from 40,000 to 45,000 souls, amongst whom are 600 Jewish families, and nearly the same number of Armenians. Among the relics of antiquity which our author found at Ecbatana, the most interesting is the sepulchre of Esther and Mordecai. The original structure is said to have been demolished at the sacking of the city by Timour: the present is a square building of brick, of a mosque-like form, surmounted by a somewhat elongated dome. Under the concave of this dome are two sarcophagi made of a very dark wood, carved with great intricacy of pattern, and richness of twisted ornaments, with a line of Hebrew inscription running round the upper ledge of each. Many other inscriptions, in the same language, are cut on the walls; and on a slab of white marble let into the wall is engraved a similar inscription of very remote antiquity. Its import, in English, is as follows: "Mordecai, beloved and honoured by the king, was great and good. His garments were as those of a sovereign. Ahasuerus covered him with this rich dress, and also placed a golden chain round his neck. The city of Susa rejoiced at his honours, and his high fortune became the glory of the Jews."

On the eastern summit of Mount Elwund, Sir Robert found a large platform, cut out of the native rock, to which the inhabitants ignorantly give the name of Solomon's Tomb. From its resemblance, in situation and construction, to the platform at Mourg-aub, which is dignified by the name of the "Throne of Solomon," he was naturally led to conclude, that they were both originally destined for the same purpose-mountain altars to the sun. When he discovered this platform, he was in search of a stone of a more mysterious and interesting character, covered, as he was informed, by a cabalistic inscription, which no person had yet been able to decypher. The fortunate mortal, who should first be able to read this inscription aloud, and to understand its import, was destined for the highest honours; the mountain would shake to its centre, and an immense treasure would be brought forth by the genius of the

cavern in which it was buried, and laid at the feet of the happy interpreter. Sir Robert found the stone, but its inscription baffled his lore. The stone was an immense block of red granite, in the face of which, at the distance of two feet from the ground, were two square excavations, cut to the depth of a foot, about five feet in breadth, and nearly the same in height. Each of these tablets contained three columns of engraved arrow-headed writing, in the most excellent preservation. Sir Robert had not leisure to transcribe them.

In travelling through these countries in summer, nothing appears stranger to a European than the apparently heedless manner in which the natives expose themselves to the violence of the sun-beams. We cannot altogether agree with Sir Robert in the cause which he assigns for this negligence: for though the use of the parasol may be exclusively reserved for the great, it is not conceivable that even the most despotic government should prevent its subjects from endeavouring to shelter themselves, in some manner, from the ardors of an almost tropical sun. Sir John Malcolm, however, in tracing the origin of the name satrap, to the privilege of using the parasol, is borne out by arguments more plausible than many etymologists can produce in support of their conjectures. He derives the word from chattrapa, "lord of the umbrella." To bear an umbrella, or parasol, as a mark of dignity, is still common in many countries of the East, and that it was so from very remote antiquity in Persia, we learn from the sculptures at Persepolis, where the parasol is held over the figure of the king, whether seated or walking. In both the Persic and Sanscrit languages, chattra signifies an umbrella; and pa, contracted for pati, though now lost to the Persic, signifies, in the Sanscrit, "lord." In further confirmation of his etymology, Sir John Malcolm observes, that the title of Chattrapati, lord of the umbrella, is still maintained as a peculiar mark of honour by one of the highest officers in the Mahratta state.

(To be continued.)

WEEDS AND FLOWERS.

MR EDITOR,

AFTER the departure of His Majesty from our metropolis, imagining it too early in the season to coop myself up in town, I resolved upon making a visit to my friend and old school-fellow, Walter Buchanan, who claims a collateral descent from the historian and famous scholar of that name; indeed, his sister and housekeeper, Marjory, although a dozen years younger than her brother, can trace their descent through every family, up to that of the tutor to the royal pedant; they also do me the honour of ranking me as their cousin, -but this by the bye.

Walter is a farmer in a rich and pleasant part of the country; something more than half a century has rolled over his head; he is now the life-renter of a lease granted to his father; and being a man of sober habits, and unmarried, is generally reported rich. His neighbours consider him a very learned man; and if a retentive memory, with an extensive knowledge of the civil and ecclesiastical history of Scotland, constitute learning, he merits the appellation; for he has contrived to collect most of the historians of his country, from Boethius and Blind Harry, down to Dr M'Crie's Lives of Knox and Melville. Among these, the works of his celebrated namesake, those of John Knox, the Scots Worthies, Cloud of Witnesses, Hind let Loose, and the Confession of Faith, are in elegant bindings; and although his library is far more extensive than is generally to be found in a farmer's house, it is confined solely to these subjects, including also Controversial Divinity, and the Farmer's Magazine. Fiction, however elegant the composition, or however graphic the painting, for him has no charms; fine writing has no attractions for his mind; facts alone, or what he believes to be such, can interest him; but he would as soon question the authenticity of his Bible, as doubt the truth of the legendary tales related by Boece and Lindsay of Pitscottie; and in the ancient and modern history of his country, he is a living chronicle, beyond any one with whom I am acquainted.

Such is Walter Buchanan, and

such was his library, on my former visit, about three years ago. But at my next arrival, what was my surprise, on looking into his book-closet, to find a number of additional shelves filled with books, mostly in boards, and bearing the appearance of having all been read, some of them much used! Among these I found the Edinburgh Review, up to the seventieth number, the poems of Sir Walter Scott, Currie's edition of Burns, Cowper's and Crabbe's poems, and Wordsworth's Excursion; Novels by the author of Waverley, down to Kenilworth; including several other novels and poems, illustrative of Scottish character and manners. In

a word, I here found natural and moral philosophy, philology, mathematics, and other sciences, with several Latin classics. All this was a mystery to me; for unless my friend's mind had undergone a complete metamorphosis, much of what I saw was foreign to his taste, and some contrary to his principles; in particular, the tale of Old Mortality had given him such offence, that he had declared he would never read a book by its author, if he knew it. Upon more minute inspection, I discovered that not one of the old residenters, as they might be termed, was to be found among these intruders, but stood in their former ranks, in statu quo.

After supper, I mentioned what I had observed, complimenting the farmer upon his extended range of intellectual amusement. He smiled, and glancing at his sister, said, “A' the new books, I mean the strangers, are Mysie's no ane o' them's mine." My astonishment was now augmented; for although aware that Mysie had some taste for reading, I felt convinced that much of this collection was far beyond her comprehension; and without speaking, I looked at her, in a manner which sufficiently indicated my wish for an explanation. A deep glow suffused her cheek, and in a half-faltering voice, she said, "I see what you wish-Watty will tell you a' about it," and she immediately left the room.

"You've touched a tender string," said Walter. "I should be sorry if I have given pain to your sister," said 1, "but I am still in the dark as to what all this means." "Nae

doubt, but I'll explain the mystery. D'ye mind o' William Ramsay, our dominie? I think he dined here during your last visit." "I recollect him perfectly; he is a man of good taste, much information, and, if I am not much mistaken, of sound principles; I am promising myself pleasure from another interview with him." "I hope it will yet be a long while before you meet, for he is in anither warld." "I am sorry to hear it his death must be a public loss to your parish." "It is; for he was an excellent teacher, and, as you say, a good man; and although his taste and mine didna aye jump thegither, yet I was very fond o' him; but I cou'd tell you of ane wha was still fonder! Ye'll be at nae loss to guess wha I mean, when I say that ye've seen his library, and that it was a' bequeathed to Mysie, wha carries his watch in her bosom. Mony lang and late night has he spent here; indeed I think he got his death gaun hame ae stormy night. My sister reckoned him an oracle, and he believed her a nonsuch for female excellence: they professed nothing beyond warm friendship for ane anither-a kind o' Platonic love, as your visionaries ca' it; but I saw farther into the matter, and ha'e nae doubt it would have ended in marriage, to which I had nae objections: Mysie had a right to please hersel❜-he was a decent, respectable man, and her tocher would have kept them baith comfortable. But his time was come; he died last spring; and having no relations, left his library and watch to my sister, his siller snuff-box to me, and the proceeds of his household furniture to the poor of the parish. I'll miss him sair in the lang nights; for although we had mony a teugh argument, I liked weel to crack wi' him. Mysie will soon speak about him to you, although I saw her heart grow gryte at the recollection; but let her tak' her ain time o' bringing o'er the

matter."

Next morning I came into the parlour with a number of the Edinburgh Review in my hand; the farmer was gone out. Mysie sat down near me, with her back to the light, and after some preface, said, " Watty would tell you that we've lost Mr

Ramsay?" "He did; and I am very sorry to hear it, for he stood high in my estimation." "Ay, William was liked by a' that kent himand now that I can speak about him, I needna be ashamed to say, that I respected him mair than common; and the heirship he left to me is a proof that I had his regard: and although there is mony ane o' thae books that I canna read, and ithers that I dinna understand, they are a' dear to me for his sake. But I've a book o' William's composition, in his ain hand-writing, that I prize aboon them a'. I'll let you see it, for I keep it locked in my drawer.' She left the room, and returned soon, with a quarto volume, which she put into my hands, saying, "I'm gaen' to mak' the cheese; look o'er that till I come back."

I found the volume written in a full, fair hand, evidently at different times the title was "Weeds and Flowers, culled from the Common of Nature, by a Solitary." From a short and pleasing preface, to which the author's initials were affixed, I found the contents were solely his composition, as a relaxation from the duties of his office. I devoted the forenoon to a perusal of the volume, which I found to consist of Tales, Characters, and Essays, in prose and verse, several of which I had read before my cousin's return. "Weel," said she, with a melancholy smile, "I see you're busy wi' my dear departed friend's volume-how do you like it ?" "All I have read has afforded me pleasure-some parts have interested me deeply." "I am happy to hear't, though it wad mak nae difference to me-but d'ye ken, I was thinking to write you about it. There's several parts o't that ha'e been published in the EDINBURGH MAGAZINE, as ye will see marked E, wi' red ink. Mr Ramsay got the Magazine as lang's he was in this warld-I get it still; but it would be far mair valuable to me, could I see mair of William's Flowers' in't; and perhaps the Editor might ha'e nae objections; but I canna let the book into the hands o' a stranger; however, I can trust you; and if ye wad tak' the trouble to copy out ane or twa o' the papers, by way of sample, and send them to the publisher,

ye wad oblige me; if they're printed, ye can send mair; but dinna let the book out of your ain possession. I'm no judge of what's fitted for the public taste, for a' the volume's to mine; but my brither says there's several good things in't, but that, in general, there's o'er few facts, and o'er mickle description and sentiment."

In compliance with Marjory's wishes, I brought the volume along with me, and have since perused the whole. Were I to sit in judgment on the book, with reference to the whimsical title it bears, I would say, "This is not a garden, but a verdant and variegated meadow, where, if we are not regaled with flowers of rich fragrance and exquisite beauty, we are never offended by weeds of unseemly appearance, and noxious quality." I, therefore, Mr Editor, propose sending you occasional extracts, either in prose or verse, such as may be deemed adapted to your Miscellany; and accompany this by a tale, which is neither the first, nor, in my opinion, the best; but its title is applicable to the season. I wished, also, to have sent you the author's preface, but have already intruded too far; however, in justice to him, permit me to transcribe the following paragraph: "As he who paints from fancy, and not from life, can give expression of features, and richness of colouring, to his pictures, ad libitum; so it would have been easy for me, in overstepping the modesty of Nature,' to have contrived plots more wonderful, and to have made my characters think, act, and speak in a style more romantie; but I preferred sketching life such as it is, rather than what it might be supposed, by a warm heart and fertile imagination." Should this packet meet your approbation, you will oblige one female reader, and may again hear from, your's very respectfully,

AN AULD FRIEND WI' A NEW FACE.

of Scotland. He had been more solicitous to cultivate the minds of his children, than to accumulate wealth; and under the care of his parent, George had received what may, in a just sense of the word, be termed a good education. In early life, his mind was deeply imbued with a sense of the duties he owed to his Maker and his fellow-men; and these he was at all times anxious to discharge, as far as the frailty of human nature would permit. He had been taught to perform his part on the stage of life in a manner which might be expected to produce happiness to himself, and render him useful and respectable in society.

George continued to assist his father on the farm till the good man died, as it were, in the prime of life, leaving his son, at the age of twenty, heir to the lease, and sole protector of two sisters, for their mother had been dead several years. There is a kind of philosophical philanthropy, which "feels for all that lives," but, in the aggregate mass, overlooks the individual, or is exercised on a field so extensive, that, like a pitcher of water sprinkled over an acre of ground, its effects are imperceptible. Such benevolence resembles his, who, having a respectable, but limited sum to distribute in charity, from an anxiety to diffuse his kindness as widely as possible, deals it out in a farthing to each mendicant; and thus a sum is wasted, without adding to the comforts or alleviating the distresses of any one, which would have raised a few from the gulf of wretchedness; and the donor, by injudiciously attempting too much, has done nothing at all. Such was not George Melville's philanthropy; he felt for all mankind, but it was after the manner so beautifully described by Pope: As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake, The centre moved, a circle straight suc

ceeds;

Another still, and still another spreads; Friend, parent, neighbour, first it will embrace,

His country next, and next all human race.

His father had died suddenly and intestate; a new lease of the farm had been obtained a few years before, and most of his ready cash was expended in improvements; and what he could leave to his daughters was

trifling, compared with the lease and farm-stocking, now in the hands of George, who, in the first year of possession, obtained an addition to his farm, and immediately set about erecting a new steading. As all this required a command of capital, and his sisters both resided with him, they allowed their little fortunes to lie in his hands.

Mary Webster was the orphan daughter of his late parish clergyman, who had left a widow and daughter, without any provision for their wants, except what they received from the widow's fund. Mary was about a year younger than George, had been the school com`panion of him and his sisters, and an intimacy had subsisted between them ever since. With congenial principles, there was much disparity in the natural dispositions of George and Mary. He was brawny and muscular, with fair, curled hair, and ruddy complexion, and a temper hasty and sanguine. She was tall and slender, yet so finely formed, that she might have been a model for a Grecian statue; in her face, the lily predominated over the rose, except in her lips, which seemed overlaid with rose leaves, wet with the dews of morning; her nose was slightly aquiline, her eye dark and piercing, and her shining jetty_tresses waved over a neck that in whiteness rivalled the Grampian snow; her heart was warm, and her mind calm, steady, and sedate. Mary and her mother lived in a borough, a few miles distant, where many of the beaux looked, sighed, and would have loved; but when prudence whispered that she was pennyless, they contented themselves with gazing and admiring.

But Mary, although not a prude, had a propriety of manner, which some termed good sense, and others pride; however, it kept intruders and silly triflers at a proper distance: this prohibition did not extend to George and his sisters, with whom an intimacy still continued. George had for a considerable time believed that his feeling for Mary proceeded solely from their long acquaintance, and her unprotected situation, with a manifest desire to promote her happiness. The poet has said, that Friendship with woman is sister to love.

So it happened here; and perhaps it might be said, in the quaint style of Macniel, that "love had never less to do;" and Mary left the borough, to become the loving and beloved wife of a country farmer. By her own choice, they were married on New-year's-day, which was also her birth-day, and, according to human calculation, was now the commencement of an era, which promised a long day of felicity. In a few months after, George's eldest sister was married to a neighbouring farmer; and although inconvenient for her brother, her money in his hands was paid down.

George and Mary saw the glad season of spring approach; the Grampians began to exhibit dark patches on their sides, like sable spots on a mantle of ermine; birds sung in the hedges, and flowers budded in the fields. Spring is a season which gives not only the most employment, but also the highest degree of joyful anticipation to the mind. The poet is wrong in saying,

Man never is, but always to be blest; for he is often blest, in the hope of obtaining still greater bliss. Such was now the situation of George; the warmest and best feelings of his heart had not a wish unsatisfied; for the personal charms of his amiable Mary were heightened by the winning sweetness with which she unfolded the rich treasures of her mind. He led her over the fields, where he anticipated future plenty, and his glowing heart expanded, as he contemplated the scenes of happiness which lay in the interminable vista before him.

This loving couple were not misers of their felicity, but wished the bliss they felt diffused around thein: they never turned a deaf ear to the tale of misfortune, and to them the prayer of want was never poured in vain; the liberal hand obeyed the impulse of the benevolent heart; they had the envy of their richer neighbours, and the blessings of the widow and the orphan.

Summer, in all her loveliness, now shone around them, and their domestic sky was without a cloud, when Charles Campbell, a young man, and an intimate friend of