An American Four-in-Hand in Britain

SCOTLAND.

Andrew Carnegie

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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 Æolian 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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 AthenÆum 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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!"

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° 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."

I hear the lament of Ossian in the sough of the passing wind.

We stopped at the inn at Kingussie, one of the centres of sporting interest, but drove on beyond to spread our luncheon upon the banks of the Spey, close to the remains of Ruthven Castle, a fine ruin in this beautiful valley. We walked to it after luncheon. It was here that the Highland clans assembled after the defeat at Culloden Field and resolved to disband, and the country was rid of the Stuarts forever. How far the world has travelled since those days! The best king or family of kings in the world is not worth one drop of an honest man's blood. If the House of Commons should decide to-day that the Prince of Wales is not a fit and proper figure-head and should vote that my Lord Tom Noddy is, there is not a sane man in the realm who would move a finger for the rightful heir; yet our forefathers thought it a religious duty to plunge their country into civil war to restore the Stuarts,

"A coward race to honor lost;

Who knew them best despised them most."

But I suppose they were about a fair average of royal races. "Life can be lived well even in a palace," sings Matthew Arnold, and the more credit to such as do live it well there, like Queen Victoria, but it is difficult work and needs a saint to begin with. It does one good to mark such progress. I will not believe that man goes round in a circle as the earth does; upon the king absurdity he has travelled a straight line. When we made kings by act of Parliament (as the Guelphs were made), another lesson was learned, that Parliament can unmake them too. That is one bloody circle we need never travel again. Not one drop of blood for all the royal families in Christendom. Carried, nem. con.

There was a discussion to-day upon the best mode of enjoying life. Sydney Smith's famous secret was mentioned. When asked why he was always so bright and cheerful, he replied: The secret is "I take short views of things." Somehow this is the Scriptural idea, "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." A good story was told of an old man who had endured many of the ills of life in his long journey. His friends upon one occasion, more trying than usual, condoled with him, saying that he really had more troubles than other men. "Yes, my friends, that is too true. I have been surrounded by troubles all my life long, but there is a curious thing about them—nine-tenths of them never happened."

That is a story with a moral for you. How many of our troubles ever happened! We dream of ten for every one that comes. One of the Charioteers was ready with a verse to enforce the moral:

"When fortune with a smiling face

Strews roses on our way,

When shall we stop to pick them up?

To-day, my love, to-day.

But should she frown with face of care,

And speak of coming sorrow,

When shall we grieve, if grieve we must?

To-morrow, love, to-morrow."

This was received with evident approval, and just as it ended the huge beds of honeysuckle lying on the hedge-rows we were passing, and the wild roses rising above them on long graceful sprays, nodding their heads as if desirous of doing us obeisance, caused one of the ladies to cry out, "Oh, here are the roses on our way just now! Do let us stop and pluck them to-day, as the poet advises." "Stop, Perry!" "Right, sir!" "Steps, Joey!" "Right, sir!"—and down we are in a moment gathering the spoils. "Do let the coach drive on and wait for us at the top of the next hill." "But wait, ladies, let us all put our flowers inside and arrange them when we stop for luncheon."

It is a superb morning, the hedge-rows prettier than ever; the larks are rising; now and then a hare darts across the road in advance. The whirr of the partridge or pheasant stirs the sportsman's blood, and upon every tree some feathered songster pours forth his song. Faust need not have sold himself to the devil for youth, after all. We find it here in this glorious gypsy life.

Upon remounting the coach after an hour's frolic in the lane, some one wanted the reciter to repeat the verse which had caused the stop, but he said there was a second verse which also had its moral, and, if permitted, he would give this instead. Agreed to, provided he would give the ladies a copy of both verses for their books—one copy for the lot, and this each would copy for herself. His terms, however, were that he should repeat it alone to Miss —— and teach it to her (sly dog), and she could make the copies. He then gave us the second verse:

"If those who've wronged us own their faults

And kindly pity pray,

When shall we listen and forgive?

To-day, my love, to-day.

But if stern justice urge rebuke

And warmth from memory borrow,

When shall we chide, if chide we must?

To-morrow, love, to-morrow."

This was voted a fit companion for the first verse, so the Charioteers to-day had two moral lessons.

The student said it was also good philosophy, and taught by no less an authority than Herbert Spencer himself, who had exposed the folly of postponing present enjoyments in the hope that they will be better if enjoyed at a later date. Here are the words of the sage:

"Hence has resulted the belief that, irrespective of their kinds, the pleasures of the present must be sacrificed to the pleasures of the future. So ignorant is this belief, that it is wrong to seek immediate enjoyments and right to seek remote ones only, that you may hear from a busy man who has been on a pleasure excursion a kind of apology for his conduct. He deprecates the unfavorable judgments of his friends by explaining that the state of his health had compelled him to take a holiday, nevertheless if you sound him with respect to his future, you will find out his ambition is by and by to retire and devote himself wholly to the relaxation which he is now somewhat ashamed of taking. The current conception further errs by implying that a gratification which forms a proper aim if it is remote, forms an improper aim if it is proximate."

And this from the "Data of Ethics." So that the poet and the philosopher are as one.

"Does Herbert Spencer write so clearly and simply as that upon such subjects?" asked one of the young ladies. "I thought he was so fearfully deep. His books sound so very learned and abstruse, I have only read his work on 'Education'; that was splendid, and I understood it all, every word. If that book you just quoted from had an easy name I'd go to work at it—but 'Data of Ethics' frightens me. I don't know exactly what Data means, and I'm mixed on Ethics."

The voice of the Coach was clear upon "Education," however, and I recall just now the remark of my little nephew to his mother, when Mr. Spencer did us the honor of visiting us: "Mamma, I want to see the man who wrote in a book that there is no use studying grammar." Amid the thousands of very grateful ones who feel what they owe to Herbert Spencer, may be safely classed that young scion of our family. His gratitude is profound, and with good reason.

Boat o' Garten was to be our refuge, a small, lovely inn on the moors, the landlady of which had telegraphed us in a rather equivocal way in response to our request for shelter. There was no other house for many miles, so we pushed on, trusting to our star. We were all right. The house was to be filled on the morrow with sportsmen, and we could be entertained "for this night only." Such is luck. Even as it was, the family rooms had to be given up to us; but then, dear souls, there is nothing they would not do for the Americans. As for the coach, there was no building on the moors high enough to take in the huge vehicle; but as showing the extreme care taken of property in this country, I note that heavy tarpaulins were obtained, and it was nicely covered for the night. What a monster it seemed standing out in the darkness!

After dinner we received packages of the Dunfermline papers containing the full account of the demonstration there and of the speeches. It goes without saying that there was great anxiety to read the account of that extraordinary ovation. Those who had made speeches and said they were not very sure what, were seen to retire to quiet corners and bury themselves in their copies. Ah, gentlemen, it is of no use! Read your orations twenty times over, you are just as far as ever from being able to gauge your wonderful performances; besides the speech made is nothing compared to any of half a dozen you have since made to yourself on the same subject. Ah! the Dunfermline people should have heard these. So sorry! One can tell all about the speeches of his colleagues, however, and we made each other happy by very liberal laudations, while we each felt once more the generous rounds of applause with which we had been greeted.

After mailing copies of the newspapers to numerous friends, there came a serious cloud over all. This was to be our last night on the moors; the end of our wayward life had come. One more merry start at the horn's call, and to-morrow's setting sun would see the end of our happy dream. Arcadia would be no more; the Charioteers' occupation would be gone. It was resolved that something should be done to celebrate the night to distinguish it from others. We would conform to the manners and customs of the country and drink to our noble selves in whiskey toddy with Highland honors. This proved a success. Songs were sung; Aaleek was in his most admirable fooling; "your health and song" went round, and we parted in tolerably good spirits.

There was an unusual tenderness in the grasp of the hand, and mayhap something of a tremor in the kind "Good-night, happy dreams," with which it was the custom of the members to separate for the night, and we went to bed wondering what we had done to deserve so much happiness.

Boat o' Garten, August 2.

Inverness at last! But most of us were up and away in advance of the coach, for who would miss the caller air and the joy of the moors these blessed mornings when it seems joy enough simply to breathe? But did not we catch it this morning! No use trying to march against this blow; the wind fairly beat us, and we were all glad to take refuge in the school-house till the coach came; and glad were we that we had done so. Was it not a sight to see the throng of sturdy boys and girls gathered together from who knows where! For miles and miles there are seen but a few low huts upon the moors; but as some one has said, "Education is a passion" in Scotland, and much of the admitted success of the race has its root in this truth. The poorest crofter in Scotland will see that his child gets to school.

Note this in the fine old song:

"When Aaleck, Jock, and Jeanettie

Are up and got their lair,

They'll serve to gar the boatie row

And lichten a' our care."

Heavy is the load of care that the Scotch father and mother take upon themselves and struggle with all the years of their prime that the bairns "may get their lair." To the credit of the bairns let it be said that the hope expressed in the verse just quoted is not often disappointed. They do grow up to be a comfort to their parents in old age when worn out with sacrifices made for them. Our great men come from the cradles of poverty. I think he was a very wise man who found out that the advantage of poverty was a great prize which a rich man could never give his son. But we should not condemn the Marquises of Huntley, the Dukes of Hamilton, and the rest of them; they never had a fair chance to become useful men. It is the system that is at fault, and for that we the people are responsible. The privileged classes might turn out quite respectably if they had justice done them and were permitted to start in life as other men are. For my part, I wonder that they generally turn out as well as they do. The kite mounts only against the wind.

Coaching brings us close to Nature's sweetest charms, and the good universal mother is always so gracious to her children; the cawing of the rook or the crowing of the cock awakens us; the green things and the pretty flowers about the inn, which greet the eyes as we pull up the blinds, and the sniff of fresh morning air which a short stroll before breakfast gives us, make a splendid start for the day, so different from the usual beginning of city life. The whole day is spent in the open air, walking or driving, or lolling upon sunny braes at luncheon, amid brooks and wild flowers, and the hum of bees, the songs of birds, and the grateful scent of new-mown hay. And when night comes we fall asleep, with the sense of dropping softly upon banks of flowers without a thorn. Tell me if such a life for a few weeks now and then is not the best cure for most of the serious ills of this high-pressure age! Every man who can afford it should give it a trial. If overworked, he should go to find the cure—if well, he should certainly go in order to keep so.

We all need to learn what the poet says:

"Better that man and nature were familiar friends;

That part of man is worst which touches this base life;

For though the ocean in its inmost depths be pure,

Yet the salt fringe which daily licks the shore

Is foul with sand."

I think the last line worthy of Shakespeare, even if it be the product of a poor young Glasgow poet. In this coaching life we touch the base every-day life of care and struggle at very few points indeed and hence our joy. We are deep in love with Nature, and true worshippers at her shrine have few sorrows.

While revelling in the exquisite beauty of England—such quiet and peaceful beauty as we had never seen before—the thought often came to me that I should be compelled to assume the apologetic strain for my beloved Scotland. It could not possibly have such attractions to show as the more genial South, but so far from this being so, as I have already said, there was scarcely a morning or afternoon during which the triumphant inquiry was not made, "What do you think of Scotland noo?" Of all that earned for Scotland the first place in our hearts I mention the pretty stone school-houses, with teacher's residence and garden attached, which were seen in almost every village; and if I had no other foundation than this upon which to predict the continued intellectual ascendency of Scotland and an uninterrupted growth of its people in every department of human achievement, I should unhesitatingly rest it upon these school-houses. A people which passes through the parish school in its youth cannot lose its grasp, or fall far behind in the race. Indeed, compared with the thorough education of the masses, the lives and quarrels of politicians seem petty in the extreme. It is with education as with righteousness, seek it first and all political blessings must be added unto you. It is the only sure foundation upon which to rear the superstructure of a great State, and how happy I am to boast that Scotland is not going to yield the palm in this most important of all work! No, not even to the Republic. From what I saw of the new schools, I'll back their scholars against any lot of American children to-day; but I admit one great lack: the former would strike you as somewhat too deferential, disposed to bow too much to their superiors in station, while American boys are said to be born repeating the Declaration of Independence. No more valuable lesson can be taught a lad than this: that he is born the equal of the prince, and what privileges the prince has are unjustly denied him. It would do Scotch boys good to hear my young American nephews upon the doctrine that one man "is as good as another and a good deal better." Of the sights which cause me to lose temper, one is to see a splendid young Briton, a real manly fellow, standing mum like a duffer when he is asked why the son of a Guelph or of any other family should have a privilege denied to him. Are you less a man? Have not you had as honest parents and a better grandfather? Why do you stand this injustice? And then he has nothing to say. Well, I have sometimes thought I have noticed the cheek a little redder. That is always a consolation. Thank God! we have nothing like this in America. Our young men carry in their knapsacks a President's seal, and no one is born to any rank or position above them. Under the starry flag there are equal rights for all. It will be so in Scotland perhaps ere I die (D. V.). If I had the schooling of young Scotland I would make every class repeat in the morning before lessons:

"If thou hast said I am not peer

To any lord in Scotland here,

Highland or lowland, far or near,

Lord Angus, thou hast lied."

I would teach them the new meaning of that stirring verse, and tell them that the lad who did not believe himself the peer of any man born and entitled to every privilege "might do for an Austrian, a Russian, a Prussian, or an Italian," but never would be much of a Scotchman—never.

I do not think I have spoken of the announcements of amusements seen everywhere during the trip throughout the rural districts: band competitions, cricket matches, flower shows, wrestling matches, concerts, theatricals, holiday excursions, races, games, rowing matches, football contests, and sports of all kinds. We are surprised at their number, which gives incontestable evidence of the fact that the British people work far less and play far more than their American cousins do. No toilers, rich or poor, like the Americans! The band competitions are unknown here, but no doubt we shall soon follow so good an example and try them. The bands of a district meet and compete for prizes, which stirs up wholesome rivalry and leads to excellence. We saw eight gathered for competition in one little town which we passed, and the interest excited by the meet was so great as to put the town en fÊte. I do not know any feature of British life which would strike an American more forcibly than these contests. We should try one here, and, by and by, why not an international contest—the Dunfermline band playing the "Star-Spangled Banner," and the Pittsburgh performers "Rule Britannia." Yes, that's right; I insist upon "Rule Britannia"—that is the nation's song; I am growing tired of "God Save the Queen"—even such a model as the present one—for the strain is only personal, after all. I wish Her Majesty well, but I love my country more. "Rule Britannia" is the national song.

I hope Americans will find some day more time for play, like their wiser brethren upon the other side.

We came to the crossing of the Spey to-day to find that the long high bridge was undergoing extensive repairs and closed to travel. In America it would never have occurred to us that a bridge could be closed while being rebuilt, but in the science of bridge-building British engineers are a generation behind us, because they have not had to build so many. However, there was nothing for it but to follow down the stream until another bridge was found. When we did find it, we saw a notice prohibiting loads beyond two tons from crossing. It was a light iron structure (perhaps a Tay blunder upon a small scale). The wind was whistling like a fiend about our ears as it came roaring down the glen; all pleasant while we were in the woods skirting the river with our backs to it, but when we turned to cross it seemed as if we should be blown bodily from the top of the coach. Everything was taken off the top, and we all dismounted. Perry and Joe drove over, while we all walked, some of us on the lee side of the coach for shelter, and in a few minutes we were so sheltered in the glen again as scarcely to know there was a breath of air stirring; but these "Highland homes where tempests blow" know what gales are. We have had great blows now and then at some high points crossing the moors, for the hills you rarely cross; these you have to avoid, but to-day was the only time we were compelled to dismount.

We had not far to drive before we reached the pretty little burn which falls into the Findhorn, the spot selected for the last luncheon.

This spot seemed made to order; the burn, the fire, the mossy grass, the wild river, the moor and glen, all here. Down sat the Charioteers for the last happy luncheon together. We were all so dangerously near the brink of sad regret that a bold effort was necessary to steer clear of thoughts which pressed upon us. We had to laugh for fear we might cry, the smile ever lies so near the tear. It had to be a lively luncheon, that was all there was about it; and when duty calls it doesn't take much to start our boys to frolic. A few empty bags which we had used for horse-feed in emergencies suggested a sack-race. Such roars of laughter when one or the other of the too ambitious contestants went to grass! This was a capital diversion. Any one looking down upon us (but in these lonely glens no eye is there to see) would never have imagined that this sport was started only as a means to prevent the travellers becoming mournful enough for a funeral. A little management is a great thing; it pulled us through the last luncheon with only tears of laughter.

"In, Joe! Right, Perry! Sound the horn! All aboard for Inverness!" There was something in the thought, "We have done it," which kept us from regret, although the rebuke came sharply from the ladies, as one pointed out another milestone, "Oh, don't, please!" With every white stone passed there was a mile less of Arcadia to enjoy. Over moor and dale lies the way, a beautiful drive, gradually descending for many miles, from about twelve hundred and fifty feet above the sea level at Dalwhinnie to a few hundred only near Inverness.

At last the call is made, "Stop, Perry! Capital of the Highlands, all hail! Three rousing cheers for bonnie Inverness!" There she lies so prettily upon the Moray Frith, surrounded by fields of emerald green, an unusually grand situation and a remarkably beautiful town. We stopped long upon the hill-top to enjoy the picture spread out below. The Charioteers will forget much ere their entrance into Inverness fades from the memory. A telegram from friend G., conveyed to us the congratulations of our Wolverhampton connection upon the triumphant success of our expedition, to which something like this was sent: "Thanks! We arrived at the end of this earthly paradise at six o'clock this evening. When shall we look upon its like again?"

Inverness, August 3.

It was Saturday, 6 p.m., August 3d, exactly seven weeks and a day after leaving Brighton, when we entered Inverness and sat down in our parlor at the Caledonian Hotel. Up went the flags as usual; dinner was ordered; then came mutual congratulations upon the success of the journey just finished. Not one of the thirty-two persons who had at various times travelled with us ever missed a meal, or had been indisposed from fatigue or exposure. Even Ben had been improved by the journey. Nor had the coach ever to wait five minutes for any one; we had breakfasted, lunched, and dined together, and not one had ever inconvenienced the company by failing to be in time.

How shall I render the unanimous verdict of the company upon the life we had led?

"I never was so happy in my life. No, Aaleck, not even upon my wedding journey." That is the verdict of one devoted young wife, given in presence of her husband.

"I haven't been so happy since my father took me fishing, and I wasn't as happy then," was Aaleck's statement.

"Oh, Andrew, I have been a young girl again!" We all know who said that, Miss Velvety.

"I can't help it, but I don't want to speak of it just now. It's too sad." Prima Donna, this was a slightly perilous line to follow, for the heart was evidently near the mouth there.

"To think of it, Naig, I have to go home to-morrow." That was Eliza.

"Jerusalem the golden! it would make a wooden Indian jump, this life would." No need of putting a name to that, Bennie, my lad.

"Andrew, I've just been in a dream of happiness all the time." That was oor Davie.

"I never expect to be as happy for seven weeks again," met with a chorus of supporters.

The Queen Dowager, however, put us all in a more gleeful mood by her verdict: "Well, I expect to have another coaching trip yet. You'll see! He can't help doing more of this, and I'll be there. He can't keep me at home!" And her hearty laugh and a clap of her hands above her head brought us all merrily to dinner. She is very often a true prophet. We shall see, we shall see!

After dinner we strolled about the city and admired its many beauties, especially the pretty Ness, which flows through the town to the sea. Its banks and islands constitute one of the finest of pleasure-grounds for the people, and many a lover's tale, I trow, has been told in the shady walks beside it. I felt quite sentimental myself, sauntering along between the gloaming and the mirk with one of the young ladies. The long, long gloaming of the north adds immensely to the charms of such a journey as this we have just taken. These are the sweetly precious hours of the day.

At Inverness we are again on classic ground; for Macbeth had a castle there, which good King Duncan visited, and of which he said:

"This castle hath a pleasant seat: the air

Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself

Unto our gentle senses."

It was razed by Malcolm III. or Canmore, Duncan's son, who built a new castle not far from its site. This latter fortress existed until about the middle of the last century, when it was blown up by the troops of Charles Edward Stuart. Portions of its walls may still be seen. Culloden field, too, is hard by, and all the country round is rich in ruined keeps and towers.

On reassembling in our parlor an ominous lack of hilarity prevailed. We did manage, however, to get the choir up to the point of giving this appropriate song with a slight variation:

"Happy we've been a' thegither,

Happy we've been in ane and a',

Blyther folk ne'er coached thegither,

Sad are we to gang awa'."

(Chorus).

It wasn't much of a success. We were not in tune, nor in time either. Joe and Perry were to come at ten to say good-by. Here the serious business of life pressed upon us, escape being impossible. We had to meet it at last. They came and received the thanks and adieux of all. I handed them notes certifying to all coming coaching parties that fortunate indeed would be their lot were Perry and Joe to take them in charge. Joey responded in a speech which so riveted our attention during delivery that not one of us could recall a sentence when he ceased. This is one of the sincere regrets of the travellers, for assuredly a copy of that great effort would have given the record inestimable value. It was a gem. I have tried to catch it, but only one sentence comes to me: "And has for the 'osses, sir, they are better than when we started, sir; then they 'ad flabby flesh, sir; now they're neat an' 'ardy." So are we all of us, Joey, just like the 'osses; "neat an' 'ardy," fit for walk, run, or climb, and bang-up to everything.

We had all next day to enjoy Inverness. What a fine climate it has as compared with the Highlands south of it! Vegetation is luxuriant here and the land fertile. One would naturally expect all to be bleak and bare so far north, but that Gulf Stream which America sends over to save the precious tight little isle from being a region of ice makes it delightful in summer and not extremely cold even in winter. We are assured that the climate of Inverness is more genial than that of Edinburgh, which is not saying very much for the capital of the North surely, but still it is something.

Caledonian Hotel,
Inverness, August 5, evening.

General Manager, at dinner.

To waiter: "What time do we start in the morning?"

Waiter: "The omnibus starts at seven, sir."

Shakespearean Student—"Ah! There was the weight which pulled us down. The omnibus! Farewell the neighing steeds, the spirit-stirring horn, whose sweet throat awakened the echoes o'er mountain and glen. Farewell, the Republican banner, and all the pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious coaching, farewell! The Charioteers' occupation's gone."

First Miltonic Reciter—

"From morn till noon,

From noon till dewy eve,

A summer's day we fell."

Our fall from our own four-in-hand to a public omnibus—oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen!—involved the loss of many a long summer's day to us, for long as they had been the sun ever set too soon.

It was all up after this. Perry and Joe, the coach and the horses, were speeding away by rail to their homes; we were no longer the coaching party, but only ordinary tourists buying our tickets like other people instead of travelling as it were in style upon annual passes. But fate was merciful to us even in this extremity; we were kept from the very lowest stage of human misery by finding ourselves alone and all together in the omnibus; our party just filled it. If it was only a hotel omnibus, as one of the young ladies said, it was all our own yet, as was the MacLean boat at the flood, and the ladies, dear souls, managed to draw some consolation from that.

We returned from Inverness by the usual tourist route: canal and boat to Oban, where we rested over night, thence next day to Glasgow. Under any other circumstances I think this part of the journey would have been delightful. The scene indelibly impressed upon our minds is that we saw at night near Ballachulish. I remember a party of us agreed that what we then saw could never be forgotten. But Black alone could paint it. It is saying much for any combination of the elements when not one nor two, but more of a party like ours stand and whisper at rare intervals of the sublime and awful grandeur which fascinates them into silence; never am I lifted up apparently so close to the Infinite as when amid such weird, uncanny scenes as these. We had an hour of this that night, fitting close to our life in the Highlands of Scotland.

The first separation came at Greenock. The Queen Dowager, and Mr. and Mrs. K. disembarked there for Paisley. The others continued by boat to Glasgow and enjoyed the sail up the Clyde very much. It was Saturday, a holiday for the workers. The miles of shipyards were still, "no sound of hammers clanking rivets up," that fine sunny day, but as we passed close to them we saw the iron frames of the future monsters of the deep, the Servia, Alaska, and others destined to bear the palm for a short time, and then to give place to others still greater, till the voyage between England and America will be only a five-day pleasure excursion, and there will be "two nations, but one people." God speed the day! But the old land must come after a time up to Republicanism! I make a personal matter of that, Lafayette, my boy, as Mulberry Sellers says. No monarchy need apply. We draw the line at this. All men were created free and equal. Brother Jonathan takes very little "stock" in a people who do not believe that fundamental principle.

We landed at the Broomielaw, whither father and mother and Tom and I sailed thirty odd years ago, on the 800-ton ship Wiscasset, and began our seven weeks' voyage to the land of promise, poor emigrants in quest of fortune; but, mark you, not without thoughts in the radical breasts of our parents that it was advisable to leave a land which tolerated class distinctions for the government of the people, by the people and for the people, which welcomed them to its fold and insured for their sons, as far as laws can give it, equality with the highest and a fair and free field for the exercise of their powers.

My father saw through not only the sham but the injustice of rank, from king to knight, and loved America because she knows no difference in her sons. He was a Republican, aye, every inch, and his sons glory in that and follow where he led.

I remember well that our friends stood on the quay and waved farewell. Had their adieu been translated it would have read:

"Now may the fair goddess Fortune

Fall deep in love with thee,

Prosperity be thy page."

Thanks to the generous Republic which stood with open arms to receive us, as she stands to-day to welcome the poor of the world to share with her own sons upon equal terms the glorious heritage with which she is endowed—thanks to it, prosperity has indeed been our page.

At St. Enoch's Station Hotel, Glasgow, another separation of the party took place. A delegation of five of our members were sent to investigate the Irish question and report at Queenstown. Miss E. L. returned to Dunfermline. Miss F. and Mr. and Mrs. K. were visiting the Queen Dowager at Paisley. Harry and I ran down to see friend Richards at his basic process at Eston, stopping over night at York and Durham, however, to enjoy once more the famous cathedrals and hear the exquisite music.

Liverpool, August 13.

We sailed to-day in the Algeria, the great Servia having been delayed. Many were there to see us off, including four or five Charioteers. The English are, as Davie said, "a kindly people," a warm-hearted, affectionate race, and as true as steel. When you once have them you have them forever. There was far more than the usual amount of tears and kisses among the ladies. One would have thought our American and English women were not cousins, but sisters. The men were, as befitting their colder natures, much less demonstrative. There seems never to be a final good-by on shipboard; at every ringing of the bell another tender embrace and another solemn promise to write soon are given. But at last all our friends are upon the tug, the huge vessel moves, one rope after another is cast off, handkerchiefs wave, kisses are thrown, write soons exchanged, and the tug is off in one direction and we in another. Some one broke the momentary silence and brought the last round of cheers with the talismanic call "Skid, Joe! Right, Perry!" That touched all hearts with remembrance of the happy, happy days, the happiest of our lives. So parted the two branches of the Gay Charioteers.

At Queenstown we received the Irish contingent, who had enjoyed their week in the Emerald Isle. Very nice indeed was the report, but with this quite unnecessary addenda, "But, of course, nothing to coaching." That goes without saying in our ranks.

The Algeria was a great ship in her day; now she is sold to a freight line. But when she does not give a good account of herself in a hurricane do not pin your faith in any iron ship. You may still, however, believe that one of steel like the Servia will stand anything. She has at least double the strength of any iron steamer afloat. When she does not outride the tempest, you may give up in earnest and decide, like Mrs. Partington at sea, "never to trust yourself so far out of the reach of Providence again."

On Wednesday morning, August 24th, the party reached New York again, and were finally disbanded. Two or three of the most miserable hours I ever spent were those at the St. Nicholas Hotel, where the Queen Dowager, Ben, and I lunched alone before starting for Cresson. Even Ben had to take an earlier train for Pittsburgh, and I exclaimed: "All our family gone! I feel so lonely, so deserted; not one remains." But the Queen was equal to the emergency. "Oh, you don't count me, then! You have still one that sticks to you." Oh, yes, indeed, sure of that, old lady.

"The good book tells of one

Who sticks closer than a brother;

But who will dare to say there's one

Sticks closer than a mother!"

(Original poetry for the occasion.)

These horrid partings again; but whatever the future has in store for those who made the excursion recorded here, I think I can safely say that they could not wish their dearest friend a happier life than that led from June 1st to August 24th by the Gay Charioteers.

Those who have mounted the coach become, as it were, by virtue of that act members of an inner circle; a band of union knits them closely together. To a hundred dear, kind friends in the Beautiful Land we send thanks and greeting. Their kindness to us can never be forgotten, for they soon taught us to feel that it was not a foreign land which we had visited after all, but the dear old home of our fathers.

Forever and ever may the parent land and the child land grow fonder and fonder of each other, and their people mingle more and more till they become as one and the same. All good educated Americans love England, for they know that she alone among the nations of the world

"On with toil of heart and knees and hand

Through the long gorge to the far light hath won

Her path upward and prevailed."

She it was who pointed out to America what to plant, and how, and where. The people of England should love America, for she has taught them in return that all the equal rights and privileges of man they are laboring for at home are bearing goodly fruit in the freer atmosphere of the West. May the two peoples, therefore, grow in love for each other, and with this fond wish, and many a sad farewell, the Gay Charioteers disband, forever afterward in life to rally round each other in case of need at the mystic call of "Skid, Joe," "Right, Perry;" and certain of this, that whatever else fades from the memory, the recollection of our coaching trip from Brighton to Inverness remains a sacred possession forever.

THE RECORD.

BRIGHTON TO INVERNESS, JUNE 17 TO AUGUST 3, 1881.
			MILES.
June	17	Brighton (The Grand Hotel)
"	"	Guildford (The White Lion)	42
"	18 and 19	Windsor (The Castle)	32
"	20	Reading (The Queen's)	27
"	21	Oxford (The Clarendon)	34
"	22	Banbury (The White Lion)	23
"	23	Stratford-on-Avon (The Red Horse)	18
"	24	Coventry (The Queen's)	22
"	25 to 30	Wolverhampton (English Homes, best of all)	33
July	1	Lichfield (The Swan)	20
"	2 and 3	Dovedale (The Izaak Walton)	26
"	4	Chatsworth (The Edensor)	24
"	5	Buxton (The Palace)	26
"	6	Manchester (The Queen's)	23
"	7	Chorley (Anderton Hall)	14
"	8	Preston (The Victoria)	16
"	9 and 10	Lancaster (The County)	29
"	11	Kendal (King's Arms)	22
"	12	Grassmere (Prince of Wales)	18
"	13	Keswick (The Keswick)	12
"	14	Penrith (The Crown)	16
"	15	Carlisle (The County and Station)	16
"	16 and 17	Dumfries (The Commercial)	32
"	18	Sanquhar (The Queensberry)	28
"	19	Old Cumnock (Dumfries Arms)	29
"	20	Douglas (Douglas Arms)	28
"	21 to 26	Edinburgh (The Royal)	44
"	27 and 28	Dunfermline (The City Arms)	16
"	29	Perth (The Royal George)	32
"	30 and 31	Pitlochrie (Fisher's Hotel)	33
August	1	Dalwhinnie (The Loch Ericht)	32
"	2	Boat o' Garten (The Boat o' Garten)	35
"	3	Inverness (The Caledonian)	29
		Total Miles,	831

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