LETTERS FROM THE OLD WORLD.

Number XIX.

EDINBURGH, April 26th, 1855 [1856].

MY DEAR FRIEND:—This day was to have been devoted, by me, and a company of friends, to the Castle, and some of the other lofty points, with which this beautiful and picturesque city abounds; but a more than usually cutting and stirring east wind has, in union with clouds of dust, been playing mad pranks since sunrise this morning, giving an effectual check to all lofty soarings, on the part of travellers, and showing them that 'tis wiser, sometimes, for pigmy mortals to walk in the valley of humiliation, than to risk an encounter with the elements on the mountain heights. So we changed our plans entirely, and were soon reconciled to the change, inasmuch as the thick, leaden atmosphere would, effectually, have precluded us from getting any fine view, either of the noble city, or of its beautiful environs, from any of the many adjacent elevated points. So we betook ourselves first, to the , or "," and were soon carried back into the past, as we stood before the mighty works of Titian, Giorgione, Canelletti, Vandyck, &c., &c. The collection is fine, but small; there are not so many gems as at the in Glasgow. The Dutch School is well represented; and there are three huge paintings by ETTY—Subject, "."—These are, doubtless, well executed, though I am not an admirer of ETTY. I intend to be brief in the account of my visit to this Picture Gallery—for I have been so wearied in reading lengthy criticisms, on paintings, made by those who know about them, that I intend to avoid this error myself.

We next visited "," where we saw many interesting relics of antiquity. Among these may be mentioned the , carried by the Covenanters, during the civil war; the which JENNY GEDDES, in

her zeal against Prelacy, hurled at the head of the Bishop of Edinburgh in St. Giles's Church and a fearful-looking instrument called the , or Scottish Guillotine, with which the Duke of Argyle, the Earl of Morton, and many other distinguished persons, were beheaded.—When were those ", ," to which some people delight to refer?

My attention was quickly called to an ancient-looking document, on which were many names inscribed, and over which is written, "." In my simplicity, I looked at this, undisturbed by my companions, for many minutes, with intense interest, and in the full belief that the original document was before me—when, lo! the spell was broken by a friend, coming to my elbow, and saying, "The real original is in the Advocate's Library." A walking cane, that once belonged to RIZZIO, is here; of this fact there can be no doubt, because the words, "," are engraved around it. Had it been a gift of MARY to her ill-fated Italian Minstrel? Could it have spoken, what might it have revealed to us?—Of what strange scenes, wild romances, and fearful tragedies had it been the witness? Was it a quiet looker on, from the corner of that room, in Holyrood, in which, taking up his musical instrument for the time, Rizzio, in the rich and flowing accents of his beautiful Italy, poured out at once his heart, and his melody to his lovely mistress, in the language, since translated,

"Queen of my soul! whose starlight eyes
Are all the light I seek;
Whose voice, in sweetest melodies
Can love or pardon speak—
I bow me to thy lov'd control,
Queen of my soul! Mary, Mary!

"The mountains of thy native shore
Are cold, and dull, and grey;
Here linger midst their clouds no more,
Thy home is far away—
Where Italy's sweet waters roll:
Queen of my soul! Mary, Mary!"

One turns at length sadly and slowly away from all associations connected with MARY STUART—poor Mary! at once so richly, yet so dangerously endowed—so timid, so tempted, so persecuted, and so forsaken.

We went next to the Museum of the University, which contains a large collection of specimens in the various departments of Natural History. Of these, the Ornithological department is peculiarly valuable, being of great extent, and admirably classified.

We strolled next into "," which is, at once, the most interesting and ancient in Edinburgh. A number of the great dead of Scotland lie here—Geo. Buchanan, the Latin Poet—George Heriot Robertson, the historian—Dr. Black, the distinguished chemist—Mackenzie—Blair—Dr. McCui, the biographer of Knox—and a host of other eminent men—among whom I must not omit to name , the inscription on whose humble tomb I here transcribe:

"In this Cemetery was interred the mortal part of an Immortal Poet, ALLAN RAMSAY, author of the GENTLE SHEPHERD, and other admirable Poems in the Scottish dialect. He was born in 1686—died in 1759.

"No sculptur'd marble here, no pompous lay,
No storied urn, no animated Bust.
This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way
To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust."

"Tho' here you're buried, worthy ALLAN,
We'll ne'er forget you, canty Callan,
For while your soul lives in the sky,
Your GENTLE SHEPHERD ne'er can die."

A splendid monument to the Author of "," is to be erected in the vicinity of his old house in the High Street.

A large stone slab which stands at the lower part of the Cemetery, in the city wall, is the one on which I gazed with the most painful interest. It is called "," and bears this inscription:

"Halt, passenger! take heed what you do see—Here lies interred the dust of those who stood 'Gainst perjury, resisting unto blood, Adhering to the Covenant, and laws Establishing the same; which was the cause Their lives were sacrificed unto the lust Of prelatists abjured, though here their dust Lies mixed with murderers and other crew Whom justice justly did to death pursue; But, as for them, no cause was to be found Worthy of death, but only they were sound, Constant and steadfast, witnessing For the prerogatives of , their Which truths were sealed by famous head, And all along to Mr. Renwick's blood They did endure the wrath of enemies, Reproaches, torments, deaths, and injuries; But yet they're those who from such troubles came, And triumph now in glory with the Lamb."

("From May 17th, 1661, that the noble Marquis of Argyle suffered, to the 17th Feb., 1688, that Mr. James Renwick suffered, were one way or other murdered or destroyed for the same cause, about 18,000, of whom were executed at Edinburgh, about one hundred of noblemen, gentlemen, ministers, and others, noble martyrs for JESUS CHRIST: the most part of them lie here.")

A friend had told us that the stone which "" was signed, is yet to be found in this Churchyard. We were eager to find it; and as the visitors were few in number, we went up to a man, who wore the appearance of a mechanic, and asked him about it. This man proved to be a most desirable , for he showed us many points of interest that we had passed over unwittingly, and gave us the history of many of the people, to whom quaint, queer, ancient looking monuments are erected. He showed us the open Court-Yard, in which, after the Battle of Bothwell Brig, many of the Covenanters were kept, as prisoners, for eighteen months, exposed to the wind, and tempest, and only carried thence to the Cross, or the Grassmarket, to undergo the infliction of their unrighteous punishments.—He pointed us to the tomb of , the signer of the Covenant—told us the stone, on which it was signed, had been removed—

and showed us the spot on which it once stood. This man informed us, that, having a half holiday every Saturday, he, invariably, spent the afternoon in this old kirk yard, amidst these quaint monuments of a departed age. We found him very intelligent, and thoroughly versed in Scottish history. He was strong in his devotion to Queen Mary, and, evidently, resolved to believe, that every paper discovered, which tends to her disadvantage, is a forgery—" had Queen Mary's letters." We found it agreeable to fraternize with a SENSIBLE person of our opinion, on this and kindred subjects; and having unanimously decided, that Mary knew nothing of the murder of Darnley beforehand, and have known nothing about it, we invited our newly found Scotch friend, to lead us to the Grassmarket, which he, accordingly, did, calling our attention to each spot of note, as we passed along. Soon stood we on the hallowed spot, where , and so many others, suffered for "the faith, once delivered to the saints." could stand on such a spot unmoved? could smile at, or ridicule the men of the Covenant here?

Standing in the place of their martyrdom, the peculiarity, angularity, and bigotry with which many of us have been apt to invest them, fade away into the distance, and we only recognize the great principles they asserted—their stern independence in maintaining them—their indomitable courage and Christian fortitude in dying for them.

Our guide pointed out the house from which was hanged. I could almost hear (so it seemed to me) the tramp of that vast multitude, as it came rushing down the West Bow, in regular procession, the messengers of death to the wretched man, who vainly tried to hide himself from their wrath. "Here was to have suffered," said our companion; and now, for a season in my mind, the genius of SCOTT reigned supreme, in the very heart of

. Two roofed houses were presented to our notice, as being the only two remaining of the times of the . The are, of course, indicative of . One of the two was surmounted by a —time had worn away the other.—We lingered long amidst those scenes, so memorable in other days, indulging in endless speculations, and conjectures, and looking back mournfully on that solemn , which (thanks to the All-Wise Disposer of events, and to Wisdom that ) "comes not back again."

We bade adieu to our kind and intelligent guide, regretfully, comforting ourselves with the recollection that he might always be found in the Grey Friars, on Saturday afternoons.

.—I am ashamed of the length of time that this has been waiting, to be finished. My engagements have been very numerous, and the claims upon my time, in one way or other, incessant.

KOSSUTH has been in Edinburgh, and twice, during the last week, have I had the delight of listening to his (almost) matchless eloquence.—He has been received with an amount of deep enthusiasm by the here, that I had scarcely supposed them capable of entertaining for any, but one of their own heroes; but the Scotch hate tyranny and oppression, and Kossuth told them of both; they abhor priestcraft and popery, and the Magyar unveiled them, and showed them in newer and darker aspects. The Scotch love the cause of Freedom, and honor her standard bearers; and Kossuth stood forth, and pleaded the cause of his "," (that "fatherland," for whose liberty he has so nobly and disinterestedly been struggling,) with an earnest and deep eloquence, that was unanimously and enthusiastically responded to, night after night, by the vast audience assembled to hear him, and which gave

ample evidence that the sympathy of the people of Scotland is his.

LOUIS KOSSUTH is, without doubt, one of Nature's true nobility. He speaks from the heart, and cannot fail to speak the heart. He has a more foreign accent than I had expected—but having a capital seat, I was enabled to hear, with perfect distinctness, every word of his first Lecture. "I rise (said he) to greet the Athens of the north—the heiress of the glory which belonged to the ancient of days—where, amidst recollections of an eventful past, the children of a free country have lit the lamp of knowledge with the torch of Liberty—have lit it, andhave fed it with a nation's loving care, 'till it shines a sun, illuminating the land, and spreading its radiant beams of enlightenment on the proud towers of palaces, as on the humble cottage of the laborer." Was not this a singularly appropriate, and beautiful greeting to the citizens of Edinburgh?

I understand that Kossuth's Lectures, on the , will be published before long; they could not fail to make a deep impression on all who listened attentively to them. Kossuth believes that the Papacy is aiming at universal political power; that the treaties and concordats of despotic Catholic powers are made with the design of isolating Britain (Protestant Britain) from the nations; and that, after the power of Rome has successfully extinguished the last embers of freedom that burn dimly in any of the Catholic countries of Europe, she will form some organization, with a view to suppressing and overwhelming the civil and religious liberties of our land. He says, "The age demands a new LUTHER," &c.

At the close of the second Lecture, Dr. Begg was requested to move a vote of thanks to Kossuth. In doing this, and in making reference to the increasing oppressions of the nations on the continent of Europe, he took occasion to contrast the , and to express a hope that the

union between England and America (the two free countries of the world) may become closer and closer. Hundreds of people in that vast Hall, have thought of SLAVERY—AMERICAN SLAVERY—that one on the otherwise fair Republic of the West. Did this learned Doctor of the Church hear no voice of wailing coming across the wide Atlantic, from the Southern plantations? Did he forget that while America offers a home for the exiled Hungarian, the oppressed Pole and the down-trodden Italian, she drives her own children of sable hue forth to seek shelter from her iron rule, beneath the protecting flag of England? SAMUEL WARD or FREDERICK DOUGLASS should have been in the Music Hall of Edinburgh on that occasion.

In my "mind's eye," I saw the finger of pointed by the Austrian, (who does not vaunt himself a friend of freedom,) to the boasting son of America; and the words of remonstrance (so justly earned by the latter) sounded in my ears,

"Go! loose your fettered slaves at home,
Then turn, and ask the like of us!"

* * * * * * *

My eloquent and kind friend, Rev. Alexander Wallace, preached his sermon on , by special request, in Dr. Peddie's church, last evening. It is one of the largest churches in Edinburgh, and was full to overflowing. The discourse occupied an hour and a half in the delivery, and was listened to with deep attention by the vast audience. As I have, in several of my last letters, made mention of Mr. Wallace's style of speaking, I will not here recapitulate. He is a warm-hearted, high-souled, noble, Christian minister—indomitable in courage—large in sympathy for the oppressed—stern in denunciation of the oppressor—and withal a —one who labors, without ceasing, for the well being, not only of his own especial congregation, but of his fellowcitizens, and of the world at large. Mr. Wallace has been but few years in Edinburgh, and is, as yet, but little known by the . His

church is in the old town, and in a poor neighborhood; but a new one is soon to be erected, in a better situation; and as the present one is crowded to overflowing, Sabbath after Sabbath, so I predict will be the new one—for though I am no prophetess, I can foresee that, ere many years have rolled away, the Rev. Alexander Wallace will be one of the most popular preachers in this city of many churches and great preachers.

This is the man who has nobly pledged himself, ever in time to come, to "."

I must here mention a very pleasing incident, that occurred during one of my last visits to Mr. Wallace's happy and kind family. I heard a whispering, and saw a stir and bustle among his dear little girls, and then they ran out of the room, quickly returning with a large box, which they carried between them. "They raised the lid"—and lo! such a splendid doll was brought forth, as it is rarely the felicity of any little girls to possess—a doll of vast size, and splendidly arrayed; and this fine doll was placed in my hands, by little , , and , for the ROCHESTER BAZAAR, as their offering to the cause of the poor slave.

Now, my little friends, in the United States, what say you to this? Here is a beautiful instance of self-denial, worth your copying. Bear in mind that these dear little Scotch children have never seen the little slave children; they have only read about "," and ";" and they ran to their Papa, some time ago, and begged that their last little sister might be called "EVA;" their Papa acceded to the request—and now, a sweet little cherub, fair as alabaster, with flaxen curls, and bright blue eyes, answers to the name of EVA.

The old Anti-Slavery spirit, that, in other days, made Edinburgh famous among the cities of Great Britain, is not ; it has only been slumbering, and needs to be thoroughly aroused. A supineness (deplored by many who have given way to it) has crept over some of the earliest friends of the cause here. Considering the battle entirely won, when the day of dawned gloriously forth upon the nations of the earth, these friends laid aside their weapons of warfare, and rested from their labors. A general mustering of the friends of Freedom occurred, however, when the accomplished authoress of "" graced, with her presence, the "Modern Athens;" and looking from a distance, we fondly hoped and firmly believed, that , if ever, the almost dying embers, scattered on the altar of Freedom, would be fanned into a flame that should burn brightly and continuously.—. That large Society, the account of the formation of which some of us across the Atlantic perused with so much interest, three years since, and of which a large number of influential citizens in Edinburgh became members, has (I am informed) , but fall dead. Here was no gradual decay, through old age; it fell to pieces, and died— as rapidly as did the "." I was in Edinburgh some months before I could properly understand the disease of which it died. I think I now comprehend its nature.—I trust that the Ladies of the Anti-Slavery So-

ciety, so recently formed in Edinburgh, will see to it, as far as possible, that their Society be kept in a healthy state. Let them ever bear in mind, that, all Societies (and their's included) are designed but as a means for the accomplishment of an end, and that that end is nothing less than the emancipation of millions of their enslaved brothers and sisters, and the amelioration of the condition of hundreds of thousands of nominally , but really oppressed Colored people.

That Anti-Slavery Society that, forgetful of its first principles, gives practical proof that it claims to be the , (and no longer only the to an end,) is (let it exist wherever it may) no more useful to the real interests of the great and glorious cause it is to serve, and the sooner it dissolves into thin air, the better it will be for that cause.

I have wandered far away from the Calton Hill, where I was intending to carry you, and will bring to the close this rambling letter.—Ere I do so, I must send a friendly word of greeting, and congratulation to the three Editors of the Rochester , the first copies of which paper reached me a day or two ago, and were received with much pleasure. Were I not greatly pressed for time, I would, at once, send my little friends, Freddy, Billy, and Jerry, a contribution for the columns of their journal. By and bye this shall be done, if all be well. In the meantime, I counsel them to clip some of the pretty little pieces from "," as these will be very suitable for the juvenile readers of their rising "." Success to their spirited enterprize.

I will write again soon.

Yours, truly,

JULIA GRIFFITHS.