Pursuing our way, we come to Norham Castle, so magnificently described in Marmion. "Day set on Norham's castle steep, And Tweed's fair river broad and deep, And Cheviot's mountains lone; The battled towers, the donjon keep, The loop-hole grates where captives weep, The flanking walls that round it sweep, In yellow lustre shone." Nine miles further on, we arrive at "Berwick upon Tweed," where the river falls into the German Ocean, and where our wanderings in Scotland cease,--the scene of fierce struggles between the Scots and English. North Berwick was sometimes in the hands of the one, sometimes in the hands of the other. Its streets often ran blood; its walls echoed the tramp of armies, the shrieks of the wounded and the groans of the dying. Its old ramparts are yet standing; but all is quiet and passionless now. A sort of stillness pervades the place, in striking contrast with the havoc and turmoil of the ancient Border wars. The environs are full of historic recollections, which have been well illustrated in the "Border Tales," by John Mackie Wilson, who was a native of Berwick, and resided here till his death. This event took place, suddenly and unexpectedly, on the 2d of September, 1835, when he was only thirty-one years of age. His early days were spent, in peace and happiness, under the parental roof. At school he was distinguished for his love of knowledge, and the rapidity with which he executed all his tasks. At a suitable age he was apprenticed to a printer, and found the employment congenial, as it brought him into contact with books. Eagerly thirsting for knowledge, he soon exhausted his scanty means of gratifying his taste in Berwick on Tweed, and leaving the place of his nativity, repaired to London, where he encountered the greatest difficulties and hardships. It is said that some of the most touching descriptions of the sufferings endured by the aspirant for fame were actually endured by himself, and "that the sobs and tears which involuntarily burst from the family circle when these tales were read, were poured forth for him whose pen had described them." Often amid the splendor of London, did he wander "homeless and friendless." But nothing could repress the native ardor and buoyancy of his mind. And amid all the darkness of the night which enveloped his pathway, he was ever looking for sunrise. Despair and poverty, however, drove him from the British metropolis, and he was forced to seek in the provinces what he could not find in London, nor did he seek in vain. He reaped "a golden harvest of opinions;" but poverty continued to be his companion for years. During a sojourn in the city of Edinburgh, he published several dramas and other poems, which had a share of success. He wrote a series of "Lectures and Biographical Sketches," which he delivered with considerable eclat in different towns of Scotland and England. Three years before his death "he rested from