king a collection of Scottish ballads, words and tunes. I told
her that I had noticed, since I had been in Scotland, that the young
ladies seemed to take very little interest in the national Scotch airs,
and were all devoted to Italian; moreover, that the Scotch ballads and
memories, which so interested me, seemed to have very little interest
for people generally in Scotland. Miss S. was warm enough in her zeal to
make up a considerable account, and so we got on well together.

While we were sitting, chatting, two young ladies came in, who had
walked up the glen despite the showery day. They were protected by good,
substantial outer garments, of a kind of shag or plush, and so did not
fear the rain. I wanted to walk down to Roslin Castle, but the party
told me there would not be time this afternoon, as we should have to
return at a certain hour. I should not have been reconciled to this, had
not another excursion been proposed for the purpose of exploring
Roslin.

However, I determined to go a little way down the glen, and get a
distant view of it, and my fair friends, the young ladies, offered to
accompany me; so off we started down the winding paths, which were cut
among the banks overhanging the Esk. The ground was starred over with
patches of pale-yellow primroses, and for the first time I saw the
heather, spreading over rocks and matting itself around the roots of
trees. My companions, to whom it was the commonest thing in the world,
could hardly appreciate the delight which I felt in looking at it; it
was not in flower; I believe it does not blossom till some time in July
or August. We have often seen it in greenhouses, and it is so hardy that
it is singular it will not grow wild in America.

We walked, ran, and scrambled to an eminence which commanded a view of
Roslin Chapel, the only view, I fear, which will ever gladden my eyes,
for the promised expedition to it dissolved itself into mist. When on
the hill top, so that I could see the chapel at a distance, I stood
thinking over the ballad of Harold, in the Lay of the Last Minstrel, and
the fate of the lovely Rosabel, and saying over to myself the last
verses of the ballad:--

"O'er Roslin, all that dreary night,
A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;
'Twas broader than the watchfire's light,
And redder than the bright moonbeam.

It glared on Roslin's castled rock,
It ruddied, all the copsewood glen;
'Twas seen from Deyden's groves of oak