-one by no means of Mitchell's stamp--Mr.
Walker, the minister of Dunnottar, and it is chiefly occupied with an
account of his researches at a vitrified fort, in Kincardineshire,
commonly called Lady Fenella's Castle, and, according to tradition,
the scene of the murder of Kenneth III. While in the north, he visited
also the residence of the lady who had now for so many years been the
object of his attachment; and that his reception was not adequate to
his expectations, may be gathered pretty clearly from some expressions
in a letter addressed to him when at Montrose by his friend and
confidante, Miss Cranstoun:--

TO WALTER SCOTT, ESQ., POST-OFFICE, MONTROSE.

DEAR SCOTT,--Far be it from me to affirm that there are no
diviners in the land. The voice of the people and the voice of
God are loud in their testimony. Two years ago, when I was in the
neighborhood of Montrose, we had recourse for amusement one
evening to chiromancy, or, as the vulgar say, having our fortunes
read; and read mine were in such a sort, that either my letters
must have been inspected, or the devil was by in his own proper
person. I never mentioned the circumstance since, for obvious
reasons; but now that you are on the spot, I feel it my bounden
duty to conjure you not to put your shoes rashly from off your
feet, for you are not standing on holy ground.

I bless the gods for conducting your poor dear soul safely to
Perth. When I consider the wilds, the forests, the lakes, the
rocks--and the spirits in which you must have whispered to their
startled echoes, it amazeth me how you escaped. Had you but
dismissed your little squire and Earwig,[123] and spent a few
days as Orlando would have done, all posterity might have
profited by it; but to trot quietly away, without so much as one
stanza to despair--never talk to me of love again--never, never,
never! I am dying for your collection of exploits. When {p.222}
will you return? In the mean time, Heaven speed you! Be sober,
and hope to the end.

William Taylor's translation of your ballad is published, and so
inferior, that I wonder we could tolerate it. Dugald Stewart read
yours to **** the other day. When he came to the fetter
dance,[124] he looked up, and poor ***** was sitting with his hands
nailed to his knees, and the big tears rolling down his innocent