se to have the superintendence of all their
affairs. This fact may account for such a perfect Geyser of
architectural ingenuity as has been poured out upon their family chapel,
which was designed for a _chef-d'oeuvre_, a concentration of the best
that could be done to the honor of their patron's family. The documents
which authenticate this statement are described in Billings's Baronial
Antiquities. So much for "the lordly line of high St. Clair."

When we came back to the house, and after taking coffee in the drawing
room, Miss S. took me over the interior, a most delightful place, full
of all sorts of out-of-the-way snuggeries, and comfortable corners, and
poetic irregularities. There she showed me a picture of one of the early
ancestors of the family, the poet Drummond, hanging in a room, which
tradition has assigned to him. It represents a man with a dark,
Spanish-looking face, with the broad Elizabethan ruff, earnest,
melancholy eyes, and an air half cavalier, half poet, bringing to mind
the chivalrous, graceful, fastidious bard, accomplished scholar, and
courtier of his time, the devout believer in the divine right of kings,
and of the immunities and privileges of the upper class generally. This
Drummond, it seems, was early engaged to a fair young lady, whose death
rendered his beautiful retreat of Hawthornden insupportable to him, and
of course, like other persons of romance, he sought refuge in foreign
travel, went abroad, and remained eight years. Afterwards he came back,
married, and lived here for some time.

Among other traditions of the place, it is said that Ben Jonson once
walked all the way from London to visit the poet in this retreat; and a
tree is still shown on the grounds under which they are said to have
met. It seems that Ben's habits were rather too noisy and convivial to
meet altogether the taste of his fastidious and aristocratic host; and
so he had his own thoughts of him, which, being written down in a diary,
were published by some indiscreet executor, after they were both dead.

We were shown an old, original edition of the poems. I must confess I
never read them. Since I have seen the material the poet and novelist
has on this ground, all I wonder at is, that there have not been a
thousand poets to one. I should have thought they would have been as
plenty as the mavis and merle, and sprouting out every where, like the
primroses and heather bells.

Our American literature is unfortunate