sable mass of building-the strange projectings, recedings, and windings-the roofs-the stairsthe 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 forwards, "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 gre

nadiers 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 queen-like 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 swim

ming lustre of conscious weakness-and when they can change this for the fire of command, and flash annihilation 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 nobody ever invented the like except Correggio. ... But I forget that I am not talking to W, who would fain, if

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