A cavern deep of ample dome,
      A fitting spot for outlaw's home.
      For, known to few, 'twas seldom near'd,
      And by the few 'twas known, 'twas fear'd.

     So fear'd, so dark, so lone a place,
      Well suited was to blink a chase;
      There all unharm'd the wild fowl flew,
      There all unseen the lilies grew
      In cloister'd beauty on the wave
      That rippled through that lonely cave,
      While lofty rushes rose between,
      And made an ample waving screen
      Which, as it rustled to the wind,
         Whisper'd of safety and repose
      To hunted fugitive who'd find
         A shelter sure from furious foes,
      So, thro' the tangled flowery zone
      I burst into that cavern lone,
     There, passion-torn and sore distress'd,
      My lov'd child clasping to my breast,
      Lulled by the ripples of the deep,
      Exhausted I lay down to sleep.

     But not for long was slumber granted,
           On my shoulder roughly laid
           A hand awoke me; for my blade
      I vainly grasp'd, and struggling panted,
      An Amazon it was who broke
      My spell of sleep, and thus she spoke
      (Strange words to fall from beauty's daughter),
      "Sir, I have brought your shaving water,
      Get up at once or you'll be late,
      The train you go by leaves at eight."

       LATITUDE AND LONGITUDE OF
                       SUNDAY.

MORALS, like climate and the growth of
fruits, seem to be ruled, in certain respects, by
the parallels of latitude and longitude.

I will instance the morality of Sabbath
observance. Between the 54th and 59th degree of
north latitude, that is to say, between John
o' Groat's house and the boundary line which
divides England from Scotland, it is considered
contrary to good morals and religion to play
musical instruments on Sunday, or to sing any
songs but sacred ones. Within these parallels
of latitude, whistling on Sunday is downright
impiety. Get into a train bound for the south,
and in two hours' time you will have left the
whistling parallel behind you. You may whistle
now on Sunday; you may sing what songs you
please; you may play the fiddle, nay, you may
even dance, and few will challenge your
pleasure. It is but a twelve hours' journey from
Edinburgh to London. At six o'clock in the
morning you are whistling over your breakfast
in Princess-street, and the Scotch lassie in
attendance is horrified. At six o'clock in the
evening you are listening to the band in the
Regent's Park, and thousands of English
lassies are there, dressed in all their best,
promenading up and down to the time. If
you were to bring the Scotch lassie up and
show her this scene, horns blowing, drums
beating, and ten thousand couples sweet-
hearting under the trees, she would draw in
her breath and exclaim, "Eh, gude be here,
did ever ony body see the like—playing polkas
on Sunday! I wonder whaur they expect to
gang to!"

But now, in turn, take an English person
over with you to Paris, move him from
where the longitude is to the 6th parallel east,
and he will be as much shocked to see the
Parisians going to the theatre on Sunday evening,
as the Scotch lassie was to see the Londoners
promenading in the Regent's Park and listening
to polkas. A few degrees of latitude make a
difference one way; a few degrees of longitude,
make a difference another. Go north, and you
mustn't whistle; come south, and you may play
the fiddle; move sideways, a little towards the
cast, and you may whistle, play the fiddle, and
go to the play.

Which parallel rules the right morality in this
matter I will not pretend to decide. I will
candidly admit that I have never been able to
come to a conclusion which, wholly satisfies
myself; because, in all the three cases I have
stated, I have found inconsistencies and anomalies,
which do not in any case harmonise, either
with the rigid idea of the Mosaic law of the
Sabbath, or with the more modern and liberal
interpretation of the Sunday. It is not my
intention to deliver judgment; but merely to sum
up the evidence as it has been offered before me
in Scotland, England, and France.

I was born in Scotland, and I had experience
of the Scotch Sunday first. Sunday has two
aspects in Scotland—a comparatively mild one
in the country, and a superlatively severe one
in the towns. In the thinly populated rural
parishes, there is but one kirk, and there is
but one Sunday service. Some of the parishioners
come from great distances to attend the
service. The poor parishioners trudge on foot,
carrying sprigs of southernwood between the
leaves of their Bibles; the rich parishioners—
the lairds and well-to-do farmers—make the
journey in their carriages and dog-carts. In these
country parishes, Sunday is the grand reunion
day of the week, when friends and distant
neighbours meet together at the church door, after
service, to inquire after each other's health, and
talk about the cows and the sheep and the crops.
These friendly gatherings round the kirk door
are almost as much a part of the Christian duty
of the day as the service itself. They are
anticipated with pleasure, and they are thoroughly
enjoyed. The journey to and from kirk
in the country occupies a great portion of
the day. The parishioners who live at a
distance must start pretty early to get to the kirk
by noon; and when the service is over, it
takes them some considerable time to get back
to their homes and their mutton broth. Thus
the fore part of the day is actively occupied, and
the hours pass away cheerfully enough. The
great blank in the Sunday life ensues in. the
afternoon. There is no service to go to, and
amusements are strictly forbidden. You mustn't
read newspapers or profane books; and among
profane books you must include the Waverley
Novels; you mustn't play at any game;