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evening, the 44th anniversary of the
Historical Society, came off at the University.
3lr. Charles King delivered an address upon
the History of the New York Chamber of
Commerce; and the members, generally, ‘im
bibed’ coffee and chocolate, ad libitum.
Anew Art Union, in this city, is talked of.
ft is proposed to call it the International Art
Union. Heaven knows why—/don’t. Its
modus operandi is to be similar to that of the
ether American and European institutions of
the kind.
A great fuss has been made, lately, about
the sudden and mysterious disappearance of
a young woman, who was engaged as a
teacher in one of the public schools. Some
supposed her to be kidnapped, others that she
was murdered ; and a bill, offering a reward
of two hundred and fifty dollars for her res
toration to her friends, and five hundred dol
lars for the arrest of the person, or persons,
concerned in the supposed abduction, was
brought up in the City Council, It was very
properly, however, laid upon the table, since
it appears probable that her ladyship is a
party to the flight, and has joined a troup of
model artists, en route for New r Orleans!
The death of the wife of the Rev. Mr.
Maflit, has given rise to very scandalous
tales touching the character of the widowed
divine. Whatever the quantity of truth in
them, there is no question whatever that he is
a very “hard case,” indeed. The “ Nation
al Police Gazette,” the organ of the Kennels,
is making great capital of the stories which
have transpired of his courtship, marriage,
cruel treatment, and heartless desertion of his
fair young bride. The long and short of the
matter is, that Maflit, in this business, at
least, was a knave, and the lady a fool.
Mr. L. F. A. Buckingham, a son of the
Hon. Mr. Buckingham, who figured here,
some years ago, has just commenced a course
of Lectures before ‘he Mercantile Literary
Association, upon the “ Literature of the
Middle Ages.”
The Rev. Mr. Baird has just concluded a
course of Lectures upon the Scandinavian
Countries.
Last night, the Whigs had a jollification at
the Irving House, under the plea of a dinner
to Mr. Fillmore, the Vice President elect. —
Every thing went 6a gloriously, of course.
Apropos of dinner—l hear the gong!
FLIT,
.foreign Correspondence.
■ ■ ■■ ■”
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
LETTERS FROM SCOTLAND—NO.G.
Stirling, August 31st, 1848.
My Dear R ., —We have turned our backs
on the Highlands not without regret; for, al
though we have seen enough in their limits
to leave indelible impressions of grandeur and
sublimity upon our minds, we have not seen
the tenth part of their attractions. The
“Grampian hills” are now to me invested
with a reality that they never before possess
ed. Their bold and bare crowns have been
for many days within my sight, and I have
pressed the soft heather that every where
covers their sides and their summits. For a
distance of forty miles from Inverness, our
road lay through a wild and picturesque re
gion, where the land is chiefly adapted to
grazing, and where the people are nearly all
cottagers, employed in pastoral labors. We
!l ad a fine day, fortunately, for our journey;
rad, from our seats on the top of the coach,
ve enjoyed a wide and ever varying pros
pect, especially in the beautiful Valley of the
Spey. The road being, like all turnpikes in
Ihis country, hard and smooth, we reached,
b Y noon, the village of Dunkeld, famous as
the residence of the Duke of Atholl, whose
possessions in the vicinity are of vast extent.
We had heard so much of the grounds con
nected with the ducal residence here, that we
©©QUirSHiM OadIf ©ASTITTS.
resolved to remain a day, and see them. At
the “Queen’s Arms,” we found very plea
sant rooms and excellent fare, with the most
assiduous attention of the host.
We devoted the afternoon to an inspection
of the chief objects of interest in Dunkeld,
which, beside the Atholl Pa'rks, include afine
old Cathedral, now in ruins, ex’cept the choir
which the late enterprising Duke converted
into a church. The walls and west tovver of
the ancient edifice still remain;, the latter is
seamed, however, and the deep tones of the
clock, which still beats its incessant record
of passing time in the deserted tower, seemed
almost sepulchral as they fell on my ear in
the gloaming.
The estates in Scotland are remarkable for
their great extent; and, among the largest,
are those of the Duke of Atholl, as I have
already said. That of Lord Breadalbane, on
the west of the Atholl territories, is the larg
est individual estate in Great Britain, extend
ing in length over a hundred miles, and av
eraging fifteen miles in width.
The late Duke of Atholl had a great pas
sion for tree-planting, and, for miles and
miles, the formerly bare or heather-crowned
land is now covered with a forest growth,
than which I have never seen anything more
beautiful. The tree planted by the Duke is
a species of fur, called the larch, which was
originally imported from the mountains of
the Tyrol, beyond the high Alps. More than
a century since, a few slips, or suckers , of
this species of fur were brought by some
member of the Duke’s family from theirnative
home. Cherished in the green-house as a
curiosity, they grew and multiplied; and
now forests of these trees, of an extent almost
incredible, exist not only on the Atholl es
tate, but elsewhere in Scotland. The Duke
lived to see nearly thirty millions of young
larches planted on his own lands, and there
are not less than twelve thousand acres now
densely covered with this valuable tree —val-
uable as timber for building purposes. The
annual revenue arising from the sale of these
trees is immense.
There are upwards of forty miles of de
lightful carriage-road on this noble estate,
and nearly twice as much extent of fine
walks, which have been opened, at great ex
pense, through the most picturesque regions
imaginable. Now, we traversed the banks of
the Tay, all fringed with verdure—anon we
passed up a romantic glen —then plunged in
to a deep, shadowy forest, and again bound
ed through a green copse, or a flower-be
spangled meadow—wondering, at every turn,
at the beauty of the scene.
A mountain-stream, called Bruan, joins its
waters with those of the Tay, nigh the vil
lage. This stream flows through the Duke's
estate, and upon it is one of the wildest wa
terfalls I have ever seen. It is called the
Biuan Fall, and the following lines are much
quoted of it:
“Hero foaming down the shelvy rocks
In twisting strength I din ;
There high my boiling torrent smokes,
While roaring o’er a linn.
Enjoying large each spring and well
As nature gave them me,
I am, altho’ I say it mysel’,
Worth going a mile to see.”
We were, by night, quite foot-weary with
our rambles in the magnificent parks and for
ests of Atholl, and we rested well in the spa
cious beds of the Queen’s Arms.
We had not time to visit the Birnam for
est, which lies near Dunkeld, and which is
classic ground to the admirers of Shakspeare.
Dunsinane Hill lies twelve miles from it, in
the direction of Perth. The distance from
Dunkeld to Perth is only fifteen miles. The
country is beautiful—in fine weather, I must
add—though, unfortunately for us, we had
none of the pleasantest during our transit
over it. It was a misty and chilly afternoon,
and we did not regret our arrival at the an
cient and remarkable city of Perth, where we
tarried a whole day.
The town of Perth is beautifully situated
on the river Tay, whose waters afford it su
perior manufacturing facilities. The anti
quity of this place is quite remarkable. It
was a borough at least eight centuries ago.
Before the reign of James 11, it was the capi
tal of Scotland, though the Scottish monarchs
were crowned at Scone, two miles distant,
where there was a royal residence, now in
the possession of Lord Mansfield.
In the year 16C0, Perth was the scene of
that strange and notable incident, which
forms the ground-work of Mr. James’ last,
or, rather, lute novel, entitled, “ Gowrie, or
the King's Plot.”
I must not attempt a description of Perth,
for I have neither time nor space for it. It is
a very pleasant town, containing some 22,000
inhabitants. It is at the head of the Tay
navigation. The noble hill of Kinnoul, to
the eastward of the city, afforded us one of
the finest prospects I have met with in this
land of beauty. Thence we overlooked
Scone—Dunsinane, of Macbeth memory—the
confluence of the Earne and Tay rivers, and
a vast stretch of country literally “ white
with the harvest.” Beyond all this, on the
North, rise the Grampians like mighty senti
nels overlooking a Paradise!
Between Perth and Sterling lies one of the
chief objects of attraction to me, which Scot
land possesses. I mean the celebrated Loch
Leven, in whose Castle the beautiful but un
fortunate Mary was imprisoned for ten
months. Fourteen miles from Perth we
stopped at Kinross, which is a somewhat irre
gular but picturesque village, on the western
border of the Lake. It has some extensive
manufactories of tartan plaids.
We had a pleasant afternoon before us,
and a visit to Loch Leven Castle was resolved
on. Our party embarked in a little boat from
a pier which ran into the Loch. Two stout
men were at the oars, and we skirted, for
some distance, a shore of the Lake, and then
struck across to Castle Isle.
I found the Castle less extensive than I
had imagined. Three of its sides are wash
ed by the waters of the Loch, and northward
of it is a small garden extending also to the
water. We explored thoroughly every part
of the ruin, and, by the aid of our cicerone,
satisfied ourselves of the exact position of all
objects connected with the imprisonment of
the queenly captive.
Sad memories pressed upon our hearts, as
we recalled the events of history, and went
back in imagination to the night when the
heroic Douglass moored his little boat under
the tower in which the Queen was confined,
and then assisted his royal mistress to de
scend down the wall into it. We gazed ea
gerly across the Loch to the South bank,
where Douglass landed, and where he fled
with Ma.iy across the country to her friends.
We thought of her subsequent sad fate, and,
in the midst of so many thrilling associa
tions, who will wonder that we dropped a
tear to the memory of Mary Stuart, Queen of
Scots.
Our journey from Kinross to Sterling was
of three hours’ duration, over a fine road,
through a charming country. We have been
here a day, and find ourselves, at its close,
well repaid for the delay. The situation of
Sterling is finer than that of Edinburgh, to
which, however, it bears a resemblance which
one cannot fail to observe. The town is
built on the declivity of a fine hill, which ter
minates abruptly in a precipice overhanging
the Forth. On the summit is the Castle, re
markable for its natural defences. The view
from the Castle is exceedingly beautiful.—-
Nothing can surpass, it seems tome, the love
liness of the Valley of the Forth, and the
windings of the river—itself visible all the
distance to Alloa.
The town is about half the size of Perth,
and is well built, with many architectural or
naments. It has fine markets, churches, hos
pitals —but they are too much like tho?<i of
other cities, to warrant a particular descrip
tion.
We shall now return to England with but
little delay, visiting Glasgow as we proceed,
unless letters, received at Edinburgh, should
summon our companion, Mr. D., immediate
ly to London.
I cannot tell when I shall write to you
again—if possible, from Glasgow. Mean
while, believe me
Faithfully yours, E. F. G.
Sclcctcir fJoctrg.
POETS.
BY JAMES GREGOR GRANT.
Poets are a joyous race!
O’er the laughing earth they go,
Shedding charms o'er many a place
Nature never favored so ;
Stiil to each divinest spot
Led by somo auspicious star,
Scattering Hewers where flowers are not,
Making lovelier thoso that arc.
Poets are a mournful race !
O’er the weary earth they go,
Darkening many a sunny placo
Nature never darkened so ;
Still to each sepulchral spot
Called by spectral lips afar,
Fancying tombs where tombs are not,
Making gloomier those which are.
Poets are a gifted race!
If their gifts aright they knew;
Fallen splendor, perished grace,
Their enchantments can renew ;
They have power o’er day and night;
Life, with all its joy and cares —
Earth, with all its bloom and blight—
Tears and transport—all are theirs!
Poets are a wayward race !
Loneliest still when least alone,
They can find in every placo
Joys and sorrows of their own :
Grieved or glad by f tful starts,
Pangs they feel that no one shares,
And a joy can fill their hearts
That can till no hearts but theirs.
Poets are a mighty race!
They can reach to times unborn ;
They can brand the vile and base
With undying hate and scorn ;
They can ward detraction’s blow ;
They oblivion’s tide can stem ,
And the good and brave must owe
Immortality to them!
—. .... .. -
JJetuspajjer Analects.
TAILORS.
It certainly is strange, considering the an
cientness of the calling, the usefulness of the
trade, that the word Tailor should ever al
most be considered as a term of reproach or
contempt, in a way that is never thought of
as regards a hosier, a shoemaker, or any oth
er craftsman. “Why, he rides like a tail
or!” is the sneering term of reproach app ! ied
to one not remarkable for skill or grace in
the most noble art of horsemanship. “ Why,
you ninth part of a man, you tailor!” is gen
erally thought sufficient to annihilate any bo
dy who has a grain of pride, or a particle of
feeling; and Shakspeare addresses a tailor as
if he were the embodiment of only the very
smallest possible portion, the very minutest
homcepathic dose of humanity.
“ Thou thread,
Thou thimble, • . .
Thou yard, three-quarters, half-yard, quarter, nail,
Thou flea, thou nit, thou winter cricket thou :
Braved in mine own houso with a skein of thread !
Away, thou rag, thou quantity, thou remnant.”
Taming of the Shrttr.
Now, with all deference to Shakspeare and
others, this is mistaken treatment. If pride
of ancestry, if a long lineage be subject of
boast, who has so much reason to be proud
as the Cissor himself ? Yet is nothing more
common than to hear him railed at as a
sneaking, white-livered sort of animal, by
those who look only on the surface of things,
and tailors. Their warlike qualifications
none can deny;
“ For tho’ no swords they draw, no dagger* shake,
Yet can their warriors a quietus make
With a bare bodkin j”
and whatever might be their weapons, histo
ry records an instance of their undaunted
resolution. In 1226, 250 tailors fought in a
pitched battle against an equal number of
goldsmiths : many were killed and wounded
on each side, but not a tailor’s son amongst
’em would “give in,” till the sheriffs, with
the city posse comitatus apprehended the ring
leaders, thirteen of whom were condemned
and executed.
237