copies of _The Barrack Room Ballads_ to all the
village libraries.

[7] I have heard it maintained by some zealots, whom I greatly
esteem, that Gaelic is a highly _moral_ language, that the use of
it conduces to purity of life and thought, and that everyone
would be improved in tone by contact with its roots. Those
ministers who have charge of Session Records, chronicling events
that happened before English was known in the West, cannot
unreservedly corroborate these views.

MORAY FIRTH.

My various visits to the shores of the Moray Firth have convinced me
that a man may enjoy the majesty and terror of the sea without embarking
on a boat at all. All he need do is to take a ticket to Portsoy in the
month of March, when the wind is snell and the clouds low. I have never
seen a more grim or cruel-looking coast than that which stretches for
miles east and west of Portsoy. One shudders even at the thought of
those detestable, razor-edged rocks, tilted up at all angles, with the
tide for ever boiling and hissing about them. Neither by land nor sea,
at many parts of the coast, can you get to what might be reasonably
called a beach. The so-called shore-road is high up on the hills, and
gives a good view far out over the billows, but does not take the
traveller's feet near the water at all. Ill-advised would he be who
should strive to guide his skiff from the outer firth to any chance cove
on the shore, for the uncouth crags, huge and sombre, would have no
mercy on any timber jointed by the hand of man. Perhaps the summer sun
would give a gentler appearance to the rocky and wave-beaten shore, but
I am certain Mr. Swinburne would prefer to see it in March.

The town of Portsoy in itself cannot be said to have much comeliness;
the streets are irregular, the houses dismal, and the shops few. God
has, as is meet, the best of the architecture, most of the churches
being graceful and well-spired.

About twenty minutes by rail from Portsoy is the trim and typical
fishing village of Portknockie, high-raised on a hill, and with little
protection from any wind that Aeolus may send out of his cavern. The
population comes near 1,600 souls, and it is rare to find a native who
is not called by one of the following surnames: _Mair_, _Wood_, _Munro_,
_Pirrie_. I believe such a dearth of appellatives is the invariable rule
in the fishing villages of the North Sea. To counteract the confusion
that would inevit