ARTHUR'S SEAT, EDINBURGH. It would be difficult to name any city which, in beauty and grandeur of site, can compete with that of Edinburgh-" the Queen of the North," as she had been named from this majestic pre-eminence. Placed upon a group of hills, separated by deep depressions, the sublimity of its environs is only equalled by the variety of its scenery; insomuch that an American traveller has remarked, that Paris is not more unlike Constantinople than one side of Edinburgh is like the other. Cobbett, when far advanced in life, was charmed with the situation of the Scottish metropolis. He thought that Bristol, taking in its heights with Clifton, and its rocks, and its river, was the finest city in the world; but he preferred Edinburgh, with its castle, its walls, its pretty little sea-port, conveniently detached from it, its vale of rich land lying all around, its lofty hills in the back ground, its views across the Frith, &c. He adds: "I was not disappointed; for I expected to find Edinburgh the finest city in the kingdom. Conversations at Newcastle, and with many Scotch gentlemen for years past, had prepared me for this; but still, the reality has greatly surpassed every idea that I had formed about it."

66

Of the singularly varied and grand amphitheatre of hills, probably, Arthur's Seat is, in Edinburgh majesty of form, the most striking. It rises eastward of the city, 822 feet above the level of the sea. Sir Walter Scott has felicitously compared it to a couchant lion of immense size,' and Salisbury Crags to "a huge belt, or girdle of granite.' These characteristics are well shewn in the prefixed Engraving, from a recent sketch by a clever artist. The scene is one of stupendous beauty, independently of its interest as one of the localities of Scott's celebrated tale of the Heart of Midlothian; it being "the ominous and unhallowed spot," where Jeanie Deans meets Butler for a 66 mysterious conference." The site is thus described in the novel :

-

"It was situated in the depth of the valley behind Salisbury Crags, which has for a back ground the north-western shoulder of the mountain called Arthur's Seat, on whose descent still remain the ruins of what was once a chapel, or hermitage, dedicated to Saint Anthony the Eremite. A better site for such a building could hardly have been selected; for the chapel, situated among the rude and pathless cliffs, lies in a desert, even in the immediate vicinity of a rich, populous, and tumultuous capital: and the hum of the capital might mingle with the orisons of the recluses, conveying as little of worldly

interest as if it had been the roar of the Beneath the steep ascent distant ocean. on which these ruins are still visible, was, and, perhaps, is still pointed out, the place where the wretch Nicholas Muschat had closed a long scene of cruelty towards his unfortunate wife, by murdering her, with circumstances of uncommon barbarity. The execration in which the man's crime was held extended itself to the place where it was perpetrated, which was marked by a small cairn, or heap of stones, composed of those which each chance passenger had thrown there in testimony of abhorrence, and on the principle, it would seem, of • May the ancient British malediction, you have a cairn for your burial-place!'" The novelist is, however, in error as to the age of the cairn; for Mr. Chambers, in his excelleut Picture of Scotland, fourth edition, notes: "The existing pile is modern, and not correctly placed. The original cairn, the expression of popular horror for the deed committed on the spot, was nearer the gate of the park, and was removed at the end of the last century. The murderer, in this case, was a person of good birth, named Nicholas Muschat, and his victim was his own wife."

THE KING'S VOW:
OR, A MAIDEN'S SECRET.

(Concluded from page 180.)

Ir was on the evening appointed_by Cromwell, that Sir Thomas Musgrove left his abode, an ancient and gloomy mansion, in the then manor of Fauxhall; he proceeded towards Lambeth church, and again crossed the ferry, reaching, about seven o'clock, the Banquetting-house; where, on producing the signet ring, he was immediately admitted, and conducted towards the room containing the royal prisoner. Here we now leave him, and proceed at once to the apartment of the captive.

It was then in a huge, sombre-looking chamber, hung entirely with black cloth, and faintly illumined by two wax lights: -its only furniture was a small mattress, two chairs, one table, covered, also, with black cloth, and a cushion, whereon a person might kneel at his devotions,—that Charles I. was allotted to pass the last night of his existence. Seated in one of the chairs, leaning his right arm on the table, the hand of which supported his head, was to be seen the condemned king: his dreams of royalty and ambition, his throne, his might, his kingdom, and his his armies sceptre, all melted away; broken and subdued; amongst all his host of tried and valiant friends, not one left to help him; and he, the Lord's

anointed, finding himself nothing more than mere mortal man, who, in a few short hours, would become only as a thing that had been. The king seemed full of thought; was he thinking of the past? was he thinking of the best friend he ever had, whom he might have saved, but did not-the martyred Strafford? Or, were his thoughts wandering to the battle-fields, dyed so deep with the blood of his people? or, were they only upon heaven, and full only of hope for forgiveness for himself, and mercy for his enemies?

Oh, Heaven! there is a deep, great agony, that must be known and felt amongst those whose last hour of life has been decreed; and who, though in the midst of health, know there is no hope of escape. To repent, to pray, to think on their past life, and all in so short a space,-to hope to wash away, in a few hours, that guilt it has taken them years to commit, and so much of thought to carry out,-it were impossible!

The king had not been long absorbed in his meditations, before the dark hangings of the chamber were moved aside, and Sir Thomas Musgrove stood before him. Charles started at this abrupt intrusion; but, recovering himself almost immediately, in a mild tone asked his visitor the purport of his business.

"I seek for justice," was shortly and sternly answered.

"Good Friend," replied the monarch, "the power of granting that has gone from me."

"In my case, it has not; behold, before ye, Sir Thomas Musgrove, who seeks you even at the eleventh hour."

As the name was mentioned, the colour forsook the king's cheek, and something like a long-forgotten dream seemed to burst upon his memory; but, speaking not, he motioned his visitor to proceed.

"No doubt," resumed Sir Thomas, "my name is familiar to your majesty; but there is one, one who bore the same name, known better to ye; 'tis of her I would speak."

"Whom mean you ?" said the king. "My child, mine own child!" exclaimed Sir Thomas; 66 my long-lost daughter, Grace Musgrove, whose destroyer you have been."

"If thou art indeed her parent," meekly replied the king, "I crave your pardon, for the wrong my youthful error has done you; and hope, ere I die, to have your forgiveness."

"Talk not to me of pardon and forgiveness,' was ejaculated in reply; "I meet ye now, Charles Stuart, as man to man, and demand of ye where I may find the remains of my poor child."

Sir Thomas started at this; and then, in a tone of vehement emotion, exclaimed"There is either truth or falsehood in your words, I know not which; but, of this I am assured that if you knew and felt the passionate yearnings of this heart towards my long-lost child, and the world of joy I should feel at beholding and once more embracing her-you would, if she lives, tell me where I may find her. Tell me, I conjure you; it will save me much guilt, and lighten your own sinful conscience."

"It may not be;" was answered.

"Then, must your words be false, or seem so; but I will prove their verity now, or never. Look here, I have a signet which would convey you in safety from your prison-house, pass you through guards and all other dangers, for 'tis Cromwell's own; and give unto you, even at this eleventh hour, life and liberty. Tell me where is my child, the signet's yours, and you shall be free. Think on this, tell me of my daughter; if she does live, I will forgive, even you, the wrong you have done me, and be your friend for ever."

The king trembled with a passing emotion; it was but for a moment; when, speaking with assumed dignity, he replied:

"I have, Sir Thomas, through my life, broken many vows and promises; but as that life is near its ebb, my feverish ambition passes from me, and all my dreams of greatness are fast fading away; I have much to think of, hope, and pray for, and may not, in my last hours, add perjury to my soul. On the words of a man, whose sand is nigh run, I say your child lives; and, at my death, will become her father's happiness. You have now your answer; prythee leave me; the night wears apace, and I would to my devotions." He ceased speaking, and waved his arm for Sir Thomas to retire.

The baronet spoke not; but, looking fiercely at the fallen monarch, strode hastily from out the chamber; and, on

reaching the cool night air, uttered aloud, "Cromwell's story is veritable. No man, and such a man as he, would throw away a chance for life, for the sake of preserving a vow, when he has broken so many: no, no, I am resolved; daughter, I will avenge thee." Thus saying, he bent his steps towards the ferry, and was soon lost in the shades of night.

CHAP. III.

"The moon comes nearer to the earth

Than she was wont, and makes men mad." The fatal morning, the morning which was to witness the great tragedy, at length arrived; and those who doubted that the men who had tried and sentenced their sovereign would not proceed to the last extremity, were at length convinced; when, at the break of the 30th day of January, 1649, they saw the gloomy scaffold erected, and all the necessary preparations in readiness for the dread event.

Early on that morning, the baronet arose, and begun his preparations for the important part he was to act in the business of the day. His arrangements were soon completed; and, hurriedly leaving the gloomy old mansion in which he dwelt, and telling the housekeeper, a wrinkled crone, he should not be back before eve, he hastened towards his destination-the house of Cromwell; taking a short route, he soon arrived at the water's edge, and, hailing a ferryman, bade him row to the landing-place, at the back of Whitehallyard, now known as the "Whitehall Stairs; his motive for so doing being to avoid the crowd, which, though it was but just day, were thronging in hundreds towards the place of execution.

As the boat glided silently through the clear, calm water, the baronet seemed full of thought; now and then his face wore a look of grief and pity; but, anon, the look changed to one of anger; and all pity for his victim faded away, as, in his mind's eye, rose the fairy form of his child, her deep violet eyes gazing upon his, and her tones, like low sweet music, falling upon his ear; and then he thought her dead, mouldering in the dark grave, and that he lived. Amid these contending feelings, the landing-place was reached; Sir Thomas leapt on shore, gained the house, and was at once admitted.

Of how the king passed his time, after the baronet's departure, and what were his actions, it is not our purpose to relate; historians having sufficiently recorded them we shall, therefore, proceed at once to the scaffold, on which Sir Thomas Musgrove, attended by his assistant, had now taken his place.

It wanted some little time of the arrival

of his victim; and that short space the baronet devoted to gazing on the scene around him. Removing a little the vizor that he wore, the first thing he gazed on, was the fatal block, covered with black velvet; and, by its side, a cushion, whereon the royal sufferer was to kneel; the glittering axe stood close by; the platform was spread with black serge, but open at the sides, so that the spectators might have a fair view of the scene: raising his eyes, he beheld, stretched in countless thousands, beyond the soldiers, who entirely surrounded the scaffold, masses of people-men, women, and children-who crowded in all directions, where a view could be obtained. And that view was an extensive one; Whitehall, at the period, being not what it is now. To the south, all was nearly open to Westminster's ancient palace; to the north were the fields of Saint Martin; to the west, St. James's Park; and to the east, the Strand, whose only dwellings, at that time, were a few rude buildings on the one side; and, on the other, the houses of the different noblemen, reaching down to the Thames, the sites of which are known by the names given to the streets thereon erected. These mansions were now almost deserted: their masters had gone, most of them, far from the scene we are describing, and the portals of their dwellings were closed and strongly barred, by the few retainers left to guard them. As Sir Thomas gazed on, his heart chilled within him; for, amid the vast concourse, scarce a sound was to be heard: they all seemed spell-bound by the great tragedy they were about to witness. But he had not long to give indulgence to his feelings; for the drums beat a low peal; orders were given to the troops to look to their arms; pikes were raised; swords drawn; horses neighed; and, amid the clamour, the king entered, duly attended, upon the scaffold, wearing with one of penitential devotion that look of kingly dignity which so eminently characterized the whole race of Stuarts. Sir Thomas Musgrove drew down his mask, and involuntarily bent, as the king appeared; the monarch noticed it not, but seemed wholly absorbed in the divine consolations the prelate who attended him was pouring into his ear. After expressing himself in the noble and resigned manner, known to us from history, he beckoned the executioner to approach. Sir Thomas started; but, at once recovering himself, approached the king. The monarch, who knew him not, told him he heartily forgave him, whoever he might be; and, bidding him strike when he stretched out his arms, turned away, with the good Bishop Juxon, to his devotions.

The time at length had arrived when the king was to exchange his corruptible crown for one of glory; and he was now kneeling ready to lay his head upon the block. After a short space, he pronounced the well-known word, "remember;" he then laid himself down for the blow, and, after a few moments spent in prayer, gave the signal.

The baronet was now called on; seizing the axe, he trembled convulsively, for the calm dignity of the king unnerved him for his task; then, raising his axe, mechanically, and letting it again fall, he exclaimed, in a hurried under-tone,

"Why, why, should I do this?"

"To revenge thy daughter's wrongs and death;" was answered from behind him, in the voice of Cromwell.

It was enough; as quick as thought, the axe was again raised; it flashed for an instant in the air, then fell. A bleeding head was held to view: a shudder ran through the multitude; shrieks and low stifled moans were heard; the drums again beat the tragedy was ended!

Late on the evening of that day, Sir Thomas Musgrove entered his cheerless dwelling: a letter was placed in his hand; he called for a light, retired to his chamber, and was seen no more that night.

The next morning was beheld approaching towards that gloomy old mansion, a lady, dressed in the deepest mourning; she was a slightly-moulded figure, with a face of quiet beauty,- indeed, loveliness, -though rather thrown into the shade, by the close hood and widow's cap she wore; her age was, apparently, about thirty years. The sun was shedding a cold and sickly ray upon the hoar-covered walk, leading to the principal entrance of the house, upon reaching which, after some little time had elapsed, she was admitted.

On her gaining entrance, she was interrogated by the withered old crone, before alluded to, who, in a voice querulous with age, demanded her business.

"I would see Sir Thomas Musgrove; does he not reside here ?"

con

"Ay; but what want you with him ?" "I would see him," was replied, " cerning a letter he received yester-night." "Oh, oh!" exclaimed the old dame; "this way, then, fair lady; mind the stairs, they are very old; but, ah! it was a brave old house, it was once; long ago, lady, long ago." So saying, and conducting her visitant up an old, worn staircase, and reaching the first landing, she pushed open a door, and bade her enter. The lady did so; the next moment a scream, and heavy fall was heard: the old hag, as

fast as her infirmities would permit, rushed into the chamber.

On a bed therein, dressed, as on the preceding night, the baronet lay extended, stark dead, with a letter clutched tightly in his hand; his DAUGHTER-for it was she-lying insensible by his side.

Assistance was procured; restoratives were applied; the daughter was recovered, and borne to another apartment. But the old man was gone for ever. The letter, after much trouble, was removed from his grasp, and read, as follows:

"January 29th, 1649, 12 night. "Grace Musgrove was my first wife, and lawfully wedded; for reasons of state, for her father's honour, and her own her marriage could not be known. This, fame.

LONDON IN THE LAST CENTURY.

THE present race of Londoners little know what the appearance of the City was a century ago. At that time, the kennels, (as in Paris,) were in the middle of the street, and there were no footpaths; spouts projected the rain-water in streams against which umbrellas, if umbrellas had been then in use, could have afforded no defence; and large signs, such as are now only to be seen at country inns, were suspended before every shop, from posts which impeded the way, or from iron supports strongly fixed into the front of the house. The swinging of one of these broad signs in a high wind, and the weight of the iron on which it acted, sometimes brought the wall down; and it is recorded that one front-fall of this kind, in Fleetstreet, maimed several persons, and killed "two young ladies, a cobbler, and the king's jeweller."-The Doctor.

COMMON SENSE.

AN accomplished old gentleman — an university man-was accustomed to say of one whom delicacy forbids our naming, that he had " every sense but common sense." Now, common sense has been defined by Sir Egerton Brydges, "to mean nothing more than an uneducated judgment, arising from a plain and coarse understanding, exercised upon common concerns, and rendered effective rather by experience, than by any regular process of the intellectual powers. If this," he adds, "be the proper meaning of the qua lity, we cannot wonder that books are little fitted for its cultivation." Sir Egerton, according to his own confession, possessed very little "common sense.'