but is quite involved in a mystery which no one has satisfactorily solved.  It is strange that no persistent and successful effort has been made to let day-light through it.  Some workmen a long time ago undertook to perforate it, but were frightened away by a thunder-storm, which they seemed to take as a reproof and threatened punishment for their profanity.  The great business of Hawick is the manufacture of a woollen fabric called Tweeds.  It came to this name in a singular way.  The clerk of the factory made out an invoice of the first lot to a London house under the name of Twilled goods.  The London man read it Tweeds, instead of Twilled, and ever since they have gone by that title.  As Sir Walter Scott was at that time making the name “Tweed” illustrious, the mistake was a very lucrative one to the manufacturers of the article.  Here, too, in this border town commences the chain of birthplaces of eminent men, who have honored Scotland with their lives and history.  Here was born James Wilson, once the editor of The Economist, who worked his way up, through intermediate positions of public honor and trust, to that of Finance Minister for India, and died at the meridian of his manhood in that country of dearly-bought distinctions.

On Tuesday, Sept. 8th, I commenced my walk northward from this threshold town of Scotland.  Followed down the Teviot to Denholm, the birth-place of the celebrated poet and linguist, Dr. John Leyden, another victim who offered himself a sacrifice to the costly honors and emoluments of East Indian official life.  One great thought fired his soul in all the perils and privations of that deadly climate.  It was to ascend one niche higher in knowledge of oriental tongues than Sir William Jones.  He labored to this end with a desperate assiduity that perhaps was never surpassed or even equalled.  He died hugging the conviction that he had attained it.  This little village was his birthplace.  Here he wrote his first rhymes, and wooed and won the first inspirations of the muse.  His heart, as its last pulses grew weaker and slower, in that far-off heathen land, took on its child-thoughts again and its child-memories; and his last words were about this little, rural hamlet where he was born.  A beautiful monument has been erected to his memory in the centre of the large common around which the village is built.  On each of the four sides of the monument there is a tribute to his name and worth; one from Sir Walter Scott, and one taken from his own poems, entitled “Scenes of my Infancy,” a touching appeal to his old friends and neighbors to hold him in kind remembrance.