a few miles out from Alpin. Here, in as romantic a
locality as is known even to the Highlands, with his kindred about
him he enjoyed a full measure of repose from the distracting cares
of the great metropolis. At the time of my visit his brother,
an officer of the British army, just returned from India, was with
him. Both gentlemen wore kilts for the time; and all the appointments
of the house were reminders of bygone centuries when border warfare
was in full flower, forays upon the Lowlands of constant occurrence,
and the principle of the clans in action,

"Let him take who has the power
And let him hold who can."

At the bountifully furnished board of my Highland host there was
much "upon the plain highway of talk" I will not soon forget. And
then, with the gathering shadows in the ancestral hall, with the
rude weapons of past generations hanging upon every wall, and
the stirring strains of the bagpipe coming from the distance, it
was worth while to listen to the Highland legends that had been
handed down from sire to son.

Not far away was the old castle of Dunstaffnage, which in its prime
had been the scene of innumerable tournaments and battles that have
added many pages to Scottish annals. Within the enclosure of
the old castle sleeps the dust of long ago kings--the veritable
grave of Macbeth being readily pointed out to inquiring travellers.

The conversation around the hearthstone of my host turned to the
famous island of the Inner Hebrides, Iona, with its wonderful
history reaching back to the sixth century. The ruins of the
old monastery, built fourteen hundred years ago by the fugitive
Saint, Columba, are well worth visiting. The dust of the early
kings of Norway, Ireland, and Scotland rest within these ancient
walls, and it is gratifying to know that here even the ill-fated
Duncan

"After life's fitful fever sleeps well."

It would have been passing strange, with host and guests all of
Scottish lineage, if there had been no mention of Robbie Burns,
for in old Scotia, whether in palace or hovel, the one subject that
never tires is the "ploughman poet of Ayr." A little incident
of slightly American relish which I related the evening of my
departure needed no "surgical operation" to find appropriate
lodgment.

Senator Beck of Kentucky was a Scotchman. He was in the highest
sense a typical Scotchman--lacking nothing, either of the brawn,
brain, or brogue, of the most gifted of that rac