Rev. John Braidwood. The Provost ran-the Bailies roared; THE REST SHE never saw, MAN! We are at the hotel, somewhat fatigued-but amply repaid, are you not? "A thousand fold!" "I thought you would be. I have a proposition to make which is that you call upon me again in a few hours, and we will visit several other localities of interest. I have two acquaintances whom I must see before leaving town." "I shall be at your service." The interim was devoted to calls upon my missionary brother, the Rev. John Braidwood, one of a trio devoted to Christianizing the Hindoos, of Madras, India. I knew him and his colleagues well, having employed ten years of my life in the same pursuit. Two of that band have “ entered into rest" (Anderson and Johnson); my friend Braidwood remains, though an invalid, "faint yet pursuing." Right pleasant was it to take tea with him and his worthy wife and family. Days "lang syne" passed in review, suggesting mingled emotions of grief and joy. He accompanied me to call on Dr. Candlish, the most eloquent of Scotland's pulpit orators; but he was unfortunately not at home. In compliance with a promise made at Brussels, I called to see Sir William Johnson, but much to my regret he had not returned from the continent. A Stroll. Monuments and Epitaphs. "Punctual to the hour appointed. That is right; now let us take a short stroll through the town." "I am at your command." And that is Grey Friar's Church within which is a tablet to the poet Ramsey, with this quaint inscription: "Though here you're buried, worthy Allan, For while your soul lives in the sky, Near at hand is a memorial in memory of the eminent Dr. Blair, whose lectures on Rhetoric is still a text book in the schools. And here is the house where once resided the reformer, John Knox, from the window of which he preached to the gathered multitudes, and where is inscribed the three-fold motto, "Theos, Deus, God ."And there is the monument erected to Fergusson by his fellow-poet, Burns, bearing the following inscription: "No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, No storied urn, nor animated bust; This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way But we have not the time to go farther, as we must visit Holy-Rood Abbey. And now as we are about to leave, how may our feelings be better expressed than in a poem spoken a few years since in one of the theatres of the city, to an audience, affected, as I learn from one who was present, in no common degree by the national allusions. the reader peruses the stanzas, let him change places with a Scotchman, and be unmoved if he can. As Farewell to Edinborough. FAREWELL TO EDINBOROUGH. TUNE-"Mrs. M'Leod's Reel." Fareweel, Edinbro'l where happy I ha'e been; Fareweel, Edinbro', Caledonia's Queen! Auld Reekie*, fare ye weel, and Reekie new beside; Wi' a young and bonny bride. Fareweel, Edinbro'! your trusty volunteers Your Council a' sae circumspect Your Provost, without peers. Your stately college, stuffed wi' lore; Your rantin' High School yard. The jibe, the lick, the roguish trick, The ghaists o' the auld town guard. Fareweel, Edinbro', your philosophic men, And wield the golden pen; Your sessions-court, your thronged resort, Big wigs and long gowns a' ; And if ye dinna keep the peace, Its no for want o' law. Fareweel, Edinbro', and a' your glittering wealth, Your Bernard's well, your cotton mill, Where every breath is health; And spite o' a' your fresh sea gales, If ony chance to dee It's no for want o' recipe, The doctor or the fee! Fareweel, Edinbro', your hospitals and ha's, The rich man's friend, the cross lang Kent * The name given to Edinburgh, because of the cloud of mist (reek), ever hanging above it. Farewell-Continued. The kirks that grace their honored place, And peacefu' a' they stand, When e'er they're found on Scottish ground, Fareweel, Edinbro', your sons o' genius fine, A name that stood maist since the flood, And just when it's forgot, Your bard will be forgotten too, Your ain Sir Walter Scott. Fareweel, Edinbro', and a' your daughters fair, Your palace in the sheltered glen, Your castle in the air, Your rocky brows, your glassy knolls, And 'eke your mountains bauld; Were I to tell your beauties a', My tale would ne'er be tauld. Fareweel, Edinbro', where happy I ha'e been; Fareweel, Edinbro', Caledonia's queen; Prosperity to Edinbro', wi' every rising sun, And blessings be on Edinbro' Till Time his race has run ! THIS illustrious ruin occupied much of my time during a brief sojourn in the Scottish capital. And well might it, for the spot is not to be found in North Britain, if in the empire, more suggestive and interesting than the palace and abbey of Holy-Rood. To the historian it recalls the names of James IV., V., and VI., of Queen Mary, her faithless Darnley and unfortunate Rizzio; the Protestant remembers with gratitude and laudable pride that champion of the right, the manly and heroic John Knox; the scholar quotes from Sir Walter's wizard pages that graphic sketch— "The queen sits low in Lithgow pile, And weeps the weary day, The war against her native soil while the antiquarian finds ample entertainment in gazing on tower and turret, gateway and arch, the foundations of which were laid at a time far anterior to the discovery of the American Continent. A few historical recollections may not be without interest to my reader. The review shall be brief. The abbey of Holy-Rood (in modern phrase, Church of the Sacred |