with his toes in; but his limbs seem full of sinew, and he is of a seemly breadth across the back. He uses to wear a hat of singular broad brims, like a Quaker, for the convenience of shadow to his eyes, which are weak, though piercing. These he farther comforts and assists by means of a pair of spectacles, of the pure crystalline in winter, "but throughout the sunny portion of the year," green. His nose is turned up somewhat at the point, as it were disdainfully. His lips would be altogether indiscernible, but for the line of their division; and can call up in no mind (unless, perchance, on the principle of contrast) any phantasy either of cherry or rosebud, to say nothing about bees. This yellow visage of his, with his close firm lips, and his grey eyes shining through his spectacles, as through a burning-glass, more brightlythe black beard not over diligently shorn---all lurking under the projecting shadow of that strange brim, compose such a physiognomy, as one would less wonder to meet with in Valladolid, than in Edinburgh. It is plain, yet not ugly. It is monastic, yet it is not anchoretic. It is bitter, and yet it wants not gleams of sheer good humour. In short, it belongs, and only could belong, to the nervous, irritable, enthusiastic, sare castic William W. The years which had passed since our parting, had exaggerated the lines of this countenance, and entirely removed every vestige of its bloom. But the features were too marked to have undergone any essential alteration; and after dinner, when some half a dozen bumpers of claret had somewhat smoothed its asperities, I could almost have fancied myself to be once more transported back to the common-room of Trinity or Jesus.

To you, who know us of old, I need scarcely add, that two Oxonians meeting after such a separation, over such wine, were in no hurry to shorten their sederunt. I think it is very creditable to me, however, that I retained enough of my senses to be able to find my way to Oman's, without accepting, far less asking, either direction or assistance. Of course, I am too well-seasoned a cask to feel the smallest bad effects this morning. Quite the contrary: I have already swallowed three cups of coffee, as many rolls and eggs, and about a pound of excellent mutton-ham, and expect Wresume his functions as my Lionizer.

every moment to

LETTER III.

TO THE SAME.

DEAR DAVID,

March 14..

If you knew what a life I have led since I wrote to you, you would certainly feel no difficulty in comprehending the reason of my silence. I thought my days of utter dissipation had been long since over, but I fear your clerical frown would have told me quite the reverse, had you been present almost any evening that has passed since my arrival in Edinburgh. I shall not shock you with any of the particulars; remember that you were once a layman yourself, and try to excuse about the worst you can imagine. What a glorious night we spent at your rooms the Saturday before you took orders!

I continue, notwithstanding all this, to pick up a vast deal of information concerning the present literary, political, and religious condition of this country; and I have already jotted down the heads of several highly valuable letters, in which I design, ere long, to embody the elite of all my acquisitions for your benefit and that of Jack. Perhaps, however, the facts I have gathered may be nothing the worse for undergoing a more leisurely digestion in my own mind, before I think of conveying them to yours. Depend upon it, that I shall very soon put you in possession of more knowledge, touching Scotland, than was ever revealed to any wondering commonroom, by any travelled or travelling tutor, since the days of Dr. Johnson. So have patience.

W was never more completely in his element, than when he took me to see Holyrood. You, who delight in honest enthusiasm, whatever be its objects, would have been gratified beyond measure, with the high jealous air of dignified earnestness he assumed, long before we arrived even within sight of the old palace. From his own house, the way thither lies straight down the only great street of the Old Town-a street by far the most impressive in its character of any I have ever seen in Britain. The sombre shadows, cast by those huge bouses of which it is composed, and the streams of faint light cutting the darkness here and there, where the entrance to some fantastic alley pierces the sable mass of building the strange projectings, recedings, and windings

the roofs the stairs-the windows, all so luxuriating in the endless variety of carved work-the fading and mouldering coats of arms, helmets, crests, coronets, supporters, mantles, and pavilions, all these testimonials of forgotten pride, mingled so profusely with the placards of old clothes'-men, and every ensign of plebeian wretchedness-it is not possible to imagine more speaking emblems of the decay of a once royal city, or a more appropriate avenue to a deserted palace. W was at home in every nook of this labyrinth. I believe he could more easily tell in what particular house of the Canongate any given lord or baron dwelt two hundred years ago, than he could in what street of the new city his descendant of the present day is to be found. It was quite marvellous with what facility he expounded the minutest hieroglyphics which had, no doubt, once been visible on shields of which my eye could now see nothing but rough outlines and smooth surfaces. "Ha!" said he, "the crescents and the sheaves!" pointing to a tall thin building, from the windows of which sundry patches of wet linen hung dangling over our heads" the crescents within the tressure-the sheaves-and the sword in pale on the escutcheon of pretence-this was once the palace of the Seatons-Oh! domus antiqua, heu! quam dispari dominare domino!" A little on, the heart and stars of Douglas-the lymphads of Argyle-the lion of Dundas, and I know not how many monsters of how many chieftains, were all saluted in their turn with like exclamations of reverence. He directed my attention to a building of prodigious elevation on the right, altogether having very much the appearance of the more ancient hotels in Paris, and informed me that here was the residence of the Hamiltons, after they had left their house without the walls, in the time of James VI.; "and here," said he, pointing right forward, "is Holyrood. You are already within the liberty, for we have

crossed the strand."

At first sight, this ancient habitation has truly a great deal of royalty in its aspect. Two huge square towers--one many centuries older than the other, but still sufficiently like to balance each other nobly-a low curtain between these, and, in the centre, a spacious gateway under a lofty canopy, somewhat after the fashion of a crown imperial, the whole of fine old grey stone; in front, an open esplanade, paved with massy pieces of granite, and a few kilted grenadiers loitering about the gate--all had an appearance of neglected majesty, which

I could not help feeling to be abundantly impressive. W uncovered himself as we stept into the porch, and I saw by his manner, that I should sorely offend him by omitting the same mark of veneration. Within, I found a melancholy quadrangle, for the most part of a noble architecture, but all over as black as if the sun had never shone upon it since the death of Queen Elizabeth. An ancient gentlewoman, with whom my friend seemed to be on terms of infinite familiarity, undertook forthwith to conduct us over the interior. Here, 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 cameleon--the 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 anni

hilation 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 miniature, 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 no body 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