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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