new town, which is a gentle declivity, extending to the Frith of Forth. You cannot move many rods in any other direction without climbing a hill or descending a valley, and one must enjoy a strong and vigorous constitution to endure a day's ramble in Edinburgh.

Crossing, opposite the Register Office, the northern bridge thrown over the ravine, and which forms one of the connecting links of the old and new towns, we pass up Bridge street until it intersects High street. High

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street, Lawn Market, and Cannongate, all one street under these different names, constitutes the main street east and west, and extends from the castle to Holyrood House. North and South Bridge street and Nicholson street form together the main street, running north and south, in the old town. These streets are wide, well paved, and remarkably filthy.

The idea of comfort and cleanliness, if ever entertained, seems to be utterly repudiated. The men, women, children, the very dogs and cats, in that respect, are all alike. They look as if they had just creeped out of a dustinan's cart, and were equally hostile to the wholesome use of soap and water. If the lofty stone houses in this part of the city were cleaned, glazed, and painted a light color, to give them an airy and fresh appearance, perhaps there is no city in Europe that would more strongly resemble Paris in magnificence and grandeur.

Turning to the left from Bridge street, you enter High street, and as you approach a part of the street called Nether Bow, you perceive on the left an old house projecting from the regular line of buildings, which is said to have been occupied by the celebrated reformer, John Knox, and the truth of the report seems confirmed by the fact of a miniature pulpit, stuck just upon the corner of the building, with the reformer himself in the attitude and act of preaching, pointing to the sun, rudely carved and gilt, just over his head, with these words beneath, Theos, Deus, God." The house is now converted into a common tavern, and the great Knox and his pulpit very unceremoniously retained as its sign.

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You now enter Cannongate. On the right stands the mansion of the former Earls of Moray. The form of the building as seen from the street is half a hollow square. All the windows in front are blocked up with rude unchiseled stone slabs, and the whole wears a most dismal and gloomy appearance. It is now occupied as a house of refuge for the destitute, and seems in perfect keeping with its destination,

At the foot of this street, which gradually descends from Bridge street, on a low extended plane, stands Holyrood House, celebrated in Scottish history as the residence of the Kings and Queens of Scotland, and the scene of the tragical events which chequer the story of her departed glory and independence.

This palace, the monument of broken down royalty, is an object of the deepest interest to

a stranger, of none at all to the natives themselves.

The Royal Arms of Scotland, the Imperial Crown, and the like fragments of a nation, decorate the entrance to the inner and central court. This court is 94 feet square, and is surrounded with a piazza. Although the Palace is but two stories, yet its general appearance is that of ancient grandeur and magnificence, heightened by two double towers of four stories in front. The park, of four miles in circumference, adjoining the Palace, is now converted into an asylum and play-ground for insolvent debtors. What a change from its former gaiety! And yet the mind of an insolvent debtor may, for aught I know, derive some consolation by walking in the trail of expelled monarchy. I can fancy, however, that a good dinner would please a Scotchman better

The Duke of Hamilton, by hereditary right, is the keeper of the Palace, and has apartments furnished for his use. A few other noblemen of decayed fortunes here find a home and resting-place from the withering gripe of adversity.

From the court, the guide conducted us to the remains of the Chapel Royal, on the left of the Palace, founded by David I., in 1128. And what did we find? A most beautiful specimen of Gothic architecture; the roof entirely gone all open to the sky; part of the splendid arches which once supported the roof still remaining, and the wild ivy, emulous of distinction, creeping up the external walls. Beneath our feet were scattered the monuments of all that was great in Scotland. The fathers of the present sixteen peers of the British Empire here slumber in the dust, and the very bones of the ancient monarchs, famous in the chronicles of Scotland, lie exposed to the rude gaze of the scrutinizing stranger. God seems to have planted in the bosom of all nations, the most barbarous and uncivilized, as well as the most refined and polite, a profound and respectful reverence for the ashes of their departed chiefs. Scotland is an exception. We were next conducted to the Picture Gallery, stretching 150 feet, the length of the northern side of the Palace, and strung with 111 portraits, if the most miserable daubs can be called such, of the monarchs of Scotland.

We were then shown to the apartments of the Earl of Breadalbane, which are shown to strangers, only in the absence of the family. There were several beautiful paintings in these