And when, my weary wanderings o'er,
I seek my native land,
And by mine ingle-side once more
Do clasp the kindred hand,
And when my listening children ask
For tales of land and sea,
They fain a wreath of love will twine,
Edina dear, for thee.
Wednesday, September 30, 1840.
The beauty of Edinburgh, in itself, and in its environs; and the intellectual atmosphere that enwraps it, are eulogized by all. We entered it with high anticipations, yet they were more than realized. Every day revealed something new, and supplied an unwearied strength to visit and to admire.
It seems more than other cities to fasten on the imagination, from the nature of its scenery, the strange events which History has embodied here, and the high native genius which has immortalized all. The contrast between the Old and New Town is most striking; one, so fresh, bold, and beautiful, the other with its dark, stifling wynds and closes, its gloomy, twelve-storied houses, quaking to their very foundations at their own loftiness, seems the abode of mysterious legends, or spectral imagery. To pass from the classic domes on Calton Hill, or the princely mansions in Moray Place, and look into the abysses of the Cowgate and Canongate, just when the early glimmer-
