UNIVERSITY

CALIFORNI

FOREIGN ETCHINGS.

CHAPTER I.

HISTORIC MEMORIES OF EDINBURGH.

Edinburgh Holyrood, and its associations - The Castle.

EDINBURGH has well been styled "a double city"-first, an ancient and picturesque built one, set upon a hill-and second, an elegant modern city, extremely classic in the architecture of its public buildings.

The Capital of Scotland is situate in the northern part of the county of Mid Lothian, and about two miles distant from the Firth of Forth. Nothing can exceed the beauty, of its site; while in the panoramic splendor, presented from the elevated points of the city and neighborhood, no city in Europe surpasses it. Taking our stand on the edge of the deep ravine which divides the Old from the New Town, we have on one side the lofty and picturesque buildings of the ancient city; on the other the elegant and classic structures of the modern Athens; while before you, surmounting its almost inaccessible crag is the Castle of Edinburgh; its formidable ramparts, still echoing with the tread of the military sentinel, as in those stirring

days, "when thronged with watchers waiting for the coming of the foe," and

"From each mountain top, a flame
Stream'd into the torpid air,
Bearing token from the Border

That the English host was there."

No city in Europe is more interesting to the American traveller, than Edinburgh. Its associations are familiar; they are interwoven with the pleasant memories of his childhood. The early tales and legends of Scotland, that startled his young spirit in the hours of childhood's ecstacy here come thronging back with a vividness and distinctness truly overwhelming. In the picturesqueness of its location, and the natural beauties of its surroundings, no city in Europe can compare with it, except Naples; and I know of no view in the world, that so closely resembles that of the Bay of Naples, as the one which bursts upon the spectator, who ascends Calton Hill, and looks out upon the magnificent panorama of stream, hill and woodland, which there unfolds in all its ravishing beauty before him. Below him, spreads the magnificent bay of the Firth of Forth, with its rocky islands-towards the south, are the pastoral acclivities of the Pentlands, and the more shadowy splendors of the Lammermoors, and the Grampians; while behind him, rise the summits of Arthur's Seat, and Salisbury Crags, the haunted places of tradition;

"Traced like a map, the landscape lies,

In cultured beauty, stretching wide,
There, Pentland's green acclivities,
There, Ocean with its azure tide

There Sal'sbury Crag, and gleaming through
Thy southern wing, Duneddin blue:

While in the Orient, Lammer's daughters,

A distant giant range are seen,

North Berwick Law, with cone of green,

And blue its dimpled waters."

Go where you will in Scotland, you meet with some traces of the great and beautiful, the gifted, or the fascinating, of former days: not only the ancient walls, and castellated rocks of Edinburgh, teem with historic associations of the highest interest: but in the short space of twenty miles, between Falkland and Stirling, are no less than four battle fields, on which England's fate was determined by armies, almost as numerous, as those that met in conflict dire at Waterloo. Lochleven, exhibits the ruins of the mournful prison of beauty; Niddry Castle, the scene of her evanescent joys; the hills of Langside, witnessed her final overthrow; Cartlan Crags still show the Cave of Wallace; Turnbury Castle, the scene of Bruce's first victory; and Culloden, the last battle field of generous fidelity. Every step in Scotland is alive with historic incident; the shades of the dead arise on every side The very rocks breathe, for

"Each rock has there its storied tale;
Pouring a lay for every dale,

Knitting as with a moral band,

The native legends, with the land.

And as it is with the rural localities of Scotland, so is it with the principal towns. There is hardly a street in the old town of Edinburgh, that has not its traditions; and the entire locality swarms with spectral beings of the past, that seem to start out from every nook, and corner. Yet there is no student either of romance, or of history, who does not give to the time-honored precincts of Holy

rood, and its ruined Abbey Church, the preference over all others. How many wanderers from every region of the earth, have traversed the old thoroughfare of the Canongate, to visit these venerable piles!

Holyrood, like all the religious houses of Europe, has the authority of a legend, for its foundation. David I. of Scotland, not having much reverence for holy-days, would a hunting go on the festival of the exaltation of the cross, or Rood day, as it is styled in Romish missals. When in the ardor of the chase he had ridden to the foot of the crag, (now known as Arthur's Seat,) there suddenly rushed upon him from the wood, the fairest hart that was ever seen, dashing the royal hunter and his horse to the ground with great violence. But, as the affrighted monarch threw back his hands, to avoid the sharp antlers of the enraged stag, a holy cross, fell as it were from Heaven into his trembling fingers, and the radiance of the sacred emblem, so dazzled the eyes of the wild animal, that he fled affrighted from the sight. The gratefu King, thereupon resolved to erect upon the spot a House to be dedicated to the Holy Rood, the Virgin and all saints. Like all legends this no doubt was an after thought of some pious brother of the Abbey, for the purpose of throwing a supernatural lustre around the foundation of his House. Be this as it may, it is very certain that a Religious House, called the Abbey of Holyrood, existed on this spot, from the year 1128, to the days of the ill-fated James IV., who perished bravely, and like a King, on that fatal field of Flodden, where before the English focman, rose "that mortal rampart,”

"Which the boldest, dare not scale;
Every stone, a Scottish body,

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Every step, a corpse in mail;
While behind it, lay the monarch
Clenching still, his shivered sword:
By his side, Montrose, and Athol,
At his feet, a southron Lord."

About the year 1502, this ill-fated monarch, built a palace adjacent to the Abbey; and no sooner was the royal dwelling fit for habitation, than the bride of its founder, stepped across its threshold-that beautiful Margaret Tudor, the capricious daughter of Henry VII., from whom has descended the long line of sovereigns of the British Empire.

In the year 1538, in the Abbey Church, whose graceful ruin, lingers like a thing of beauty; haunting the memory, was crowned the graceful and talented Mary of Lorraine, the second Queen of James V., and the mother of Mary, Queen of Scots-that Princess, whose blood courses now in more than two thirds of the reigning houses of Europe; whose personal charms, and tragic death have drawn eloquence from the pens of so many historians; filling the day-dreams of poets with glimpses of the serene loveliness of a face angelic in its beauty. In this palace erected by her ancestor, occurred those events, which inseparably, connect Holyrood with her life; and its gloomy apartments, with memories of the most thrilling interest. Here, she first reposed upon her arrival from the sunny land of France. and, in an evil hour was married to Lord Darnleyhere, Rizzio was murdered almost at her feet-here, she enchained all that loved her, by the extreme beauty of her person, and the ravishing graces of her mannerHere too, born in "o'ertrying times," she was forced to endure those memorable, and distressing interviews, with

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