but for the power of memory, and it may be of imagination, I suspect there would not, after all, be much to merit particular attention. The gallery is long and stately, but the vile daubs of Fergus I. and his progenitors, entirely disfigure it. The adjoining apartments of Queen Mary, now appropriated to the use of the family of Hamilton, are far from noble in their dimensions; but there is a genuine air of antique grandeur in the hangings and furniture of the inner apartments, none of which have been changed since the time of the most unfortunate of Queens and Beauties-and this is enough to atone for every thing. In the state-room also, the attendant pointed out a cypher, which she said was Mary's, but W told me, that, in fact, that room had been last fitted up for Charles I., and that the cypher was composed of his initials, and those of his Queen Henrietta Maria. Here, then, is the bed in which Mary slept with Darnley-the closet where Rizzio was murdered-the ante-chamber in which Knox insulted his sovereign, and made it his boast that he "cared little for the pleasant face of a gentlewoman." There are some portraits, and one exquisite one of Mary herself-I mean an exquisitely beautiful portrait of some exquisite beauty—for as to the real features of the lovely Queen, he must be a more skilful antiquarian than I pretend to be, who could venture any guess with respect to them. Even her eyes are represented of many different colours; but this I only take as an evidence, that they were of that most delicious of all hues, if hue it may be called, that is as changeful as the cameleonthe hazel. I think it is Mackenzie that raves somewhere so delightfully about those softest, and yet most queenlike of eyes. They have not indeed the dazzling sparkle of the Jewish or Italian black, neither have they the vestal calmness of the blue-but they are the only eyes in the world that have the watery swimming lustre of conscious weakness-and when they can change this for the fire of command, and flash annihilation from their contracting lids, what eyes can be compared to them, or what eyes could be so fitting for Mary?

The portrait is very beautiful indeed, but it is only a minia

ture, and by no means satisfies my imagination so much as that in the picture gallery of the Bodleian. There is nothing I should like better than to ascertain the real history of that painting. It is so softly executed, that, at first sight, one would suppose it to be done in water colours, and to be covered with a glass. But it is in oils, and on a very old piece of oak (for I once took it down to examine it). It strikes me, that they used to tell some story about its having been painted by a nun before Mary left France; but I suspect the tradition of its history is very vague and uncertain. I think, however, the picture carries much more of the air of reality about it than any I have seen. What luxurious pensiveness in the lips! what irresistible melting radiance in the eyes-the eye-lids how beautifully oval; the eye-lashes how long, how tender! there was nobody ever invented the like except Correggio..... But I forget that I am not talking to Wwho would fain, if he could, not only make a beauty, but a saint of her.

There is also a fine portrait of Charles I.-one of the many, many masterly Vandykes. The king is in a riding habit; he has the same indescribable look of majesty and melancholy which makes it impossible for any man to look upon it without wondering by what process of brutalizing, even a Cromwell or a Bradshaw should ever have learned to regard the original without the reverence of humility. How could any common mortal feel otherwise than abashed in the presence of that "grey discrowned head ?"-And Charles kept his court here too for a time, and Laud preached, and Rothes flattered, and the Presbyterians themselves looked smoothly on all the pageants of his state. What a different kind of journey he lived to make hither, and what a different kind of return to his Whitehall!

Some spacious, but uncomfortable looking apartments in the newer part of the quadrangle, were occupied by the Bourbon princes during their stay here. I saw the Prie-dieu used by Monsieur, and many other little relics of their Catholic devotion; but in truth, I neither felt, nor pretended to feel,

either curiosity or interest about tracing the footsteps of these gentlemen. I have seen these younger sprigs of the lily, and with all my respect for the good old king himself, I wish the lily were rid of a few of its incumbrances. I shall write very soon again, and hope in a more amusing way. Your's ever,

P. M.

P. S.-I forgot to mention the only inhabitants of this Palace, or rather of its precincts, are gentlemen, who find it convenient to take advantage of the sanctuary still afforded by the royalty of the soil. All around the Palace itself, and its most melancholy garden, there are a variety of little miserable patchwork dwellings, inhabited by a considerable population of gentry, who prefer a residence here to one in a jail. They have abundance of room here within their limits, for the whole of Arthur's Seat is, I believe, considered as part of the royal domain. However, they emerge into the town of a Sunday; and I am told some of them contrive to cut a very fashionable figure in the streets, while the catch-poles, in obedience to the commandment, rest from working."

LETTER IV.

TO THE SAME.

March 20.

I BELIEVE, that had I given myself up entirely to the direction of my friend W, I should have known, up to this hour, very little about Edinburgh more modern than the Canongate, and perhaps heard as little about any worthies she has produced since the murder of Archbishop Sharpe. He seemed to consider it a matter of course, that morning after morning the whole of my time ought to be spent in examining the structure of those gloomy tenements in wynds

and closes, which had, in the old time, been honoured with the residence of the haughty Scottish Barons, or the French ambassadors and generals, their constant visiters. In vain did I assure him, that houses of exactly the same sort were to be seen in abundance in the city of London, and that even I myself had been wearied of counting the fleurs-de-lis carved on every roof and chimney piece of a green grocer's habitation in Mincing-lane. Of such food, in his estimation, there could be no satiety every land had its coat of arms, and every quartering called up to his memory the whole history of some unfortunate amour, or still more unfortunate marriage; in so much that, had I taken accurate notes of all his conversation, I am persuaded I might, before this time, have been in a condition to fill more sheets than you might be likely to peruse, with all the mysteries of the eauses celebres, or, to speak more plainly, of the Scandalous Chronicle of Scotland. What horrors of barbarism-what scenes of murder, rape, incest-seem to have been the staple commodities of a week-day life, among these ferocious nobles! But, in good truth, I did not come to Scotland to learn such things as these; and although a little sprinkling of them might be very well in its way, I soon found it expedient to give my good friend a slight hint, that I wished he could contrive to afford me something else for the main woof of my meditations. He begins to understand my drift, and will, I think, learn to accommodate himself to my humour, pas-a-pas.

Notwithstanding all his devotion to the past, indeed, he is far from being an unconcerned or inept observer of more modern things-and I have already said as much. He is quite au fait, I have found, in regard to the history and performances of all the leading characters of the present day in Scotland; but, unless questions are put to him, he seems, with a very few exceptions, to make a point of never alluding to their existence. It would appear as if he was not over anxious to remember that such people are; but when the conversation actually turns on them and their merits, he expresses himself

apparently in no uncandid manner concerning the least-and in a tone of genuine admiration concerning the greatest of them. But I despair of making you comprehend the vagaries of such an original.

I wish you had a few minutes' use of the magical mirror, if it were only that you might enjoy one view of him, as he sits wrapped up in his huge blue velvet robe-de-chambre, with a night-cap of the same, dashing execrations by the dozen upon the whigs, the presbyterians, and the Edinburgh reviewers; for his splenetic imagination jumbles them all together-disjecta membra poetae-in one chaos of abomination. Could one enter into his premises of prejudice, one might perhaps find less difficulty in joining in his sweeping sentences of conclusion. He considers whiggery as having been the ruin of the independence of his country, and as forming, at this moment, the principal engine for degrading the character of his countrymen. I own I am rather at a loss to discover what he means by "whiggery," (for he never deigns to give a definition;) and all I know of the matter is, that it is something for which he equally vituperates Mr. Halkston of Rathillet, and Mr. Francis Jeffrey-two persons, between whom, I suspect, few other people would find many circumstances of resemblance and each of whom, I am quite sure, would disdain, with all his might, the idea of being coupled with the other. What you or I might be apt to designate by the same term, would, I am certain, coincide in very few points with any notion he may happen to affix to it. But, perchance, we may be able to get a little more light as we go on. In the mean time, W— has gone into the country for a few days, upon some of his county politics. I wished to have gone with him, but had caught a vile cold, and did not care for aggravating it. I shall have more leisure to write during his absence; so expect a long letter next time.

P. M.