As you have seen the London Exhibitions as often as myself, you of course do not need to be told, that, in Raeburn, Edinburgh possesses a portrait-painter, whose works would do honour to any capital in Europe. I really am not certain, that this artist is in any important particular inferior even to Sir Thomas Lawrence. He also is an old man; but the splendid example of his career has raised about him several, that seem destined to tread in his steps with gracefulness scarcely less than his own. Such, in particular, are Mr Geddes, whose fine portrait of Mr Wilkie has lately been engraved in London-Mr John Watson, a very young artist, but (I prophesy) not far from very splendid reputationa most chaste colourist, and one that wants nothing but a little more practice to be in all things a Raeburn-and, lastly, Mr Nicholson, whose delicate taste in conceiving a subject, and general felicity in executing it, do not always receive so much praise as they should, on account of a little carelessness in regard to drawing, which might be very easily corrected. You must have seen many etchings from his pictures. Mr Nicholson is also a very charming miniature-painter; indeed, he has no rival in that de

11

partment but Mr William Thomson, a truly de

licious master in this style.

Ever your's,

P. M.

P. S. You must not expect to hear from mẹ again for several days, as I am to set off to-mor row morning to pay my promised visit to Mr S. I shall write you immediately on my return to Edinburgh.

Pray, is there any truth in the newspaper paragraph about Sir Watkin ?-Give my love to Lucy-" Quid Luce clarius ?"

295

LETTER LI.

TO THE SAME.

OMAN'S..

AFTER passing the town of Dalkeith, and all along the skirts of the same lovely tract of scenery on the Fsk, which I have already described to you, the road to Ad leads for several miles across a bare and sterile district, where the progress of cultivation has not yet been able to change much of the general aspect of the country. There are, however, here and there some

beautiful little valleys cutting the desert-in one of which, by the side of a small mountain stream, whose banks are clothed everywhere with a most picturesque abundance of blooming furze, the old Castle of Borthwick is seen projecting its venerable Keep, unbroken apparently, and almost undecayed, over the few oaks which still seem to linger like so many frail faithful vassals around the relics of its grandeur. When I passed by this fine ruin, the air was calm and the sky unclouded, and the shadow of the square massy pile lay in all its clear breadth upon the blue stream below; but Turner has caught or created perhaps still more poetical accompaniments, and you may see it to at least as much advantage as I did, in his magnificent delineation.*

Shortly after this the view becomes more contracted, and the road winds for some miles between the hills-while, upon the right, you have close by your side a modest little rivulet, increasing, however, every moment in breadth and boldness. This is the infant Gala Water

* In the first Number of the Provincial Antiquities of Scot land.

so celebrated in the pastoral poetry of Scotland -flowing on to mingle its tributary stream with the more celebrated Tweed. As you approach, with it, the great valley of that delightful river, the hills become more and more beautiful in their outlines, and where they dip into the narrow plain, their lower slopes are diversified with fine groupes of natural wood-hazel-ash-and birch, with here and there some drooping, mould, ering oaks and pines, the scanty relics of that once mighty Forest, from which the whole distriet still takes its name. At last, the Gala makes a sudden turn, and instead of

"The grace of forest-charms decayed,
And pastoral melancholy,"

you have a rich and fertile vale, covered all over with nodding groves and luxuriant verdure, through which the Gala winds proudly towards the near end of its career. I crossed it at the thriving village of Galashiels, and pursued my journey for a mile or two on its right bank

-being told, that I should thus save a consider, able distance for the usual road goes round about for the sake of a bridge, which, in the placid seasons of the Tweed, is quite unnecessary,

!