SCOTLAND.

"Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses!

In you let the minions of luxury rove;

Restore me the rocks where the snowflake reposes,

Though still they are sacred to freedom and love:

Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,

Round their white summits though elements war;

Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth flowing fountains,

I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr."

It was on Saturday, July 16th, that we went over the border. The bridge

across the boundary line was soon reached. When midway over a halt was

called, and vent given to our enthusiasm. With three cheers for the land

of the heather, shouts of "Scotland forever," and the waving of hats and

handkerchiefs, we dashed across the border. O Scotland, my own, my

native land, your exiled son returns with love for you as ardent as ever

warmed the heart of man for his country. It's a God's mercy I was born a

Scotchman, for I do not see how I could ever have been contented to be

anything else. The little plucky dour deevil, set in her own ways and

getting them too, level-headed and shrewd, with an eye to the main

chance always and yet so lovingly weak, so fond, so led away by song or

story, so easily touched to fine issues, so leal, so true! And you suit

me, Scotia, and proud am I that I am your son.

We stopped at Gretna Green, of course, and walked to the site of the

famous blacksmith-shop where so many romantic pairs have been duly

joined in the holy bonds of wedlock. A wee laddie acted as guide, and

from him we had our first real broad Scotch. His dialect was perfect. He

brought "wee Davie" to mind at once. I offered him a shilling if he

could "screed me aff effectual calling." He knew his catechism, but he

could not understand it. Never mind that, Davie, that is another matter.

Older heads than yours have bothered over that doctrine and never got to

the bottom of it. Besides there will be a "revised edition" of that

before you are a man. Just you let it alone; it is the understanding of

that and some other dogmas of poor ignorant man's invention that thin

the churches of men who think and "make of sweet religion a rhapsody of

words." "But do you ken Burns?" "Aye," said Davie, "I ken 'A man's a man

for a' that,' and 'Auld Lang Syne.'" "Good for you, Davie, there's

another shilling. Good-bye! But I say, Davie, if you can't possibly

remember all three of these pieces, don't let it be 'A man's a man for

a' that' that you forget, for Scotchmen will need to remember that one

of these days when we begin to set things to rights in earnest and

demand the same privileges for prince, peer, and peasant. Don't let it

be 'Auld Lang Syne,' either, for there is more of 'Peace and Good-will

upon Earth,' the essence of true religion, in that grand song than in

your effectual calling, Davie, my wee mannie. At least there is one who

thinks so." Davie got my address, and said may be he would come to

America when he grew to be a man. I promised to give him a chance if he

had not forgotten Burns, which is all we can do in the Republic, where

merit is the only road to success. We may make a Republican out of him

yet, and have him return to his fellows to preach the equality of man,

the sermon Scotland needs.

[Sidenote: _Lunch at Annan._]

We lunched at Annan. It was at first decided that we had better be

satisfied with hotel accommodations, as the day though fine was cool,

with that little nip in the air which gives it the bracing quality; but

after we had entered the hotel the sun burst forth, and the longing for

the green fields could not be overcome. We walked through the village

across the river, and found a pretty spot in a grove upon high ground

commanding extensive views up and down the stream, and there we gave our

new members their first luncheon. It would have been a great pity had we

missed this picnic, for it was in every respect up to the standard. I

laugh as I recall the difficulties encountered in selecting the fine

site. The committee had fixed upon a tolerably good location in a field

near the river, but this knoll was in sight, and we were tempted to go

to it. We had gone so far from the hotel where the coach was, that

Perry and Joe had to get a truck to bring the hampers. I remember seeing

them pushing it across the bridge and up against the wall over which

most of us had clambered. When the Queen Dowager's turn came the wall

was found to be rather too much for her, but our managers were

versatile. The truck was brought into requisition, and she was safely

drawn from its platform over the wall. I stood back and could do nothing

for laughter, but the Dowager, who was not to be daunted, went over amid

the cheers of the party. It was resolved, however, to be a little more

circumspect in future; wall-climbing at seventy-one has its limits.

Here is the bridge built by that worthy man and excellent representative

of what is best in Scottish character in lowly life, James Carlyle--an

honest brig destined to stand and never shame the builder. I remember

how proudly Carlyle speaks of his father's work. No sham about either

the man or his work, as little as there was in his more famous son. I

wish I could quote something from "Adam Bede" I think it is--where Garth

the stone-mason thinks good work in his masonry the best prayer he had

to stand upon.

[Sidenote: _Carlyle and Black._]

Many have expressed surprise at "Carlyle's Reminiscences," at the

gnarled, twisted oak they show, prejudiced here, ill-tempered there.

What did such people expect, I wonder? A poor, reserved, proud Scotch

lad, who had to fight his way against the grim devils of poverty and

neglect, of course he is twisted and "thrawn"; but a grand, tough oak

for all that, as sound, stanch timber as ever grew, and Scotch to the

core. Did any one take you, Thomas Carlyle, for a fine, symmetrical

sycamore, or a graceful clinging vine? I think the "Reminiscences," upon

the whole, a valuable contribution to literature. Nor has Carlyle

suffered in my estimation from knowing so much of what one might have

expected. But will these critics of a grand individuality be kind enough

to tell us when we shall look upon his like again, or where another

Jenny Carlyle is to come from? She is splendid! The little tot who

"bluided a laddie's nose" with her closed fist and conquered "the

bubbley jock." This was in her early childhood's days, and look at her

woman's work for Carlyle if you want a pattern for wives, my young lady

friends, at least as a bachelor pictures wifehood at its best. The story

told of Mr. Black's meeting with Carlyle should be true, if it be not.

"Oh, Mr. Black," exclaimed Carlyle, "I'm glad to see ye, man. I've read

some of yer books; they're vera amusin'; ye ken Scotch scenery well; but

when are yer goin' to do some _wark_, man?" Great work did the old man

do in his day, no doubt; but they also work who plant the roses, Thomas,

else were we little better than the beasts of the field. Carlyle did not

see this. Black is doing his appointed work and doing it well too, and

Scotland is proud of her gifted son.

* * * * *

DUMFRIES, July 16-17.

[Sidenote: _Dumfries._]

We were at Dumfries for Sunday. We had just got housed at the hotel and

sat down to dinner when we heard a vehicle stop, and running to the

window saw our anxiously expected Parisians at the door. Hurrah!

welcome! welcome! Once more united, never to part again till New York be

reached! It was a happy meeting, and there was much to tell upon both

sides, but the coachers evidently had the better of it. The extreme heat

encountered in France had proved very trying. The Prima Donna was tired

out. She vividly expressed her feelings thus, when asked how she had

enjoyed life since she left the Ark: "_Left_ the Ark! I felt as if I had

been poked out of it like the dove to find out about the weather, and

had found it rough. When I lose sight of the coach again, just let me

know it!" We, on our part, were very glad to get our pretty little dove

back, and promised that she should never be sent forth from among us

again.

One becomes confused at Dumfries, there is so much to learn. We are upon

historic ground in the fullest sense, and so crowded too with notable

men and events. Bruce slew the Red Comyn here in the church of the

Minorite Friars, now no longer existing. The monastery, of which it

formed a part, the foundation of the mother of John Baliol, King of

Scotland, stood on an eminence, the base of which is washed on the north

and west by the waters of the Nith. It is said to have been deserted

after the pollution of its high altar with the blood of the Comyns, and

about two centuries afterward the Maxwells built a splendid castle out

of its ruins and almost on its site; but the fortune of war and old

Father Time levelled its massive walls in turn, and now no vestige

remains of either monastery or castle. The castle of the Comyns, too,

which occupied a romantic site a little way south of the town, at a

place still called Castledykes, has left but slight memorials of its

olden grandeur.

Among the noted men of the world whom Dumfries numbers among her

children are the Admirable Crichton, Paul Jones, Allan Cunningham,

Carlyle, Neilson of the hot blast, Patterson, the founder of the Bank of

England, and Miller of the steamship. Still another, a Scotch minister,

was the founder of savings-banks. While not forgetting to urge his flock

to lay up treasures in the next world, he did not fail to impress upon

them a like necessity of putting by a competence for this one, sensible

man! How many ministers leave behind them as powerful an agency for the

improvement of the masses as this Dumfries man, the Rev. Mr. Duncan, has

in savings-banks? All the speculative opinions about the other world

which man can indulge in are as nothing to the acquisition of those

good, sober, steady habits which render possible upon the part of the

wage-receiving class a good deposit in that minister's savings-bank. The

Rev. Mr. Duncan is my kind of minister, one who works much and preaches

little. There is room for more of his kind.

It is to Dumfries we are also indebted for the steamship, as far as

Britain's share in that crowning triumph is concerned, for, upon

Dalwinston Lake, Miller used the first paddles turned by steam. The

great magician also has waved his wand over this district. Ellangowan

Castle, Dirk Hatteraick's Cave, and even Old Mortality himself are all

of Dumfries; and as for Burns, there is more of his best work there than

anywhere else, and there he lies at rest with the thistle waving over

him, fit mourner for Scotland's greatest son, and of all others the one

he would have chosen. How he loved it! Think of his lines about the

emblem dear, written while still a boy.

[Sidenote: _Home of Burns._]

I wanted to stay a week in Dumfries, and I deemed myself fortunate to be

able to spend Sunday there. Two Dunfermline gentlemen now resident

there, Messrs. R. and A., were kind enough to call upon us and offer

their services. This was thoughtful and pleased me much. Accordingly on

Sunday morning we started with Mr. R. and did the town, Maxwelton Braes,

Burns's house, and last his grave. None of us had ever been there

before, and we were glad to make the pilgrimage. Horace Greeley (how he

did worship Burns!) has truly said that of the thousands who yearly

visit Shakespeare's birthplace, most are content to engrave their names

with a diamond upon the glass, but few indeed leave the resting-place

of the ploughman without dropping a tear upon the grave; for of all men

he it was who nestled closest to the bosom of humanity. It is true that

of all the children of men Burns is the best beloved. Carlyle knew him

well, for he said Burns was the AEolian harp of nature against which the

rude winds of adversity blew, only to be transmitted in their passage

into heavenly music.

I think these are the two finest things that have been said about our

idol, or about any idol, and I believe them to be deserved. So did

Carlyle and Greeley, for they were not flatterers. Of what other human

being could these two things be truly said? I know of none.

Our friends, Mr. and Mrs. N., are the fortunate owners of Friars Carse

estate. They called upon us Sunday noon, and invited us to dine with

them that evening. A delegation from the party accepted, and were much

pleased with their visit. Friars Carse is a lovely spot. The winding

Nith is seen at its best from the lawn. As we drove past on Monday we

stopped and enjoyed a morning visit to our friends, who were exceedingly

kind. Mr. N. has earned the grateful remembrance of every true lover of

Burns by restoring the heritage and guarding with jealous care every

vestige of one of the half dozen geniuses which the world will reverence

more and more as the years roll by. He has wisely taken out the window

upon the panes of which Burns wrote with a diamond, "Thou whom chance

may hither lead," one of my favorites. This is now preserved, to be

handed down as an heirloom in the family, finally, we hope, to find its

place in some public collection. While we were in the mansion a

granddaughter of Annie Laurie actually came in. I know of no young lady

whose grandmother is so widely and favorably known. We were all startled

to be brought so near to the ideal Annie Laurie of our dreams. It only

shows that the course of true love never runs smooth when we hear that

she did not marry the poetic lover. Well, may be she was happier with a

dull country squire. Poets are not proverbially model husbands; the

better poet, the worse husband, and the writer of Annie Laurie had the

poetic temperament pretty well developed.

[Sidenote: _Drumlanrig Castle._]

"Right, Perry!" We are off for Sanquhar, twenty-eight miles away; the

day superb, with a freshness unknown in the more genial South we are

rapidly leaving behind. What a pretty sight it was to see Miss

N---- bounding along upon her horse in the distance, an avant courier

leading us to a warm welcome at her beautiful home! Would I had been

beside her on Habeebah! We spent an hour or two there, and then with

three enthusiastic cheers for "Friars Carse and a' within it," the

Charioteers drove off; but long must fond recollections of that estate

and of the faces seen there linger in our memories as among the most

pleasing of our ever-memorable journey. A home upon the Nith near

Dumfries has many attractions indeed. Our drive to-day lay along the

Nith and through the Duke of Buccleugh's grounds to his noble seat,

Drumlanrig Castle. Here we have a real castle at last; none of your

imported English affairs, as tame as caged tigers. How poor and

insignificant they all seem to such as this! You want the moors, the

hills and glens, and all the flavor of feudal institutions to give a

castle its dignity and impress you with the thoughts of by-gone days.

Modern castles in England built to order are only playthings, toys; but

in Scotland they are real and stir the chords. You cannot have in

England a glen worthy of the name, with its dark amber-brown, foaming,

rushing torrent dashing through it. We begin to feel the exhilarating

influences of the North as we drive on, and to understand its charm.

Byron says truly:

"England! thy beauties are tame and domestic

To one who has roamed on the mountains afar.

Oh, for the crags that are wild and majestic!

The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr."

This was the feeling upon the coach to-day. My eyes watered now and then

and my heart beat faster as the grandeur of the scenery and the

influences around came into play. This was my land, England only a

far-off connection, not one of the family. "And what do you think of

Scotland noo?" was often repeated. "The grandest day yet!" was said more

than once as we drove through the glen; but this has been said so often

during this wonderful expedition, and has so often been succeeded by a

day which appeared to excel its famous predecessor, that we are careful

now to emphasize the yet; for indeed we feel that there is no predicting

what glories Scotland may have in store for us beyond.

Our luncheon to-day was taken upon the banks of the Nith; an exquisitely

beautiful spot. There was no repressing our jubilant spirits, and

sitting there on the green sward the party burst into song, and one

Scotch song followed another. There was a strange stirring of the blood,

an exaltation of soul unknown before. The pretty had been left behind,

the sublime was upon us. There was a nip in the air unfelt in the more

genial climate of the South. The land over which brooded peace and quiet

content had been left behind, that of the "mountain and the flood" was

here, whispering of its power, swaying us to and fro and bending us to

its mysterious will. In the sough of the wind comes the call of the

genii to mount to higher heights, that we may exult in the mysteries of

the mountain and the glen,

"The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr."

Even our songs had the wail of the minor key suggesting the shadows of

human life, eras of storm and strife, of heroic endurance and of noble

sacrifice; the struggle of an overmatched people contending for

generations against fearful odds and maintaining through all

vicissitudes a distinctively national life. That is what makes a

Scotchman proud of this peculiar little piece of earth, and stirs his

blood and fills his eyes as he returns to her bosom.

[Sidenote: _The Cameronians._]

We rested over Monday night, July 18th, at Sanquhar, a long

one-main-street village, whose little inn could not accommodate us all,

but the people were kind, and the gentlemen of the party had no cause to

complain of their quarters. It was here that the minister absolved the

Cameronians from allegiance to "the ungodly king"--a great step. Those

sturdy Cameronians probably knew little of Shakespeare, but I fancy the

speech of that rebel minister could not have been better ended, or begun

either, than with the outburst of Laertes to another wicked king:

"I'll not be juggled with:

To hell, allegiance!"

Bravo! They would not be juggled with King Charles, neither will their

descendants be, if any king hereafter is ever rash enough to try his

"imperial" notions upon them. That day is past, thanks to that good

minister and his Cameronians. I gazed upon the monument erected to these

worthies, and gratefully remembered what the world owes to them.

We stepped into a stationer's shop there and met a character. One side

of the shop was filled with the publications of the Bible Society, the

other with drugs. "A strange combination this," I remarked.

"Weel, man, no sae bad. Pheseek for the body an pheseek for the soul.

Castor oil and Bibles no sae bad."

Harry and I laughed.

"Have you the revised edition here yet?" I inquired.

"Na, na, the auld thing here. Nane of yer new-fangled editions of the

Scripture for us. But I hear they've shortened the Lord's Prayer. Noo,

that's na a bad thing for them as hae to get up early in the mornin's."

He was an original, and we left his shop smiling at his way of putting

things. Scotland is the land of odd characters.

* * * * *

SANQUHAR, July 18.

We are off for old Cumnock, the entire village apparently out to see the

start. Sanquhar on the moors does not seem to have many attractions, but

last evening we had one of our pleasantest walks. There is a fine deep

glen hid away between the hills, with a torrent rushing through it, over

which bridges have been thrown. We were tempted to go far up the glen.

The long gloaming faded away into darkness and we had a weird stroll

home. It was after ten o'clock when we reached the hotel. This may be

taken as a specimen of our evenings; there is always the long walk in

the gloaming after dinner, which may be noted as one of the rare

pleasures of the day.

[Sidenote: _School Children._]

Our luncheon to-day could not be excelled, and in some features it was

unique. The banks of Douglas Water was the site chosen. The stream

divides, and a green island looked so enchanting that the committee set

about planning means to cross to it. The steps of the coach formed a

temporary bridge over which the ladies were safely conducted, but not

without some danger of a spill. As many as thirty school children, then

enjoying their summer vacation, followed, and after a while ventured to

fraternize with us. Such a group of rosy, happy little ones it would be

difficult to meet with out of Scotland. Children seem to flourish

without care in this climate. The difference between the children of

America and Britain is infinitely greater than that between the adults

of the two countries. Scotch children learn to pronounce as the English

do in the schools, but in their play the ancient Doric comes out in full

force. It is all broad Scotch yet in conversation. This will no doubt

change in time, but it seemed to us that so far they have lost very few

of the Scotch words and none of the accent. We asked the group to

appoint one of their number to receive some money to buy "sweeties" for

the party. Jeannie Morrison was the lassie proposed and unanimously

chosen. Jeannie was in the sixth standard. In answer to an inquiry, it

was at first said that no one else of the party was so far advanced, but

a moment's consultation resulted in a prompt correction, and then came:

"Aye, Aggie McDonald is too." But not one of the laddies was beyond the

fifth. Well, the women of Scotland always were superior to the men. If

a workingman in Scotland does not get a clever managing wife (they are

helpmeets there), he never amounts to much, and many a stupid man pulls

up well through the efforts of his wife. It is much the same in France,

or, indeed, in any country where the struggle for existence is hard and

expenditure has to be kept down to the lowest point--so much depends

upon the woman in this department.

The shyness of these children surprised our Americans much. They could

scarcely be induced to partake of cakes and jelly, which must be rare

delicacies with them. I created a laugh by insisting that even after I

had been in America several years I was as shy as any of these children.

My friends were apparently indisposed to accept such an assertion

entirely, but an appeal to Davie satisfied them of my modesty in early

youth. "Ah, _then_!" said Miss M. But this was cruel.

We left some rare morsels for these children. When they had done

cheering us at our departure, I warrant they "were nae blate." The dear

little innocent, happy things! I wish I could get among them again. What

would not one give to get a fresh start, to be put back a child again,

that he might make such a record as seems possible when looking

backward! How many things he would do that he did not do, how many

things he would not do that he did do! I sympathize with Faust, the

offer was too tempting to be successfully withstood. One point worth

noting occurs to me. In looking back you never feel that upon any

occasion you have acted too generously, but you often regret that you

did not give enough, and sometimes that you did not give at all. The

moral seems to be--always give the higher sum or do the most when in

doubt. It seems to me that parents and others having charge of children

might do more than is done to teach them the only means of making life

worth living, and to point out to them the rocks and eddies from which

they themselves have suffered damage in life's passage.

[Sidenote: _A Pleasant Meeting._]

With the cheers of the children ringing in our ears we started on our

way. While stopping at the inn to return what had been lent us in the

way of baskets, pitchers, etc., a lady drove up in a stylish phaeton,

and, excusing herself for intruding, said that a coach was so rarely

seen in those parts she could not resist asking who we were and whither

bound. I gave her all desired information, and asked her to please

gratify our ladies by telling in return who she was. "Lady Stuart M."

was the reply. She was of the M.'s of Closeburn Castle, as we learned

from Mr. Murray, our landlord at Cumnock. The estate will go at her

death to a nephew who is farming in America. We thought there must be

some good reason why he did not return and manage for his aunt, who

indeed seems well qualified to manage for herself. The young exiled heir

had our sympathy, but long may it be ere he enters upon Closeburn, for

we were all heartily in favor of a long and happy reign to the present

ruler of that beautiful estate. Lady M. assured us that we would be well

taken care of at the Dumfries Arms, and she was right. Mr. Murray and

his handsome sisters will long be remembered as model hotel-keepers.

They made our stay most agreeable. Mr. Murray took us to the Bowling

Green in the evening, and many of our party saw the game for the first

time. Great excitement prevails when the sides are evenly matched. It

is, like the curling pond, a perfect republic. There is no rank upon the

ice or upon the green in Scotland. The postman will berate the provost

for bad play at bowls, but touch his hat respectfully to him on the

pavement. A man may be even a provost and yet not up to giving them a

"Yankee" when called for. We were curious to know what a "Yankee" shot

was, for we heard it called for by the captains every now and then. We

were told that this was a shot which "knocked all before it, and played

the very deevil." That is not bad.

While a few of us who had recently seen the land of Burns remained at

Cumnock, the remainder of the party drove to Ayr and saw all the sights

there and returned in the evening. Our walks about Cumnock were

delightful, and we left Mr. Murray's care with sincere regret.

* * * * *

OLD CUMNOCK, July 19.

[Sidenote: _Our Photograph._]

Passing out of the town this morning, we stopped at the prettiest little

photographic establishment we had ever seen, and the artist succeeded

in taking excellent views of the coach and party, as the reader may see

by a glance at the frontispiece, where the original negative is

reproduced by the artotype process. It was done in an instant; we were

taken ere we were aware. A great thing, that instantaneous photography;

one has not time to look his very worst, as sitters usually contrive to

do, ladies especially. It is so hard to be artificial and yet look

pretty.

"Right, Perry!" and off we drove through the crowd for Douglas. The

General Manager soon confided to me that for the first time he was

dubious about our resting-place for the night. A telegram had been

received by him from the landlord at Douglas just before starting,

stating that the inn was full to overflowing with officers of the

volunteer regiment encamped there, and that it was impossible for him to

provide for our party. What was to be done? It was decided to inform

that important personage, mine host, that we were moving upon him, and

that if he gave no quarters we should give none either. He must billet

us somewhere; if not, then

"A night in greenwood spent

Were but to-morrow's merriment."

But we felt quite sure that the town of Douglas would in council

assembled extend a warm welcome to the Americans and see us safely

housed, even if there were not a hotel in the place. So on we went.

While passing through Lugar, a pretty young miss ran out of the

telegraph office, and holding up both hands, called: "Stop! It's no aff

yet! it's no aff yet!" A message was coming for the coaching party. It

proved to be from our Douglas landlord, saying, All right! he would do

the best he could for us. When the party was informed how much we had

been trusting in Providence for the past few hours, such was their

enthusiasm that some disappointment was expressed at the reassuring

character of the telegram. Not to know where we were going to be all

night--may be to have to lie in and on the coach--would have been such

fun! But "Behind yon hill where Lugar flows," sung by Eliza, sounded

none the less sweet when we knew we were not likely to have to camp out

upon its pretty banks. It is essential for successful happy coaching

with ladies that every comfort should be provided. I am satisfied it

would never do to risk the weaker sex coaching in any other land. The

extreme comfort of everything here alone keeps them well and able to

stand the gypsy life.

We travelled most of the day among the ore lands and blast furnaces of

the Scotch pig-iron kings, the Bairds. To reach Edinburgh we had to

drive diagonally eastward across the country, for we had gone to the

westward that Dumfries and the Land of Burns might not be missed. This

route took us through less frequented localities, off the main lines of

travel, but our experience justified us in feeling that this had proved

a great advantage, for we saw more of Scotland than we should have done

otherwise.

Our luncheon to-day was a novel one in some respects. No inn was to be

reached upon the moors, and feed for the horses had to be taken with us

from Cumnock; but we found the prettiest little wimpling burn, across

which a passage was made by throwing in big stones, for the shady dell

was upon the far side. The horses were unhitched and allowed to nibble

the wayside grass beside our big coach, which loomed up on the moor as

if it were double its true size.

[Sidenote: _Scotch Weather._]

The thistle and the harebell begin to deck our grassy tables at noon,

and fine fields of peas and beans scent the air. All is Scotch; and oh,

that bracing breeze, which cools deliciously the sun's bright rays,

confirms us in the opinion that no weather is like Scotch weather, when

it is good; when it is not I have no doubt the same opinion is equally

correct, but we have no means of judging. Scotland smiles upon her

guests, and we love her with true devotion in return. "What do you think

of Scotland noo?" came often to-day; but words cannot express what we do

think of her. In the language of one of our young ladies, "She is just

lovely!"

The question came up to-day at luncheon, would one ever tire of this

gypsy life? and it was unanimously voted never! At least no one could

venture to name a time when he would be ready to return to the prosy

routine of ordinary existence while blessed with such weather and such

company. Indeed, this nomadic life must be the hardest of all to

exchange for city life. It is so diametrically opposed to it in every

phase. "If I were not the independent gentleman I am," says Lamb, "I

should choose to be a beggar." "Chapsey me a gypsy," gentle Elia, you

could not have known of that life, or perhaps you considered it and the

beggar's life identical. But, mark you, there is a difference which is

much more than a distinction. A gypsy cannot beg, but he or she tells

fortunes, tinkers a little and deals in horses. Even if he steals a

little now and then, I take it he is still within the lines of the

profession; while your beggar who does anything in the way of work, or

who steals, is no true man. His license is for begging only. The gypsy

obviously has the wider range, and I say again, therefore, "Chapsey me a

gypsy," gentle Elia.

Davie and I walked over to the railway line after luncheon to have a

talk with the surfacemen we saw at work. They were strong, stalwart men,

and possessed of that shrewd, solid sense which is invariably found in

Scotch workmen. Their pay seemed very small to us; the foreman got only

twenty shillings per week ($5), while the ordinary surfaceman got

fourteen shillings ($3.50). Although this was only a single-track branch

line, it was almost as well laid as the Pennsylvania Railroad. None of

the men had ever been in America, but several had relatives there who

were doing well, and they looked forward to trying the new land some

day.

We reached pretty Douglas in the evening, and sounded our horn longer

than usual to apprize mine host that the host was upon him. We were

greatly pleased to see him and his good wife standing in the door of the

inn with pleasant, smiling faces to greet us. They had arranged

everything for our comfort. Many thanks to those gentlemanly officers

who had so kindly given up their rooms to accommodate their American

cousins. Quarters for the gentlemen had been found in the village, and

Joe and Perry and the horses were all well taken care of. Thus we

successfully passed through the only occasion where there seemed to be

the slightest difficulty about our resting-place for the night.

[Sidenote: _Home Castle._]

Douglas, the ancient seat of that family so noted in Scotland's history,

is really worth a visit. Home Castle, their residence, is a commanding

pile seen for many miles up the valley as we approach the town. Our

visit to it was greatly enjoyed, we had such a pretty walk in the

evening, and a rest on the slope of the hill overlooking the castle. We

lay there in the grass and enjoyed the quiet Scotch gloaming which was

gathering round us, and so silently, so slowly shutting in the scene.

The castle upon the left below us, the Douglas water so placidly gliding

through the valley at our feet, the old church where lay mouldering

generations of the Douglases, and the dark woods beyond, formed a

picture which kept us long upon the hill.

In their day, what bustling men were these doughty Douglases--full of

sturt and strife--the very ideal representatives of the warrior bold,

who made their way and held their own by the strength of their good

right arms.

"A steede, a steede of matchless speede,

A sword of metal keene,

All else to noble minds is dross,

All else on earth is meane;

And O the thundering press of knights,

When loud their war cries swell,

Might serve to call a saint from heaven

Or rouse a fiend from helle."

This was their ideal--the very reverse, thank God, of the ideal of

to-day--but note how peacefully they lie now in the little antiquated

church in this obscure valley. What shadows we are! What shadows we

pursue! This vein once started in the Scotch gloaming upon the hills,

where the coloring of the scene is so sombre as to be not only seen but

felt, must be indulged in sparingly, or some of the Charioteers might

soon have to record a new experience--a fit of the blues. But this was

prevented by comparing the advance made by the race upon this question

of war within the past century. The "profession of arms" is very soon to

be rated as it deserves. The apology for it will be the same as for any

other of the butchering trades--it is necessary. Granted for the

present, but what of the nature which selects such a profession!

[Sidenote: _Epitaphs._]

The inscriptions upon the tombs of the Douglases recalled other

epitaphs; some one said of all the inscriptions yet seen, he thought

that upon the tomb of the Duke of Devonshire gave us the best lesson.

It runs thus:

"Who lyeth heare?

Ye gude Yearle of Devenshere--

What he had is gone,

What he kept is lost,

What he gave--_that_ he hath."

We were on the verge of moralizing. Some one scenting the danger, said

he thought an equally suggestive epitaph headed one of the chapters of

"David Elginbrod":

"Here lies David Elginbrod,

Hae mercy on his soul, oh God!

As he'd a-had, had he been God,

An ye'd been David Elginbrod."

Yes, there is food for thought here too. David must have been a queer

one.

The sky grew darker, and the far-off woods faded into a cloud upon the

horizon; the party rose, and in so doing regained their usual

hilarity--forgot all about tombs and were off for a run hand-in-hand

down the gentle slope to the valley, shouting and laughing in great

glee--and so on over the pretty bridge to their delightful inn.

* * * * *

DOUGLAS, July 20.

Edinburgh, Scotia's darling seat, only forty-four miles distant. All

aboard, this pretty morning, for Edinburgh! "Right, Perry!" and off we

went quite early through Douglas, for the capital. Our path was through

woods for several miles, and we listened to the birds and saw and heard

many of the incidents of morn so prettily described by Beattie:

"The wild brook babbling down the mountain-side,

The lowing herd; the sheep-fold's simple bell;

The hum of bees, and linnet's lay of love,

And the full choir that wakes the universal grove."

It was to be a long day's drive, but an easy one; only one hill, and

then a gradual descent all the way to Edinburgh. So it might have been

by the other road, but the mile-stones which told us so many miles to

Edinburgh should also have said: "Take the new road; this is the old

one, over the hills and far away." But they did not, and we could not be

wrong, for this was a way, if not _the_ way, to "Auld Reekie." After

all, it was one of the richest of our experiences as we look back upon

it now. So many hills to walk up and so many to walk down; so many moors

with not a house to be seen, nothing but sheep around us and the lights

and shadows of a Scotch sky overhead. But it was grand, and recalled

some of Black's wonderful pen pictures. And then we enjoyed the heather

which we found in its beauty, though scarcely yet tinted with its

richest glow of color. This was our introduction to it. The heathery

moor was new to most of the party and many were the exclamations

produced by its beauty. There's "meat and drink" to a Scotchman in the

scent of the heather.

About luncheon time we began to look longingly for the expected inn, but

there was no habitation to be seen, and we became suspicious that,

notwithstanding the mile-stones, which stood up and told us the lie

which was half the truth (ever the blacker lie), we were not upon the

right road to Edinburgh. At this juncture we met a shepherd with his

collies, and learnt from him that we were still twelve miles from an

inn. It was a cool, breezy day; the air had the "nip" in it which Maggie

missed so in England, and we were famishing. There was nothing else to

do but to stop where we were, at the pretty burn, and tarry there for

entertainment for man and beast.

As proof of our temperance, please note that the flasks filled with

sherry, whiskey, and brandy, at Brighton, I believe, as reserve forces

for emergencies, still had plenty in them when called for to-day; and

rarely has a glass of spirits done greater good, the ladies as well as

we of the stronger sex feeling that a glass was necessary to keep off a

chill. We were "o'er the moors among the heather" in good earnest

to-day, but how soon we were all set to rights and laughing over our

frolic! The shepherd and his dogs lunched with us, and many a glint of

Scottish shepherd life did we get from his conversation. He was a happy,

contented man, and ever so grateful that he was not condemned to live in

a city. He thought such a cramped-up life would soon kill him.

[Sidenote: _Sheep and Collies._]

Good-bye, my gentle shepherd and "Tweed" and "Rab," your faithful,

sagacious companions. Your life leads to contentment, and where will you

find that jewel when you leave mother earth and her products, her

heather and her burns, your doggies and your sheep?

Davie, in Andrew M----'s absence, sang us that song whose prettiest

verse, though all are fine, is this:

"See yonder paukie shepherd

Wha lingers on the hill,

His ewes are in the fauld

And his sheep are lying still."

Softly, softly, pianissimo, my boy! These lines must be sung so, not

loudly like the other verses. Andrew knows the touch.

"But he downa gang to rest,

For his heart is in a flame

To meet his bonnie lassie,

When the kye come hame."

And so we parted from our shepherd, the chorus of our song reaching him

over the moors till he faded out of sight. I am sure we wish him weel.

Happiness is not all in the higher walks of life; and surely in virtue's

paths the cottage leaves the palace far behind.

Another song followed, which I thought equally appropriate, for it tells

us that "Ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew." Ah, the

shepherd's drops of the dew of life are often what princes vainly sigh

for.

[Sidenote: _Arthur's Seat._]

After many miles up and down, we finally reached the top of the hill

from which we saw lying before us, fourteen miles away, the modern

Athens. There was no mistaking Arthur's Seat, the lion crouching there.

"Stop, Perry!" Three times three for the "Queen of the Unconquered

North!" "What do you think of Scotland noo?" Match that city who can!

Not on this planet will you do it, search where you may.

It was only a few miles from where we now stood that Fitz Eustace,

enraptured with the scene,

"And making demi-volte in air,

Cried, Where's the coward that would not dare

To fight for such a land!"

Fight for it? I guess so, to the death! Scotland forever!

We were about completing one stage of our journey, for Edinburgh had

been looked forward to as one of the principal points we had to reach,

and we were to rest there a few days before marching upon the more

ancient metropolis, Dunfermline. Most of us had been steadily at work

since we left Brighton, and the prospect of a few days' respite was an

agreeable one; but after all it was surprising how fresh even the ladies

were. Still, steady coaching is pretty hard work; none of us gained

weight during the journey, but we all felt as if in condition just fit

to do our very best in the way of athletic exercise.

Miss R----, a native of Edinburgh, was here called to the front,

alongside of Perry, to act as guide into and through the city to our

hotel in Prince's Street. The enthusiasm grew more and more intense as

we came nearer and fresh views were obtained. There remained one more

toll-gate, one of the few which have not yet been abolished. Joe had as

usual gone forward to pay the toll, but the keeper declared she did not

know the charge, as never since she kept toll had anything like

that--pointing to the coach--passed there. Was it any wonder that we

attracted attention during our progress northward?

From one hill-top I caught sight of the sparkling Forth, beyond which

lay "the dearest spot on earth to me." The town could not be seen, but

when I was able to cry, "Dunfermline lies there," three rousing cheers

were given for the "Auld gray Toon," my native city.

* * * * *

EDINBURGH, July 21-26.

[Sidenote: _Edinburgh._]

Our route lay through Newington, that we might leave the young artist at

home. We tried to do it quietly, but our friend Mrs. H. was out and

shaking hands with us ere we could drive off. Mr. MacGregor, of the

Royal, had been mindful of us; a grand sitting room fronting on

Prince's Street and overlooking the gardens gave us the best possible

view, the very choice spot of all this choice city. The night was

beautiful, and the lights from the towering houses of the old town made

an illumination, as it were, in honor of our arrival. That the

travellers were delighted with Edinburgh, that it more than fulfilled

all expectations, is to say but little; and those who saw it for the

first time felt it to be beyond all that they had imagined. Those of us

who knew its picturesque charms were more than ever impressed with its

superiority over all other cities. Take my word for it, my readers,

there is no habitation of human beings in this world as fine in its way,

and its way itself is fine, as this, the capital of Scotland.

The surprise and delight of my friends gave me much pleasure. Scotland

had already won all hearts. They had admired England, but Scotland they

loved. Ah, how could they help it! I loved her too, more deeply than

ever.

It is best to disband a large party when in a city possessed of many and

varied attractions, allowing each little group to see the sights in its

own way; assembling, however, at breakfast and dinner, and spending the

evenings together, recounting the day's adventures. This was the general

order issued for Edinburgh.

The new docks at Leith were opened with much ceremony during our stay,

and I took a party of our Edinburgh friends upon the coach to witness

the opening. It was not a clear day, meteorologically considered, but

nevertheless it was a happy one for the coaching party. Upon our return,

a stop at Mr. N.'s magnificent residence was specially agreeable. He and

his daughters were most kind to us while in Edinburgh. Mr. N. gave us a

rare treat by showing us through their immense printing establishment,

where such exquisite things are done, such Easter and Christmas cards,

such friendship tokens, and a thousand other lovely forms we had never

seen before, in their various stages of manufacture.

[Sidenote: _Valuable Importations._]

I asked Mr. N. what he had to say in reply to the admissions of the

leading art authorities of the superiority of American work in black and

white, such as our magazines excel in. He said this could not be

questioned; there was nothing done in British publications that equalled

the American. The reason he gave furnishes food for thought. I pray you,

fellow countrymen, take note of it. Two principal American illustrated

magazines, _Harper's_ and the _Century_, print each more than one

hundred thousand copies, while no British magazine prints half that

number. The American publisher can consequently afford to pay twice as

much as the British publisher for his illustrations. If this be the true

reason of America's superiority in this respect, and I am sure Mr. N.

knows what he is stating, then as its population increases more rapidly

than the British the difference between their respective publications

must increase, and finally drive the home article into a very

restricted position. Pursuing this fact to its logical conclusion,

Britain may soon receive from her giant child all that is best in any

department of art which depends upon general support for success. This

seems to me to betoken a revolution, not as implying the inherent

superiority of the American, but simply flowing from the fact that

fifty-five millions of English-speaking and reading people can afford to

spend more for any certain article than thirty-five millions can. That

Colonel Mapleson now brings over Her Majesty's Opera Company for the New

York season as regularly as he opens his London season, and especially

that he makes far more profit out of the former than out of the latter,

is another significant fact. That leading actors find a wider field here

than at home is still another, and even ministers are finding that the

call of the Lord to higher labors and higher salaries often comes from

the far side of the Atlantic. Drs. McCosh, Hall, Ormiston, and Taylor,

our leading divines, get treble salaries in the Republic, and are said

to be valuable importations. As Mr. Evarts said one night in a

post-prandial effort: "They are about the only specimens of 'the cloth'

admitted duty free." As long as America sent Britain only pork and

cheese and provisions, and such products of the soil, it was all well

enough, but if she is beginning to send the highest things of life, the

art treasures, which give sweetness and light to human existence, it is

somewhat alarming. For my part, I do not like to think that these

Americans are to send Britain every good thing, and that the once proud

country that led the world is to stand receiving as it were the crumbs

from this rich land's table. In one department America can be kept

second for as long a term as we need worry about--she has nothing to

compare with the leading English reviews. Our generation will see no

close rival to the _Fortnightly_ or the _Nineteenth Century_, to

_Blackwood_ or _Chambers' Journal_, or to the _Edinburgh_ or

_Westminster Review_; although the _North American_ and the

_International_ show that even in this race America enters two not

indifferent steeds.

I must not forget to mention that the birds in the _Century_ magazine

which the _Athenaeum_ pronounced so far superior to any British work were

designed by a young lady and engraved by her sister. The work of two

American young ladies excelled the best of England; and then did not

Miss Rosina Emmet send a Christmas greeting of her own composition to

friends in England which took the second prize at the London Exhibition,

although not intended for anything more than a private token of

friendship. Let a note be made of all this, with three loving cheers for

the young lady artists of the Republic. Instead of losing the charms of

women by giving public expression to their love of the beautiful in all

its forms, they but add one more indescribable charm which their less

fortunate sisters can never hope to attain. How a man does reverence a

woman who does fine things in art, literature, or music, or in any line

whatever!

[Sidenote: _On a Yacht._]

The Charioteers gave leave of absence to the Scribe and General Manager

to spend Sunday with my friends Mr. and Mrs. G., at Strathairly House,

on the banks of the Forth. It was a most delightful visit. The Commodore

of the Forth Yachting Squadron (for such Mr. G. is) had the Ranee ready

to take us back to Edinburgh Monday morning. We enjoyed the sail down

the Forth very much. That we could not accept the Commodore's invitation

to change the Gay Charioteers into Bold Mariners for a day and visit St.

Andrews in the Ranee gave rise to deep regret, when the other members of

the party were informed of the treat proposed; but we cannot glean every

field upon our march. Some other time, Commodore, the recently elected

member of the squadron will report for duty on the flagship and splice

the main brace with you and your jolly crew. There is a craze for

yachting in Britain, which is also showing its symptoms on this side. I

am not at home in vessels much smaller than an Atlantic steamer. The

Charioteers resolved unanimously that their yacht should have four

wheels and four horses, and should run on land.

Upon our return to Edinburgh Monday morning, the first rumbling of the

distant thunder from Dunfermline was heard, and it dawned upon us that

serious work was at hand. Our friend Mr. D., of the Council, had called

upon us and intimated that something of a demonstration might be made

upon our arrival in my native town; but when I found a telegram from Mr.

Simpson, the clerk, asking us to postpone our coming for a day, I knew

there was an end to play. Things looked serious, but I was not going to

be the sole sufferer. At dinner I laid it down as the law from which

there could be no appeal, that if any public speaking were to be done,

Messrs. P., McC., K., the General Manager, and V., were in for it. It is

surprising how much it mitigates one's own troubles to see his dearest

friends more frightened than himself. I grew bolder as I encouraged

these victims. Their speeches were bound to be hits--no speeches have so

often created sensations as maiden efforts. The last two offered great

inducements to the ladies if they would vote that they should be

excused. As for the others, I made it a question of ministerial

confidence, and the administration was sustained. If you read their

speeches I am sure you will see the wisdom of my selections.

I was glad to see Sir Noel Paton, Dunfermline's most distinguished son,

able to be at his sister's that evening. The recent narrow and heroic

escape from drowning of himself, Lady Paton, and his son Victor, gave us

all renewed interest in grasping his hand again. Thrown from a small

sail-boat into the sea, at least two hundred yards from shore, with

ropes and sail tangled about them, the three rallied to each other's

support (for all could swim), and bore each other up until finally Lady

Paton got between her husband and son, with one hand on the shoulder of

each, and thus they struggled grandly to shore. Where is another trio

that could do that, think you? I tell you, who don't know Dunfermline,

that these Patons were always a marked family, and have had genius

hovering about their pretty home for generations, and now and then

touching the heads and hearts of father, sons, and daughters with its

creative wand. There is a great deal in blood, no doubt, but the blood

from an honest weaver or shoemaker is, as a rule, a much better article,

something to be much prouder of, than you find from nobles whose rise

came from such conduct as should make their descendants ashamed to talk

of descent. It's a God's mercy we are all from honest weavers; let us

pity those who haven't ancestors of whom they can be proud, dukes or

duchesses though they be.

* * * * *

DUNFERMLINE, July 27-28.

[Sidenote: _Dunfermline._]

Put all the fifty days of our journey together, and we would have

exchanged them all for rainy ones if we could have been assured a bright

day for this occasion. It came, a magnificent day. The sun shone forth

as if glad to shine upon this the most memorable day of my mother's life

or of mine, as far as days can be rendered memorable by the actions of

our fellow-men. We left Edinburgh and reached Queensferry in time for

the noon boat. Here was the scene so finely given in "Marmion," which I

tried, however, in vain to recall as I gazed upon it. If Dunfermline and

its thunders had not been in the distance, I think I could have given it

after a fashion, but I failed altogether that morning.

"But northward far, with purer blaze,

On Ochil mountains fell the rays,

And as each heathy top they kissed,

It gleamed a purple amethyst.

Yonder the shores of Fife you saw,

Here Preston Bay, and Berwick Law;

And broad between them rolled,

The gallant Firth the eye might note.

Whose islands on its bosom float,

Like emeralds chased in gold."

And truly it was a morning in which nature's jewels sparkled at their

best. Upon reaching the north shore we were warmly greeted by Uncle and

Aunt, and Maggie and Annie. It was decided better not to risk luncheon

in the ruins of Rosythe Castle, as we had intended, the grass being

reported damp from recent rains. We accordingly drove to the inn, but we

were met at the door by the good landlady, who, with uplifted hands,

exclaimed: "I'm a' alane! There's naebody in the house! They're a' awa'

to Dunfermline! There'll be great goings on there the day."

A hotel without one servant. The good woman, however, assured us we

might come in and help ourselves to anything in the house; so we

managed to enjoy our luncheon, though some of us only after a fashion.

There were three gentlemen, a wife, and a cousin, who for the first time

did not care much for anything in the form of luncheon. Speeches,

speeches, these are what troubled Harry, Davie and me; and I had cause

for grave alarm, of which they could form little idea, for I felt that

if Dunfermline had been touched and her people had determined to give us

a public reception, there was no saying to what lengths they might go.

[Sidenote: _A Trying Ordeal._]

If I could decently have stolen away and gone round by some circuitous

route, sending my fellow townsmen an apology, and telling them that I

really felt myself unable to undergo the ordeal, I should have been

tempted to do so. I was also afraid that the Queen Dowager would break

down, for if ever her big black eyes get wet it's all over with her. How

fortunate it was that Mrs. H. was with her to keep her right! It was

wisely resolved that she should take her inside of the coach and watch

over her. I bit my lip, told the Charioteers they were in for it and

must go through without flinching, that now the crisis had come I was

just bound to stand anything. I was past stage-fright, and I assured

myself that they could do their worst--I was callous and would not be

moved--but to play the part of a popular hero even for a day, wondering

all the time what you have done to deserve the outburst, is fearful

work. When I did get time to think of it, my tower of strength lay in

the knowledge that the spark which had set fire to their hearts was the

Queen Dowager's return and her share in the day's proceedings. Grand

woman, she has deserved all that was done in her honor even on that day.

A man stopped us at the junction of the roads to inform us that we were

expected to pass through the ancient borough of Innerkeithing; but I

forgot myself there. It seemed a fair chance to escape part of the

excitement (we had not yet begun the campaign as it were); at all events

I dodged to escape the first fire, as raw troops are always said to do,

and so we took the direct road. When the top of the Ferry Hills was

reached we saw the town, all as dead as if the holy Sabbath lay upon it,

without one evidence of life. How beautiful is Dunfermline seen from the

Ferry Hills, its grand old abbey towering over all, seeming to hallow

the city and to lend a charm and dignity to the lowliest tenement. Nor

is there in all broad Scotland, nor in many places elsewhere, that I

know of, a more varied and delightful view than that obtained from the

park upon a fine day. What Benares is to the Hindoo, Mecca to the

Mohammedan, Jerusalem to the Christian, all that Dunfermline is to me.

But here I must stop. If you want to learn how impulsive and

enthusiastic the Scotch are when once aroused, how dark and stern and

true is the North, and yet how fervid and overwhelming in its love when

the blood is up, I do not know where you will find a better evidence of

it than in what followed. See how a small spark kindled so great a

flame. The Queen Dowager and I are still somewhat shamefaced about it,

but somehow or other we managed to go through with our parts without

breaking down.

[Sidenote: _The Free Library._]

The Queen Dowager had been chosen to lay the Memorial Stone of the Free

Library, and the enthusiasm of the people was aroused by her approach.

There was something of the fairy tale in the fact that she had left her

native town, poor, thirty odd years before, with her loved ones, to

found a new home in the great Republic, and was to-day returning in her

coach, to be allowed the privilege of linking her name with the annals

of her beloved native town in one of the most enduring forms possible;

for whatever agencies for good may rise or fall in the future, it seems

certain that the Free Library is destined to stand and become a

never-ceasing foundation of good to all the inhabitants. Well, the

future historian of that ancient town will record that on this day,

under bright sunshine, and amidst the plaudits of assembled thousands,

the Queen Dowager laid the Memorial Stone of the building, an honor,

compared with which, I was charged to tell the citizens, in the Queen

Dowager's estimation, Queen Victoria has nothing in her power to bestow.

So say also the sons of the Queen Dowager. The ceremonies passed off

triumphantly. The procession, workingmen and address, banquet, and all

the rest of it may be summed up in the remark of the Dunfermline press:

"The demonstration may be said to be unparalleled in the history of

Dunfermline."

I will not be tempted to say anything further about this unexpected

upheaval except this: after we had stopped and saluted the Stars and

Stripes, displayed upon the Abbey Tower in graceful compliment to my

American friends (no foreign flag ever floated there before, said our

friend, Mr. R----, keeper of the ruins), we passed through the archway

to the Bartizan, and at this moment came the shock of all that day to

me. I was standing on the front seat of the coach with Provost Walls

when I heard the first toll of the abbey bell. My knees sank from under

me, the tears came rushing before I knew it, and I turned round to tell

the Provost that I must give in. For a moment I felt as if I were about

to faint. Fortunately I saw that there was no crowd before us for a

little distance. I had time to regain control, and biting my lips till

they actually bled, I murmured to myself, "No matter, keep cool, you

must go on;" but never can there come to my ears on earth, nor enter so

deep into my soul, a sound that shall haunt and subdue me with its

sweet, gracious, melting power like that.

[Sidenote: _The Abbey Bell._]

By that curfew bell I had been laid in my little couch to sleep the

sleep of childish innocence. Father and mother, sometimes the one,

sometimes the other, had told me, as they bent lovingly over me night

after night, what that bell said as it tolled. Many good words has that

bell spoken to me through their translations. No wrong thing did I do

through the day which that voice from all I knew of heaven and the great

Father there did not tell me kindly about ere I sank to sleep, speaking

the very words so plainly that I knew that the power that moved it had

seen all and was not angry, never angry, never, but so very, _very_

sorry. Nor is that bell dumb to me to-day when I hear its voice. It

still has its message, and now it sounded to welcome back the exiled

mother and son under its precious care again.

The world has not within its power to devise, much less to bestow upon

us, such a reward as that which the abbey bell gave when it tolled in

our honor. But my brother Tom should have been there also; this was the

thought that came. He, too, was beginning to know the wonders of that

bell ere we were away to the newer land.

Rousseau wished to die to the strains of sweet music. Could I choose my

accompaniment, I could wish to pass into the dim beyond with the tolling

of the abbey bell sounding in my ears, telling me of the race that had

been run, and calling me, as it had called the little white-haired

child, for the last time--_to sleep_.

We spent two days in Dunfermline. The tourist who runs over from

Edinburgh will find the Abbey and the Palace ruins well worthy a visit.

Take a day and see them, is my advice. Queen Margaret, King Robert the

Bruce, and many other Kings and Queens are interred in the Abbey, for

this was the capital of Scotland long ere Edinburgh rose to importance.

Who does not remember the famous ballad of Sir Patrick Spens:

"The King sits in Dunfermline toon,

Drinking the bluid red wine;

Oh where will I get a skelly skipper

To sail this ship of mine."

Dunfermline is now the principal seat of the damask manufacture.

Americans will be interested in knowing that at least two-thirds of all

the table linen made in the eleven factories here are for republican

use. While we were there the rage was for designs showing the American

race-horse Iroquois leading all the fleet steeds of England; now it is

said to be for "Jumbo" patterns.

[Sidenote: _The New Kings._]

A visit to one of the leading factories cannot fail to be interesting to

the sight-seer, and to such as may go I suggest that a good look be

taken at the stalwart lassies and good-looking young women who work

there. Several thousand of them marched in the procession formed to

greet us at the city line, and their comely appearance and the good

taste shown in their dress surprised the coaching party very agreeably.

Indeed, our Poetaster improvised a verse which illustrates the change

which has come over the ancient capital since the days of Sir Patrick

Spens, and gave it to us as we rolled along:

"The old Kings sat in Dunfermline town,

Drinking the blood red wine;

The new Kings are at better work,

Weaving the damask fine."

Quite correct, Davie. Does not Holy Writ declare that the diligent man

shall stand _before_ Kings? And is it not time that the bibulous King

should give place to the useful citizen--the world over!

Friday was a cloudy day, but some of our friends, who spent the early

morning with us and saw us off, unanimously predicted that it would

clear. They proved true weather prophets, for it did turn out to be a

bright day. Passing the residence of Colonel Myers, the American Consul,

we drove in and gave that representative of the great Republic and his

wife three farewell cheers.

* * * * *

KINROSS, Friday, July 28.

Kinross was the lunching-place. Mother was for the first and last time

compelled to seek the inside for a few hours after leaving Dunfermline.

These farewells from those near and dear to you are among the cruelest

ordeals one has to undergo in life. One of the most desirable

arrangements held out to us in all that is said of heaven is to my mind

that there shall be no parting there. Hell might be invested with a new

horror by having them daily.

We had time while at Kinross to walk along Loch Leven and see the ruined

castle upon the island, from which Douglas rescued Queen Mary. What a

question this of Mary Queen of Scots is in Scotland! To intimate a doubt

that she was not purity itself suffices to stir up a warm discussion.

Long after a "point of divinity" ceases to be the best bone to snarl

over, this Queen Mary question will probably still serve the purpose.

What matters it what she was? It is now a case of beauty in distress,

and we cannot help sympathizing with a gentle, refined woman (even if

her refinement was French veneering), surrounded by rude, coarse men.

What is the use of "argie bargieing" about it? Still, I suppose, we must

have a bone of some kind, and this is certainly a more sensible one than

the "point of divinity," which happily is going somewhat out of fashion.

To-day's talk on the coach was all of the demonstration at Dunfermline,

and one after another incident was recalled. Bailie W---- was determined

we should learn what real Scotch gooseberries are, and had put on the

coach an immense basketful of them. "We never can dispose of so many,"

was the verdict at Kinross; at Perth it was modified, and ere Pitlochrie

was reached the verdict was reversed and more wished for. Our American

friends had never known gooseberries before, friend Bailie, so they

said.

[Sidenote: _The Carse of Gowrie._]

Fair Perth was to be our resting-place, but before arriving there the

pedestrians of the party had one of their grandest excursions, walking

through beautiful Glen Farg. They were overpowered at every turn by its

loveliness, and declared that there is nothing like it out of Scotland.

The ferns and the wild flowers, in all their dewy freshness after the

rains, made us all young again, and the glen echoed our laughter and our

songs. The outlet from the glen into the rich Carse of Gowrie gave us

another surprise worthy of record. There is nothing, I think, either in

Britain or America, that is equal in cultivation to the famous Carse of

Gowrie. They will be clever agriculturists who teach the farmers of the

Carse how to increase very greatly the harvest of that portion of our

good mother earth. Davie began to see how it is that Scotland grows

crops that England cannot rival. Perthshire is a very beautiful county,

neither Highland nor Lowland, but occupying, as it were, the golden mean

between, and possessed of many of the advantages of both.

* * * * *

PERTH, Saturday, July 29.

[Sidenote: _Fair Perth._]

The view from the hill-top overlooking Perth is superb. "Fair Perth

indeed!" we all exclaim. The winding Tay, with one large sail-boat

gliding on its waters, the fertile plains beyond, and the bold crag at

the base of which the river sweeps down, arrested the attention of our

happy pedestrians and kept them long upon the hill. I had never seen

Perth before, and it was a surprise to me to find its situation so very

fine; but then we are all more and more surprised at what Scotland has

to show when thoroughly examined. The finer view from the hill of

Kinnoul should be seen, if one would know of what Scotland has to boast.

Antiquaries refer the foundation of Perth to the Roman Agricola, who saw

in its hills another Rome, and in its river another Tiber.

"'Behold the Tiber!' the vain Roman cried,

Viewing the ample Tay from Baiglie's side;

But where's the Scot that would the vaunt repay,

And hail the puny Tiber for the Tay?"

But Agricola, poor fellow, was probably homesick, and felt much like the

expatriated Scot who tries to imagine himself on his native heath when

eating his annual haggis at St. Andrew's dinner in New York.

From the days of Kenneth McAlpine down to the times of James I., Perth

was the capital of Scotland, and witnessed the coronation of all her

kings. Every Scot knows the story of James I.--how he hid from the

assassins in the Dominican Convent, how fair Catherine Douglas thrust

her arm through the socket of the bolt and held the door against them

until her bones were brutally crushed, and how the fugitive was finally

dragged from his place of concealment by

"Robert Grahame

That slew our king,

God give him shame!"

The old Abbey of Scone, the place of coronation, is about two and a half

miles from the town, but little remains of it now besides its name and

its associations. The ancient mound is there, but the sacred stone on

which the monarchs stood when crowned was carried away by Edward I., and

is now in Westminster Abbey, an object of interest to all true Scotsmen.

In those royal days--rude and rough days they were too, viewed through

modern spectacles--Perth was the centre toward which most of the

clansmen looked, and almost every available hill in its vicinity was

crowned by a castle, the stronghold of some powerful chieftain. Of

course these autocrats were often at feud with each other, and

frequently even with the magistrates of the town. In the latter case, if

not strong enough to beard the lion in his den, they would waylay

provision trains or vessels carrying necessaries to the city, and then

the citizens would rise in their wrath and sally forth with sword and

buckler and burn a castle or two. But quarrels with the towns-people did

not pay in the long run, and their brands were oftener turned against

each other.

It is a sad commentary on the morals of the day that these neighborly

feuds were rather fostered than checked by the authorities, who thought

to win safety for themselves out of this brotherly throat-cutting.

Sometimes the king set a score or two of them by the ears in the

outskirts of the town for the court's amusement, just as bears and

bandogs were pitted against each other in those godless days. Everybody

has read in the "Fair Maid of Perth" the graphic account of one of these

savage battles between thirty picked men of the Clan Quhele and as many

of the Clan Chattan, on the North Inch of the city--that beautiful

meadow in which Agricola saw a striking resemblance to the Campus

Martius. The story is historically true, the battle having actually

taken place in the reign of Robert III., who had in vain tried to reduce

the rivals to order. As a last resort it was suggested that each should

select his champions and fight it out in the presence of the king, it

being shrewdly hoped that the peace of the community would be secured

through the slaughter of the best men of both sides. The place chosen

was prepared by surrounding it with a trench and by erecting galleries

for spectators, for the brutal combat was witnessed by the king and his

court and by many English and French knights, attracted thither by the

novelty of the spectacle. The contestants, armed with their native

weapons--bows and arrows, swords and targets, short knives and battle

axes--entered the lists, and at the royal signal butchered each other

until victory declared in favor of Clan Chattan, the only survivor of

its opponents having swam the river and escaped to the woods. The few

left of the conquering party were so chopped and carved and lopped of

limbs that they could be no longer regarded as either useful or

ornamental members of society--and thus good king Robert's sagacity in

pitting these turbulent fellows against each other was apparently

justified.

Before starting to-day we had time to stroll along the Tay for an hour

or two. We were especially attracted by a volunteer regiment under drill

upon the green, and were gratified to see that the men looked remarkably

well under close inspection, as indeed did all the militia and

volunteers we saw. The nation cannot be wrong in accounting these forces

most valuable auxiliaries in case of need. I have no doubt but in the

course of one short campaign they would equal regular troops; at least

such was the experience in the American war. The men we saw were

certainly superior to regulars as men. It is in a war of defence, when

one's own country is to be fought for, that bayonets which can think are

wanted. With such a question at issue, these Scotchmen would rout any

regular troops in the world who opposed them for pay. As for miserable

skirmishes against poor half-armed savages, I hope these men would think

enough to despise the bad use they were put to.

[Sidenote: _Villas on the Tay._]

The villas we saw upon the opposite bank of the Tay looked very

pretty--nice home-like places, with their gardens and boat-houses. We

voted fair Perth very fair indeed. After luncheon, which was taken in

the hotel at Dunkeld, we left our horses to rest and made an excursion

of a few miles to the falls, to the place in the Vale of Athol where

Millais made the sketch for his celebrated picture called "O'er the

hills and far awa'." It is a grand view, and lighted as it then was by

glimpses of sunshine through dark masses of cloud, giving many of the

rainbow tints upon the heather, it is sure to remain long with us. For

thirty miles stretch the vast possessions of the Duke of Athol; over

mountain, strath, and glen he is monarch of all the eye can see--a noble

heritage. A recent storm is said to have uprooted seventy thousand of

his trees in a single night.

The scenery in the neighborhood of Dunkeld is very beautiful. The

description of the poet Gray, who visited it in 1766, will do as well

to-day. "The road came to the brow of a deep descent; and between two

woods of oak we saw, far below us, the Tay come sweeping along at the

bottom of a precipice at least a hundred and fifty feet deep, clear as

glass, full to the brim, and very rapid in its course. It seemed to

issue out of woods thick and tall that rose on either hand, and were

overhung by broken rocky crags of vast height. Above them, to the west,

the tops of higher mountains appeared, on which the evening clouds

reposed. Down by the side of the river, under the thickest shades, is

seated the town of Dunkeld. In the midst of it stands a ruined

cathedral; the tower and shell of the building still entire. A little

beyond it a large house of the Duke of Athole, with its offices and

gardens, extends a mile beyond the town: and, as his grounds are

intersected by the streets and roads, he has flung arches of

communication across them, that add much to the scenery of the place."

[Sidenote: _Dunkeld Cathedral._]

The cathedral, still a noble ruin, stands a little apart from the town,

in a grove of fine old trees. It owes its destruction to the Puritans,

who sacked it in the sixteenth century, though the order "to purge the

kyrk of all kinds of monuments of idolatrye" was directed only against

images and altars. But the zeal of men in those days of bigotry was hard

to control, and the mob did not desist from its work while a door

remained on its hinges or a window was unbroken. Since then tower, nave,

and aisles have remained open to sun and storm; the choir alone has been

refitted and is now used as the parish church. In the choir is still to

be seen the tomb and recumbent statue of the famous Earl of Buchan,

better known as the Wolf of Badenoch.

The coachman who drove us to-day interested us by his knowledge of men

and things--such a character as could hardly grow except on the heather.

He "did not think muckle o' one man owning thirty miles o' land who had

done nothing for it." His reply to a question was given with such a

pawkie expression that it remains fixed in the memory. "Why do not the

people just meet and resolve that they will no longer have kings,

princes, dukes or lords, and declare that all men are born equal, as we

have done in America?"

"Aye, maan, it would hae to be a _strong_ meeting that!"

That strong was so _very_ strong; but there will be one strong enough

some day, for all that. We cannot stand nonsense forever, patient as we

are and slow.

Dunkeld is the gateway of the Highlands, and we enter it, singing as we

pass upward:

"There are hills beyond Pentland

And streams beyond Forth;

If there are lords in the south

There are chiefs in the north."

We are among the real hills at last. Yonder towers Birnam, and here

Dunsinane Hill. Mighty master, even here is your shade, and we dwell

again in your shadow. The very air breathes of Macbeth, and the murdered

Banquo still haunts the glen. How perfectly Shakespeare flings into two

words the slow gathering darkness of night in this northern latitude,

among the deep green pines:

"Ere the bat hath flown

His cloister'd flight; ere, to black Hecate's summons,

The shard-borne beetle, with his drowsy hum,

Hath rung night's yawning peal, there shall be done

A deed of dreadful note....

... _Light thickens_; and the crow

Makes wing to the rooky wood:

Good things of day begin to droop and drowse;

Whiles night's black agents to their prey do rouse."

That man shut his eyes and imagined more than other men could see with

their eyes wide open even when among the scenes depicted. The light does

"thicken," and the darkness creeps upon us and wraps us in its mantle

unawares.

[Sidenote: _Birnam Wood._]

Birnam, a wooded hill on the bank of the Tay, is about twelve miles from

Dunsinane or Dunsinnane Hill, the traditional stronghold of Macbeth the

Giant, as the usurper was known to the country people. According to the

common story, when Macbeth heard from his spies of the coming of Malcolm

Canmore's troops from Birnam with branches in their hands, he recalled

the prophecy of the witches, and, despairing of holding the castle

against them, deserted it and fled, pursued by Malcolm, up the opposite

hill, where finding it impossible to escape, he threw himself from a

precipice and was killed on the rocks below. His place of burial is

still shown at a spot called Lang Man's Grave, not far from the road

where Banquo is said to have been murdered.

Some Shakesperean scholars have thought that the great bard must have

collected the materials for his tragedy upon the site. It is well known

that Her Majesty's Players exhibited at Perth in 1589, and it is not

impossible that Shakespeare may have been among them; but it is scarcely

probable. The play follows very closely the history of Macbeth as

narrated by Hollinshed, in which the usurper falls in single combat with

Macduff, and there can be little doubt that Shakespeare derived his

facts from the chronicle rather than from personal investigation.

It is very evident, however, that Dunsinane was anciently a strong

military post. The hill, which rises about eight hundred feet above its

base, is steep and difficult of access on all sides but one, where are

traces of a winding road cut into the rock. Its flat summit was once

defended by a strong rampart, which, judging from its remains, must have

been of considerable height and thickness. The area enclosed by it is

more than two hundred feet long.

* * * * *

PITLOCHRIE, July 30-31.

This is a great resort in the Highlands; and deservedly so, for

excursions can be made in every direction to famous spots, embracing

some of the finest scenery in Scotland. About three miles north of it

rises Ben Vracky, and within easy distances are Glen Tilt, Bruar Water,

the Pass of Killicrankie, Loch Tummel, the Falls of Tummel, and other

places well worthy of a visit; but as the Gay Charioteers' time was

limited they could pay their respects to only a few of them.

We visited the hydropathic establishment in the evening, and found

something resembling an American hotel. Such establishments are numerous

in England and Scotland. Few of the guests take the cold-water

treatment, as I had supposed, but visit the hotels more for sake of a

change, to make acquaintances, and to "have a good time," as we say. I

have no doubt that a month of Pitlochrie air is highly beneficial for

almost any one.

[Sidenote: _Falls of Tummel._]

We walked to the falls of Tummel, and spent some happy hours there.

Cousin Eliza is up in Scotch songs, and I start her every now and then.

It has a charm of its own to sit on the banks of the very stream, with

Athol near, and listen to the inquiry finely sung:

"Cam ye by Athol,

Lad wi' the philibeg,

Down by the Tummel

And banks of the Garry?"

Through these very glens the mountaineers came rushing,

"And with the ocean's mighty swing

When heaving to the tempest's wing

They hurled them on the foe."

There is a new meaning to the song when Davie pours it forth in the glen

itself:

"Sweet the lavrock's note and lang,

Lilting wildly up the glen,

But aye to me it sings ae sang,

Will ye no come back again?"

What a chorus we gave him! There are some days in which we live more

than twenty-four hours; and these days in Scottish glens count for more

than a week of ordinary life. We are in the region of gamekeepers and

dogs. It is the last day of July, and the whole country is preparing for

the annual massacre of the 12th of August. Is civilization so very far

advanced when the titled and wealthiest portions of cultured society

have still for their chief amusements--which are in many cases with them

the principal business of life--the racing of horses one half of the

year, and the murdering of poor half-domesticated birds or the chasing

to death of poor foxes and hares the other half? Can civilized man find

nothing better to furnish needful recreation after useful toil?

The prices paid for a deer forest in Scotland are incredible.

Twenty-five to fifty thousand dollars per annum for the right to shoot

over a few thousand acres of poorly timbered land, and a force of

gamekeepers and other attendants to pay for besides.

For the present the British are what is called a sporting people, and

the Highlands are their favorite hunting-grounds. Their ideas of sport

are curious. General Sheridan told me that, when abroad, he was invited

to try some of their sport, but when he saw the poor animals driven to

him, and that all he had to do was to bang away, he returned the gun to

the attendant. He really could not do this thing, and the General is not

very squeamish either. As for hunting down a poor hare--that needs the

deadening influence of custom--women ought to be ashamed of it now; men

will be anon.

[Sidenote: _Pass of Killiecrankie._]

The first of all our glens is the Pass of Killiecrankie, that famous

defile which gave its name to the battle that proved so fatal to the

Stuarts, for the victory won there by the adherents of the so-called

James VII., was more than counterbalanced by the loss of Claverhouse.

The pass is a narrow, ragged break through the mountains, giving a

passage to the River Garry, and forming the only practicable entrance

from the low country to the Highlands above. It is now accessible by a

broad, smooth highway as well as by the railway, but at the time of the

battle the only road through it was a rough path between the swirling

river and the rocks, and so steep and narrow that but two men could

march abreast. Along this path the royal forces under McKay slowly made

their way; and though the pass is only about a mile and a half long it

was afternoon before the little army of three thousand debouched into

the plain at its extremity, and took position on the high ground beyond.

Do you see that eminence a mile away yonder, on the north, whose sides

slope down into the plain? It was from that height that the

Highlanders--McLeans, McDonalds, Camerons, Lochiel, Dundee and all--came

down like a torrent upon King William's men below. The red sun was just

above the western hills. With fearful yells the tide of ragged,

barefooted mountaineers (Macaulay says that Lochiel took off before the

battle what was probably the only pair of shoes in the clans) swept on,

undismayed by the volleys of musketry that decimated them as they ran.

Plaids and haversacks were thrown away, and dropping their fusils as

they fired them, they were upon the astonished Southrons before they had

time to screw on their bayonets. The fight was over in a few minutes.

More than a thousand men went down under the strokes of the dreaded

claymores and Lochaber axes, and away went King William's men in a panic

down the valley with the clans at their heels. The victory was a

decisive one, but Claverhouse, who had insisted, against the

remonstrances of Lochiel and others, upon leading in the charge, was

fatally wounded by a bullet early in the action. Up yonder on the right

is Urrard House, where he was carried to die. With this brave,

unscrupulous leader, passed away the last hope of the Stuarts of winning

their "own again." When King William heard of the defeat and of Dundee's

death, he said, "Well, were it not so, Dundee would have been at my

gates to tell it himself."

We walked through the pass on our way northward, and concluded that we

had thus far seen nothing quite so wild. The cliffs rise precipitously

on each side, clothed here and there with patches of oak and birch. The

dark, amber-brown rushing torrent is superb, swirling among the rocks,

down which it has poured through eons of time, wearing them into strange

forms. The very streams are Scotch, with a character all their own,

portraying the stern features of the race, torn and twisted by endless

ages of struggle with the rocks which impeded their passage,

triumphantly clearing their pathway to the sea at last by unceasing,

persistent endeavor. The sides of Scotia's glens are a never-failing

source of delight, the wild flowers and the ferns seem so much more

delicately fine than they are anywhere else. One understands how they

affected Burns.

Some of our ladies, the Queen Dowager always for one, will delay the

coach any time to range the sides of the glen; and it is with great

difficulty that we can get them together to mount once more. The horn

sounds again and again, and still they linger and when they at last

emerge from the copse, it is with handfuls or rather armfuls of Nature's

smiles--lapfuls of wild flowers--each one rejoicing in her trophies,

happy as the day is long, only it is not half long enough. Go the sun

down never so late it sinks to its rest too soon.

* * * * *

DALWHINNIE, August 1.

[Sidenote: _Pitlochrie to Dalwhinnie._]

Our drive from Pitlochrie to Dalwhinnie, thirty-two miles, was from

beginning to end unsurpassed--mountain and moor, forest and glen. The

celebrated falls of Bruar lay in our route, and we spent two hours

walking up the glen to see them. Well were we repaid. This is decided to

be the finest, most varied fall of all we have seen. The amber torrent

works and squirms itself through caldrons there, and gorges here, and

dashes over precipices yonder, revealing new beauties and giving us

fresh delights at every step. No gentle kiss gives this Scotch fiend to

every sedge it overtaketh in its pilgrimage, for in truth, dashing and

splashing against the rocks, the surging, boiling water, with its crest

of sparkling foam, seems a live spirit escaping from the glen and

bounding to the sea, pursued by angry demons behind. Standing on the

bridge across the Bruar, one need not be entirely off his balance to

sympathize to some extent with the wild wish of my young lady friend,

who thought if she had to be anything dead she would be a plunging, mad

stream like this, dancing among the rocks, snatching to its breast, as

it passed, the bluebell and the forget-me-not, the broom and the

fox-glove, leaping over precipices and tossing its gay head in sparkling

rainbow sprays forever and ever.

[Sidenote: _Bruar Water._]

It was while gazing at this fall that Burns wrote the petition of Bruar

Water. The shade asked for has been restored--"Clanalpine's pines, in

battle brave," now fill the glen, and the falls of the Bruar sing their

grateful thanks to the bard who loved them.

I have often reminded you, good readers, that the coaching party, with a

few exceptions, hailed with delight every opportunity for a walk.

Contrary to expectation, these came much less frequently in Scotland

than in England. Far away up among the towering hills, where the roads

necessarily follow the streams which have pushed themselves through the

narrow defiles, we get miles and miles in the glens along the

ever-changing streams; but it is too level for pedestrianism unless we

reduce the pace of the coach and walk the horses. It is after a two

hours' climb up the glen to see such a waterfall as the Bruar that we

return to the coach, feeling, as we mount to our seats, that we have

done our duty. We were many miles from our lunching site, and long ere

it was reached we were overtaken by the mountain hunger. When we arrived

at the house on the moors where entertainment had been promised us, it

was to find that it had been rented for the season for a shooting-box by

a party of English gentlemen, who were to arrive in a few days for their

annual sport--the slaughter of the carefully preserved birds. The

people, however, were very kind, and gave us the use of the house. Few

midday halts gave rise to more gayety than this, but there is one item

to be here recorded which is peculiar to this luncheon. For the first

and only time the stewardess had to confess that her supplies were

exhausted. Due allowance, she thought, had been made for the effects of

Highland air, but the climb to Bruar, "or the brunt of the weather," had

produced an unusual demand. The very last morsel was eaten, and there

seemed a flavor of hesitancy in the assurance some of us gave her that

we wished for nothing more. There was not even one bite left for the

beautiful collies we saw there.

Has the amount and depth of affection which a woman can waste on a

collie dog ever been justly fathomed? was a question raised to-day; but

our ladies declined to entertain it at all unless "waste" was changed to

"bestow." The amendment was accepted. Many stories were told of these

wonderful pets, and what their mistresses had done for them. My story

was a true one. Miss Nettie having to go abroad had to leave her collie

in some one's care. Many eligible parties had been thoughtfully

canvassed, when I suggested that, as I had given her the dog, it might

be perfectly safe to leave him with me, or rather with John and the

horses. A grave shake of the head, and then, "I have thought of that,

but have given it up. It would never do. Trust requires _a woman's

care_." Not a smile, all as grave as if her pet had been a delicate

child. "You are quite right," I replied; "no doubt he would have a dog's

life of it at the stable." She said yes, mournfully, and never suspected

a joke. In a stable in New York I once saw a doctor's card nailed up.

Inquiry revealed that this gave the coachman the address of the

physician who was to be called in case the lady's dog should be taken

ill during her absence. If the ladies must go wild over some kind of a

dog, let it be a collie. I like them myself a little.

[Sidenote: _In the Highlands._]

It was gloaming ere we reached Loch Ericht, twelve hundred and fifty

feet above the sea. What a wild, solitary country it is around us! The

lake lies as it were in the lap of the mountains. It is easy to believe

that this was a famous Highland stronghold in the olden time. Even

Cromwell's Ironsides met with a rude check in its savage glens from the

men of Athol. Do you see rugged Ben Alder yonder, the highest of the

group that looks down into the still waters of the lake? In its recesses

is the cave where Prince Charlie was hidden by Cluny Macpherson.

The gathering of the night shadows warn us that we must seek shelter,

and in a few minutes we are housed in the queer little inn at

Dalwhinnie. A bright fire was made, and we were as gay as larks at

dinner. I am sure nothing could surprise Americans more than the dinners

and meals generally which were given us even in such out-of-the-way

stations as this. Everything is good, well-cooked, and nicely served. It

is astonishing what a good dinner and a glass of genuine old claret does

for a party after such a long day's drive and a climb.

Reassembling after dinner in our neat little parlor, the Stars and

Stripes displayed as usual over the mantel, we were all as fresh and

bright as if we had newly risen, and were in for a frolic. The incidents

of the day gave us plenty to talk about--the falls, the glen, that

mountain blue, the lake, and oh! that first dazzling glint of purple

heather upon the high rock in the glen which drew forth such

exclamations! A little patch it was which, having caught more of the

sunshine there than that upon the moors, had burst before it into the

purple, and given to the most of us for the first time ample proof of

the rich, glorious beauty of that famous plant.

What says Annie's song?

"I can calmly gaze o'er the flowery lea,

I can tentless muse o'er the summer sea;

But a nameless rapture my bosom fills

As I gaze on the face of the heather hill."

Aye, Annie, the "nameless rapture" swells in the bosom of every

Scotchman worthy of the name, when he treads the heather.

Andrew M.'s prize song, "The Emigrant's Lament," has the power of a

flower to symbolize the things that tug hardest at the heart-strings

very strongly drawn. By the way, let it here be recorded, this is a

Dunfermline song, written by Mr. Gilfillan--three cheers for

Dunfermline! (that always brings the thunder, aye, and something of the

lightning too). The Scotchman who left the land where his forefathers

sleep sings:

"The palm-tree waveth high, and fair the myrtle springs,

And to the Indian maid the bulbul sweetly sings;

_But I dinna see the broom_ wi' its tassels on the lea,

Nor hear the linties sang o' my ain countrie."

There it is, neither palm-tree nor myrtle, poinsetta nor Victoria Regia,

nor all that luscious nature has to boast in the dazzling lands of the

south, all put together, will ever make good to that woe-begone,

desolate, charred heart the lack of that wee yellow bush o'

broom--never! Nor will all "the drowsy syrups of the East," quiet the

ache of that sad breast which carries within it the doom of exile from

the scenes and friends of youth. They cannot agree, in these days, where

a man's soul is, much less where it is going; let search be made for it

close, very close, to the roots of that ache. It is not far away from

the centre which colors the stream of man's life.

Many times to-day, in the exhilaration of the moment, one or another

enthusiastic member called out, "What do ye think o' Scotland noo?" and

even Emma had to confess in a half-whisper that England was nothing to

this. Perry and Joe had never been beyond the border before, and gave in

their adhesion to the verdict--there is no place like Scotland. "Right,

Perry!"

[Sidenote: _Scotland's Flowers._]

We have never seen that paragon of grace, the Scottish bluebell, in its

glory till now. It is not to be judged in gardens, for it is not in its

element there; but steal upon it in the glen and see how it goes to your

heart. Truly I think the Scotch are the best lovers of flowers, make the

most of them, and draw more from them than any other people do. This is

a good sign, and may be adduced as another proof that the race has a

tender, weak spot in the heart to relieve the hard level head with which

the world credits them.

Whew! Thermometer 53 deg. during the night, the coldest weather experienced

during our journey. But how invigorating! Ten years knocked off from the

age of every one of us since we got among the hills, excepting from

that of several of the ladies, who could hardly spare so much and still

be as charming.

We were stirring early this morning, in for a walk across the moors,

with the glorious hills surrounding us. A grand walk it was too, and the

echoes of the horn from the coach overtaking us came all too soon upon

us. Looking back down the valley of Loch Ericht, we had the ideal

Highland view--mountains everywhere fading into blue in the distance,

green to their tops except when capped with snow, and bare, not a tree

nor a shrub to break their baldness, and the lake lying peacefully among

them at the foot of the vale. These towering masses

"Seem to stand to sentinel Enchanted Land."

I am at a loss for any scenery elsewhere with which to compare that of

the Highlands. The bluish tinge above, the rich purple tint below, the

thick and thin marled, cloudy sky with its small rifts of clear blue,

through which alone the sun glints to relieve the dark shadows by narrow

dazzling lights--these give this scenery a weird and solemn grandeur

unknown elsewhere; at least I have seen nothing like it. During my

strolls at night amid such scenes, I have always felt nearer to the

awful mysteries than ever before. The glowering bare masses of mountain,

the deep still lake sleeping among them, the sough of the wind through

the glen, not one trace of man to be seen, no wonder it makes one eerie,

and you feel as if

"Nature had made a pause,

An awful pause, prophetic of its end."

Memory must have much to do with this eerie feeling upon such occasions,

I take it, for every scrap of Scottish poetry and song bearing upon the

Highlands comes rushing back to me. There are whispering sounds in the

glen:

"Shades of the dead, have I not heard your voices

Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?

Surely the soul of the hero rejoices

And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale."