through what is called "The King's Room," a vaulted
apartment, garnished with stags' antlers and similar trophies of the
chase, and said by tradition to be the spot of Malcolm's murder, and I
had an idea of the vicinity of the castle chapel.

In spite of the truth of history, the whole night-scene in Macbeth's
castle rushed at once upon my mind, and struck my imagination more
forcibly than even when I have seen its terrors represented by the late
John Kemble and his inimitable sister. In a word, I experienced
sensations which, though not remarkable either for timidity or
superstition, did not fail to affect me to the point of being
disagreeable, while they were mingled at the same time with a strange
and indescribable kind of pleasure, the recollection of which affords me
gratification at this moment.

In the year 1814 accident placed me, then past middle life, in a
situation somewhat similar to that which I have described.

I had been on a pleasure voyage with some friends around the north coast
of Scotland, and in that course had arrived in the salt-water lake under
the castle of Dunvegan, whose turrets, situated upon a frowning rock,
rise immediately above the waves of the loch. As most of the party, and
I myself in particular, chanced to be well known to the Laird of
Macleod, we were welcomed to the castle with Highland hospitality, and
glad to find ourselves in polished society, after a cruise of some
duration. The most modern part of the castle was founded in the days of
James VI.; the more ancient is referred to a period "whose birth
tradition notes not." Until the present Macleod connected by a
drawbridge the site of the castle with the mainland of Skye, the access
must have been extremely difficult. Indeed, so much greater was the
regard paid to security than to convenience, that in former times the
only access to the mansion arose through a vaulted cavern in a rock, up
which a staircase ascended from the sea-shore, like the buildings we
read of in the romances of Mrs. Radcliffe.

Such a castle, in the extremity of the Highlands, was of course
furnished with many a tale of tradition, and many a superstitious
legend, to fill occasional intervals in the music and song, as proper to
the halls of Dunvegan as when Johnson commemorated them. We reviewed the
arms and ancient valuables of this distinguished family--saw the dirk
and broadsword of Rorie Mhor, and his horn, which would drench three
chiefs of these de