SCOTLAND.

Ir is now several months since we had laid upon our table the third edition of Turnbull's "Genius of Scotland." We are not minded to review the book, or to attempt augmenting it s reputation by our praise; but the subject of it will perhaps supply a brief article in which our readers may feel some interest, and from which they may derive a little instruction. Moreoever, as Caledonia is the country we love next best to our own Free Soil, we shall minister to our own gratification by a few reminiscences of travel in the

66 Land of the mountain and the flood."

St. Andrew's day, just psssed, has vividly recalled to our minds, as AULD LANG SYNE did to Lord Byron's,

Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue hills and clear streams;" and we long to make our journey over again in memory's car, and to view the storied localities of North Britain through the enchanting haze of time and distance.

Most Americans, eager to commence their European sight-seeing in England, and now tempted by the speed of steam, choose Liverpool as their port of landing. But, if you please, you may go to Glasgow as easily, as soon (by wind,) and a little more cheaply. Moreover, who that has time to spare would exchange the taught and trim packet, with its bounding motion and crowded canvass, for the tearing, and churning, and trembling and struggling even of the noblest steam-ship? The sail-clad voyager, with tall and triple mast, is like a politic ruler who makes way amid the changing multitude by dexterous management, and timely compli ance, and catching the popular breeze, and humoring the nation's will, that it may do as he inclines: the fiery steamer resembles some impetuous conqueror who clears his path by main force, rushes straight to his point through every shock, and thus sacrifices ease and smoothness to rapid accomplishment. But though strongly tempted, we cannot afford to say any thing at present of

our voyage across the Atlantic.

Indeed, we should only have to recount the same pains and pleasures, adventures and enjoyments, which others have described before us. Let us therefore suppose that, having skirted the coast of Ireland, we are about to enter the estuary of the Clyde. We are now in Scottish waters. The day is a lovely one in the beginning of July.

Any injuries that our good ship had sustained during the voyage have been repaired, and with a gentle but favorable breeze, we progress at the rate of five or six knots an hour. At half-past ten o'clock we pass Arlsa Craig, a high triangular rock which has been looming in sight for a considerable time. It rises abruptly from the sea, shooting up to a mere point, and whitened all over with the droppings of sea-fowl-chiefly of the solan-goose, a large oily bird, which, it is said, the Highlanders relish, doubtless because its oleaginous qualities supply an apology for an extra dose of whiskey after the feast. We would as lief dine on whale blubber. It is related of a certain laird who complained of defective appetite, that he was advised to eat solan goose as a whet before dinner, and that having made the experiment, he declared that after devouring two, he felt no hungrier than when he began!

As we advance, the estuary begins to narrow. The coast of Galloway and Ayrshire is visible on the right, and of Argyleshire on the left. Before us are the mountainous isle of Arran, and the contrasting loveliness of Bute; ground rendered famous in history as the refuge of the heroic Bruce and classical by the pen of Scott, in the Lord of the Isles. It is impossible to conceive any thing more magnificent than the sail up the Frith of Clyde as far as Greenock. We say this advisedly, and with the glorious Hudson fresh in our recollection. Of course, as inland streams, the the Clyde and the Hudson are not once to be compared; although the vale of the former for a long distance above Glasgow is beautiful and romantic in the extreme. But the Scottish river, a short distance beneath that city, begins to expand into an arm of the sea, varying in breadth from two or three miles to ten or twenty; and while its shore exhibit all kinds of scenery, from soft and sloping lawns to piled up mountains, its estuary, where it widens, is adorned with islands that seem placed side by side in order to exalt each others' beauties by comparison. Rosneath the home of Jeanie Deans in her days of well-earned rest and prosperity

-is as soft and paradisaical as wood and waters can make it. Amidst its groves rises a palace of Macallummore; the Gair-loch, at whose junction with the river the island lies, is for the most part as placid as a huge mirror formed in fairy hills, and studded all around with villages and villas, resorted to in summer by the wealthy citizens of the western metropolis of Scotland; and the country behind towers aloft into Alpine heights as varied and fantastic in outline, as if the ocean up there had at some distant geological period been petrified during a storm. The Cambrays -two small islands farther down-rise bare and swelling; the smaller a pasture for sheep, and containing only a light-house and some shepherd's huts-the larger exhibiting in a sweet little bay, as if sequestered from the whole world, the village of Millport, crowned by the parish church and stretching round the winding shore on either side of a marine villa belonging to the Dowager Countess of Glasgow. This village is invisible from the populous shore of the Mainland-and its sunny crescent on the water's edge makes you feel, on gliding round into the little bay, as if you had made a discovery in a new-found land. Bute is of a character similar to Rosneath, but larger and still more lovely. It is the chief residence of the Marquess, who takes his title from the island, and who is a royal Stuart-a descendant of the Bruce whose native region was these gorgeous isles. The ground is haunted with immortal memories. The strait between Bute and the shores of Argyll is more beautiful than any thing of the kind we ever beheld-for in that favored district the air is so temperate and the climate so genial, that the woods dip their branches in the flood: and let the reader remember that these woods have for ages been nursed like an amateur's garden— every grand and graceful tree being tended and left open to the air, and all of stunted deformity, or decaying vegetation, or boggy wilduess carefully removed. Nature is only aided, however; not formalized-and you have in this narrow sound all the beauty and grandeur of her finest combinations, without the offensive features of an ill-cultivated landscape. Then Arran, the neighbor of Bute, and along with which it constitutes a county-is as sublime as Bute is beautiful. Covered with bare and thunder-split peaks, and yet cradling on its rugged sides the towns of Lamlash and Brodick, around their respective bays, with cottages

here and there, and an ancient residence of the Duke of Hamilton-another of the royal line-we could not desire a more romantic abode wherein to rusticate and write poetry in summer. And leaving these islands, as you coast along, the shores on one hand sweep away in gentler eminences, while on the other the mountains approach and retire-and the long sea lochs wind far amid their recesses-and villages nestle in the loveliest cornersand noble mansions come forth like princesses of the land to greet you as you pass; and in the very uncertainty of the climate there is a variety of shade and sunshine-of squall and rainbow, and gorgeous clouds, which throws an enchantment over the whole region. We could have sojourned there for months and not exhausted half the beauties of the river. The country is in summer extremely populous; for all in the cities of Glasgow and Greenock, and even from other parts of Scotland, who can afford to go, seek here, from May to October, health and recreation for for their families. We wish we could at this time record our recollections of their hospitality to ourselves, and of the rambles which we took among the hills, and the boating excursions on the lakes, and the swimming baths in the river which we enjoyed with our friends during our visit. And now, we think of it, instead of confining ourselves to a little sketch, as we intended, but which we find would stretch to a huge length, we would better, perhaps, recur to this topic hereafter in a series of notices, and here for the present say good-bye. We shall learn before next month whether or not our friends would care to hear farther about Scotland and the Scotch. If they do, we can tell them something.

LEGENDS OF 1689-90.

"THE UNPARALLELED REVENGE."

BY MISS A. A. GODDARD.

THE house of James Roberts stood just beyond the outskirts of the town. It was a humble, one story dwelling, roughly framed,

yet claiming to be a trifle more genteel than those of ordinary settlers. Roberts had chosen this spot from sheer wilfulness; it being asserted by his neighbors that it was the height of folly to venture so far beyond the block-house. "In case of an attack," said they, "Roberts will be the first to suffer, and we shall be unable to render him suitable assistance; for, long before we could be alarmed, the enemy will have done the mischief, and be beyond reach of pursuit." Confident in himself, Roberts took strange pleasure in combatting the arguments of his friends, and resisting the pleas of his family. Mrs. Roberts, with her only daughter, Ellen, or Nell, as she was familiarly called, often expostulated with the infatuated man, but to small effect. Silence, woman ;" Roberts would say, as he puffed his then fashionable pipe; “Silence, if you please. There's no use in fretting; and beside, if the danger comes, we are as well off alone, as though our neighbor's houses were a few rods closer. I'll do my best, and Betsey (the pet name of his rifle) is n't slow to speak in time of need. She'll do as well alone as a dozen ordinary barkers ;" and Roberts would nod affectionately towards "Betsey," as she stood well loaded and primed behind the outside door. As all readers of history are aware, the depth of the snow and the severity of the weather had quite lulled the fears of the inhabitants of the interior towns, and induced a degree of carelessness. On the night in question, Roberts was sitting in the chimney corner, smoking, while his wife and daughter were plying their busy fingers upon some articles of apparel. Slowly knocking the ashes from his pipe, Roberts called out to his wife in a tone of raillery: "What say you to a bout with the red-skins to-night ?"

Mrs. Roberts shuddered as she gave a look toward the window, and replied,

"Ah! the thought is too horrible !"

Her mind had been intent upon the old topic, "The Indians," and her husband's carelessness jarred gratingly upon her ear. James Roberts rose from his chair, and, placing his pipe on the mante, went across the room, and taking up "old Betsey," carefully examined the priming, smiling at the folly of his wife in turning pale, because he mentionnd a red-skin.

Just as he turned to set the gun down, the crack of a rifle startled him. With but a single groan, his wite fell to the floor