WALLACE'S TREE.

Scots, wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled.

BURNS.

But

WALLACE has been called the "Washington of Scotland." This comparison has, very probably, been often made, for it is somewhat obvious. the person I first heard it from, was an old Scotchman, who acted as guide through the ruins of Melrose Abbey; and coming from such a source, in such a place, I was much struck with it. Whether the old man had heard the remark dropped by one of his visitors, or whether he had conceived it himself, while wandering about the solitary ruins, and meditating on times gone by and the deeds of the illustrious dead-thoughts natural to arise in the stillness and solemnity of such a place,-I cannot tell. But, at any rate, when he once got possession of it, he no doubt laid it carefully by in his memory, to be brought forth by way of compliment to American visitors like myself.

Be that as it may, there is certainly much justice in the comparison. Wallace was a true patriot, high-minded, disinterested, devoted. He loved his

S

country with his whole soul, and for her good was ready to sacrifice every private interest: and did he not sacrifice everything, his life included? In Scotland his name is revered, yet not, it seemed to me, with the enthusiasm it deserves. At least, I have seldom heard allusion made to it, on occasions, either private or public, when, as it seemed to me, such allusion would have been natural. Perhaps, his comparative want of success, and his ignominious death at the hands of the barbarous Edward, may, in the view of some weak minds, have cast a shade over his fame: whereas, in the case of Washington, the union of the loftiest intrinsic greatness of character with the completest success, and, added to these, the splendid results that have followed his efforts, in the establishment of a great nation, have caused his name to shine with the splendor of the

sun.

It may be the case, moreover, that the union with England, their old enemy, has somewhat cooled Scottish enthusiasm in regard to the exploits of their ancestors in the former wars between the two countries. In fact, I am sure that this is the case: I have not unfrequently heard it urged as a duty to suppress Scottish national feeling, and to think of the British kingdom only as a unit. And it is, no doubt, a duty, both in a political and in a Christian view, to lay aside all feelings of animosity between the two countries, and to make the union a hearty But does it follow that Scotchmen must forget the glories of their past history, and dishonor by neglect the deeds of their patriotic ancestors? I hope that the bitter hostility that has so long

one.

existed, also, between England and America — engendered by former wars-is destined to die out and become extinguished, and that feelings of mutual friendship and regard will spring up in its place: but are we, therefore, to forget our Washington and Jefferson? Are we to cast aside the glorious memories of Bunker Hill, Saratoga, and Yorktown? or to forget the exploits of our naval heroes in the last war? Never, while we remain a nation! *

And this train of remark leads me to the expression of a thought which has often occurred to my mind, in explanation of the reason why our countrymen have, in general, a kindlier feeling towards Scotland than towards the sister country, —though both, in fact, under the common name of Britain, were our enemies in both wars. The explanation, in part at least, is to be found, I think, in our love for the name and memory of Wallace and his patriotic exploits. All American boys are familiar with the history of Wallace,-nearly as much so as with that of Washington and William Tell. When a boy myself, I remember well the copy of his Life, which I owned and most highly prized, the frontispiece of which displayed the hero, with his two-handed claymore, shearing away the thigh of an English knight. And heartily did I wish him success in putting to rout and death his country's invaders. Another popular book, too, has

* Since the above was written, I have been glad to observe that a grand public demonstration has been made in Scotland in honor of Wallace, and there is to be a monument erected to his memory at Stirling. This is as it should be,

made the story of Wallace universally known among the youth of America - Miss Porter's "Scottish Chiefs." Cheap editions of that favorite work, circulating widely through the land, have made Wallace and his comrades-in-arms dear to every American heart. And these recollections of Scottish history we naturally connect in a manner with the remembrance of our own. We remember that Scotchmen, in former days, gallantly and desperately fought for their liberties against the same tyrannic power that oppressed us, namely, the Monarch and Government of England; and we naturally, therefore, have a fellow-feeling with them, as having been once in the same trying situation as ourselves.

With these thoughts and recollections in my mind,-when, on the occasion of a visit to Paisley, I was informed that Wallace's birth-place, and also a famous tree, called "Wallace's Tree" or "Wallace's Oak," were in the neighborhood, I gladly seized the opportunity of visiting them. They are situated in the village of Elderslie, about three miles from Paisley.

When about half way to the place, there came on a storm of wind and rain-a truly Scottish one; and, of all rain-storms, the Scottish are certainly the most pitiless, penetrating and persevering. We kept on, however, and came, at length, in sight of the Tree. It stood in a garden by the road-side. It was an immense oak, which had evidently seen many centuries. It was gnarled and knotted, and now nearly dead; only one branch was green: the three other enormous ones were barkless and bare.

"Yes!" said an old woman, who happened to be passing at the moment, and paused at observing our interest in the venerable object,-"Yes! that was Wallace's tree-he often hid in that from the enemy. I remember it when it spread clear over the road, but now it is almost gone,—the branches are dead and half lopped off."

I contemplated the venerable object with great interest. There it had stood, that "brave old oak,” these five hundred years and more, battling with the winter storms and enjoying the summer sunshine. Wallace had known it in its green youth: it had been his friend, and with its covering of leaves had often sheltered him from his ruthless pursuers. It was a better friend to him than his own countrymen; for betrayed, at last, by a dastardly Scot, Sir John Monteith (let his name, like our own Arnold's, be ever held in execration!) this noble patriot suffered the cruel and most unjust death of a traitor. And now the old tree stands here bare and lone, like a father who has lost his children,-like old King Lear, majestic in his sorrow.*

We next visited the house, hard by, in which the hero was born. It has been much altered since his day; yet a part of the original building still remains. Among these is the ancient kitchen, which is built with the strength of a castle-keep or a prison cell,

* The venerable tree, I am sorry to relate, is now no more, having been thrown down during a violent storm or hurricane on the night of the 6th of February, 1856. Our famed "Charter Oak," at Hartford, Connecticut, has also lately perished in the same way.