up his head, he said, 'They are in this house that I have not one word of salvation unto;' he halted a little again, saying, 'This is strange, that the devil will not go out, that we may begin our work! Then there was a woman went out, ill-looked upon almost all her life, and to her dying hour, for a witch, with many presumptions of the same. It escaped me, in the former passages, what John Muirhead (whom I have often mentioned) told me, that when he came from Ireland to Galloway, he was at familyworship, and giving some notes upon the Scripture read, when a very ill-looking man came, and sat down within the door, at the back of the hallan, [partition of the cottage:] immediately he halted and said, "There is some unhappy body just now come into this house. I charge him to go out, and not stop my mouth!' The person went out, and he insisted, [went on,] yet he saw him neither come in nor go out.”—The Life and Prophecies of Mr. Alexander Peden, late Minister of the Gospel at New Glenluce, in Galloway, part ii. § 26.

A friendly correspondent remarks, "that the incapacity of proceeding in the performance of a religious duty, when a contaminated person is present, is of much higher antiquity than the era of the Reverend Mr. Alexander Peden."-Vide Hygini Fabulas, cap. 26. “ Medea Corintho exul, Athenas, ad Ægeum Pandionis filium devenit in hospitium, eique nupsit.

“Postea sacerdos Diana Medean exagitare cœpit, régique negabat sacra caste facere posse, eo quod in ea civitate esset mulier venefica et scelerata; tunc exulatur.”

THE GREY BROTHER.

THE Pope he was saying the high, high mass,

All on Saint Peter's day,

With the power to him given, by the saints in heaven,
To wash men's sins away.

The Pope he was saying the blessed mass,

And the people kneel'd around,

And from each man's soul his sins did pass,
As he kiss'd the holy ground.

And all, among the crowded throng,
Was still, both limb and tongue,

While, through vaulted roof, and aisles aloof,
The holy accents rung.

At the holiest word he quiver'd for fear,

And falter'd in the sound

And, when he would the chalice rear,
He dropp'd it to the ground.

"The breath of one of evil deed
Pollutes our sacred day;
He has no portion in our creed,
No part in what I say.

"A being, whom no blessed word
To ghostly peace can bring;

A wretch, at whose approach abhorr'd,
Recoils each holy thing.

66

Up, up, unhappy! haste, arise!
My adjuration fear!

I charge thee not to stop my voice,
Nor longer tarry here!"-

Amid them all a pilgrim kneel'd,
In gown of sackcloth grey;
Far journeying from his native field,
He first saw Rome that day.

For forty days and nights so drear,
I ween he had not spoke,

And, save with bread and water clear,
His fast he ne'er had broke.

Amid the penitential flock,

Seem'd none more bent to pray;

But, when the Holy Father spoke,

He rose and went his way.

Agam unto his native land

His weary course he drew,

To Lothian's fair and fertile strand,
And Pentland's mountains blue.

His unblest feet his native seat,

'Mid Eske's fair woods, regain;

Thro' woods more fair no stream more sweet
Rolls to the eastern main.

And lords to meet the pilgrim came,
And vassals bent the knee;

For all 'mid Scotland's chiefs of fame,
Was none more famed than he.

And boldly for his country, still,
In battle he had stood,

Ay, even when on the banks of Till
Her noblest pour'd their blood.

Sweet are the paths, O passing sweet!
By Eske's fair streams that run,

O'er airy steep, through copsewood deep,
Impervious to the sun.

There the rapt poet's step may rove,

And yield the muse the day;

There Beauty, led by timid Love,

May shun the tell-tale ray;

From that fair dome, where suit is paid,
By blast of bugle free,'

The barony of Pennycuick, the property of Sir George Clerk, Bart., is held by a singular tenure; the proprietor being bound to sit upon a large rocky fragment, called the Buckstane, and wind three blasts of a horn, when the King shall come to hunt on the Borough Muir, near Edinburgh. Hence, the family have adopted, as their crest, a demi-forester proper, winding a horn, with the motto, Free for a Blast. The beautiful mansionhouse of Pennycuick is much admired, both on account of the architecture and surrounding scenery.

To Auchendinny's hazel glade,'

And haunted Woodhouselee."

Who knows not Melville's beechy grove,

And Roslin's rocky glen,'

Dalkeith, which all the virtues love,"

And classic Hawthornden? "

Yet never a path, from day to day,
The pilgrim's footsteps range,
Save but the solitary way

To Burndale's ruin'd grange.

Auchendinny, situated upon the Eske, below Pennycuick, the present residence of the ingenious H. Mackenzie, Esq., author of the Man of Feeling, &c.-Edition 1803.

2 For the traditions connected with this ruinous mansion, see ballad of Cad yow Castle, p. 390.

Melville Castle, the seat of the Right Honourable Lord Melville, to whom it gives the title of Viscount, is delightfully situated upon the Eske, near Lasswade.

4 The ruins of Roslin Castle, the baronial residence of the ancient family of St. Clair. The Gothic chapel, which is still in beautiful preservation, with the romantic and woody dell in which they are situated, belong to the Right Honourable the Earl of Rosslyn, the representative of the former Lords of Roslin.

The village and Castle of Dalkeith belonged, of old, to the famous Earl of Morton, but is now the residence of the noble family of Buccleuch. The park extends along the Eske, which is there joined by its sister stream, of the same name.

Hawthornden, the residence of the poet Drummond. A house, of more modern date, is enclosed, as it were, by the ruins of the ancient castle, and overhangs a tremendous precipice, upon the banks of the Eske, perforated by winding caves, which, in former times, were a refuge to the oppressed patriots of Scotland. Here Drummond received Ben Jonson, who journeyed from London, on foot, in order to visit him. The beauty of this striking scene has been much injured, of late years, by the indiscriminate use of the axe. The traveller now looks in vain for the leafy bower,

"Where Jonson sat in Drummond's social shade."

Upon the whole, tracing the Eske from its source, till it joins the sea at Musselburgh, no stream in Scotland can boast such a varied succession of the most interesting objects, as well as of the most romantic and beautiful scenery. 1803. ...-The beautiful scenery of Hawthornden has, since the above note was written, recovered all its proper ornament of wood. 1831.

A woful place was that, I ween,

As sorrow could desire;

For nodding to the fall was each crumbling wall, And the roof was scathed with fire.

It fell upon a summer's eve,

While, on Carnethy's head,

The last faint gleams of the sun's low beams
Had streak'd the grey with red;

And the convent bell did vespers tell,

Newbattle's oaks among,

And mingled with the solemn knell
Our Ladye's evening song:

The heavy knell, the choir's faint swell,
Came slowly down the wind,
And on the pilgrim's ear they fell,
As his wonted path he did find.

Deep sunk in thought, I ween, he was,
Nor ever raised his eye,

Until he came to that dreary place,

Which did all in ruins lie.

He gazed on the walls, so scathed with fire,
With many a bitter groan-

And there was aware of a Grey Friar,

Resting him on a stone.

“Now, Christ thee save!" said the Grey Brother;

"Some pilgrim thou seemest to be."

But in sore amaze did Lord Albert gaze,

Nor answer again made he.

"O come ye from east, or come ye from west,

Or bring reliques from over the sea;

Or come ye from the shrine of St. James the divine, Or St. John of Beverly?”—