JOTTINGS OF A TRIP IN SCOTLAND.

Leaving Liverpool with its din and smoke behind, we begin our journey by rail, through the northwestern part of England toward the Scottish border. It is near the end of July, and the weather, for England, is hot. But coming as we do direct from the stifling heat of Paris, we find it cool by comparison. We are travelling by fast express, and can catch but passing glimpses of the towns and hamlets, the broad farms and comfortable homesteads, of Old England. Now we are dashing through one of the many manufacturing towns with which the land is studded. There are long rows of red brick houses, with here and there a huge chimney belching forth black smoke. The next moment we are once more in the open country. On either hand as far as the eye can reach, are great stretches of farmland and green pastures where cattle are grazing. The grain is ripening in the fields, and ever and anon there comes, through the open window of the car, the sweet savour of new-mown hay. As we go further north the country grows more rugged. Dark ravines open at our feet, and shaggy hills frown down upon us. By three o'clock we have passed Carlisle, once the great stronghold of England against the fierce incursions of its warlike neighbour to the north. Soon after we cross the border and find ourselves on Scottish soil. It is the land of our fathers—

a land of stirring memories and teeming with romance. It is not without emotion, therefore, that we enter it for the first time. Nor does the dense Scotch mist into which we run before reaching Edinburgh damp our enthusiasm in the least—though we should not be able to say as much for our persons were we exposed to it but for a moment.

We spend the Sunday in Edinburgh. That droll Frenchman who writes under the pen-name of Max O'Rell, defines a Scotchman as one who keeps the Sabbath and everything else he can lay his hands on! Well, at any rate he keeps the Sabbath, and that is more than many a Frenchman does. For the people of Edinburgh the Sunday is still emphatically a day of rest. To a Protestant gentleman from Toronto who had just come from Paris himself and put up at the same hotel with us, we remark upon the contrast between the Parisian Sunday and the solemn quiet of the Scotch Sabbath. "Quite so," he says, "but you should have been here yesterday while the Labor Parade was passing through the streets. You would have seen one after another of the men dropping out of the procession in a state of beastly intoxication. In all the time that I was in Paris I saw no single instance of such drunkenness." He had come away from Paris greatly edified, and was leaving Edinburgh utterly disgusted and horrified at what he had seen. Sobriety was more to him than Sunday observance. And yet human frailty may account for drunkenness, and palliate it at least in part. But the violation of the Sunday has its root cause, it is to be feared, in a spirit of contempt for the ordinances of the Christian Religion.

Edinburgh is not only the capital of Scotland, but the queen of Scottish cities. There are few finer cities, indeed, in all the world. Its broad and well paved streets are kept scrupulously clean. The buildings, almost all of them of granite, are tall and stately. And the site with its picturesque setting of hills is superb. On one of these hills, west from Prince street and Scott's Monument, stands the historic Castle like a grim sentinel guarding the approaches of the City. Climbing the hill and entering by the draw-bridge, we see, among other interesting relics of the past, the Chapel of the saintly Queen Margaret, and stand in the room where the ill-fated Mary Stuart took refuge after the murder of Rizzio, and where was born James the Sixth of Scotland and the First of England. In another room hard by we gaze upon the ancient Regalia of Scotland, "worthy of a nation's pride and jealous preservation."

The run from Edinburgh to Glasgow by rail is made in a little more than one hour. Our route lies through Lanarkshire, famed for its coal mines and iron foundries. Glasgow, with a population of over one million, is the second city of the Empire. Unlike Edinburgh, it has no pretentions to beauty. Still, it has some fine streets and very beautiful parks. It contains, too, not a few notable buildings, and there are in and around it many places of great historic interest. Its water supply, brought from Loch Katrine, thirty miles distant, is not surpassed perhaps by that of any other city in the world.

Early in the morning we leave Glasgow for Oban by boat. Steaming down the Clyde, we get a good view of the docks and of the ships both great and small that are a-building on either bank. A few miles down the river is Douglas Castle, and a little beyond, on the summit of a rock 260 feet in height, rises Dumbarton Castle, famed in Scottish story. We touch at Greenock and Dunoon, and thence make for Rothesay, the capital of Bute. On our left, as we near the Bute shore, we see Mount Stuart House, the seat of the Marquis.

Leaving Rothesay, the steamer runs up the Kyles or narrows (from the Gaelic caolas, a strait) of Bute, round the northern end of the island, and down the other side towards Ardlamont Point on the mainland. The scenery on this strait is very fine, wooded mountain, loch, and glen blending their varied beauties into one picturesque whole. Rounding Ardlamont Point, we steer straight for the harbour of Tarbert, on the coast of Kintyre. Away to the south, and but dimly visible in the haze, is the island of Arran. From Tarbert we proceed up Loch Fyne to Ardrishaig, 180 miles from Glasgow, at the head of the Crinan Canal. This canal, which connects Loch Fyne with Loch Crinan, and is nine miles in length, runs, for a great part of the way, along the base of forest-clad hills.

By this time, unluckily for us, it has begun to rain heavily, which mars our enjoyment of the rest of the trip to Oban. As the boat stops for the opening of the locks of the canal, we hear people on shore talking in Gaelic and realize that we have left the Lowlands behind. In spite of the rain two little barefooted girls and a little boy who has shoes on (shame on him!) follows us from lock to lock, selling milk by the glassful to the passengers. The children are quite brave at first, and stare at us, as much as to say, "What do we care what these English strangers say or think of us." But the moment I speak to them in Gaelic, they grow shy of me, and the poor little girls look as if they were ashamed to be seen in their bare feet.

Leaving Crinan, the western terminus of the canal, we have on our right the mainland of Argyle; on our left are the islands of Jura and Scarba. Between the two is the famous whirlpool of Corryvrechan, the roar of which may be heard at a distance of many miles. Away in the west, beyond Ross of Mull, lies far-famed Iona, with Ulva dark and Colonsay

Presently we descry Dunollie Castle, once the chief stronghold of the Lords of Lorn, and soon after land in Oban.

Oban has been called the Charing Cross of the Highlands. And such it is in the sense of being the great distributing centre for tourists and travellers by rail or boat. But in every other sense how unlike is this quiet little town, with its cosy harbour and crescent beach, where the wavelets play at hide-and-seek with the pebbles, to the bustling railway station in the heart of the biggest and busiest of all earth's cities! During the summer months this cosy harbour is crowded with pleasure yachts from all parts of the world, and the hotels that line the pebbly beach are thronged with tourists from every land.

So wrote the late Professor Blackie, himself a frequent visitor in his day to this charming resort on the shore of the western sea.

At Oban in the early morning we take the 'Gael' steamship for far Gairloch in Rosshire. Dunollis Castle is on our right as we steam out of Oban Bay and make for Lismore Light, on the extreme southern end of the island of that name. Thence our way lies through the Sound of Mull to Ardnamurchan Point. The scenery along this Sound, where you have the mountains of Mull on the one hand, and on the other those of misty Morven, is surpassingly grand. Here on the Morven shore, in Ardtornish Castle, ancient seat of the Lords of the Isles, is laid the opening scene of Scott's well-known poem, which begins with the lines:

Near the other end of the sound is Tobermory (Mary's Well), the chief seaport of Mull, a very pretty town, in whose land-locked harbour ships of any tonnage find securest anchorage. This port has for us a very special interest, as we have reason to believe that from hence our grand-parents sailed in the dawn of the century to make for themselves a home, beyond the stormy Atlantic, in what was then the wild woods of Nova Scotia.

All day long, from early morn till set of sun, we follow our sinuous course through the sounds and lochs and bays of this western sea, calling here or there to land or take on passengers. After leaving Torbermory while rounding Ardnamurchan Point, and until we gain the shelter of towering Scaur-Eigg, a perpendicular cliff some five hundred feet high at the southwestern extremity of the island of that name, we are in the open Atlantic, with no land to the west of us nearer than America. North of Ardnamurchan lies Moidart, where Prince Charlie landed on the 25th of July, 1745, and whence after many wanderings and hair-breadth escapes he sailed, on the 20th September of the following year, a hopeless and broken man.

From Eigg we cross over to Arisaig. Judging by what one can see of it from the deck of a steamer, it is far from being as fertile as the district that has been named after it in Nova Scotia. But perhaps there is no other spot on the western coast of Scotland where the view landward and seaward is so varied and so magnificent.

After landing passengers at Arisaig, we steam along the coast of Morar on the mainland, having on our left the islands of Eigg, Rum, and Canna, and in front of us the southern extremity of Skye. Soon we enter the Sound of Sleat, and passing through the Kyle of Lochalsh, hug the eastern or inner shore of Skye till we reach Portree. It is a perfect day. The sun shines brightly, and the face of the laughing waters is gently fanned by the summer winds. And the scenery is as grand as it is diversified. Leaving Portree (King's Port), so-called from having been visited by James V. of Scotland while cruising round these isles, we enter once more the Sound of Raasay. On the Skye shore, near the little island of Holm, is to be seen the entrance to a cave famed as one of the hiding places of the unfortunate Prince Charlie. Presently we pass out of the Sound of Raasay and enter the Minch. On the left, beyond the northern promontory of Skye, some of the Hebridean Islands are visible in the dim distance. Behind us the mountains of Skye rise in gloomy grandeur. As one gazes upon them, there comes to one's mind these words of MacCrimmon's Lament, done into English by Sir Walter Scott:

Gairloch has a fine hotel—with prices to match. It is a charming place, this quiet hamlet by the sea, but lonely withal. For here, away up north, one has that sense of isolation, of being cut off from the great world, which is itself twin-sister to the feeling of loneliness.

We leave Gairloch early in the morning for Inverness, travelling by coach for 30 miles to Achnasheen (Field of the Fairies) and thence by rail. In the first five miles the road runs, part of the time, through a fine forest of larches, which seem to be related to our juniper tree, but are very tall and stately. On emerging from the wood and beginning the descent of a steep hill, we come of a sudden upon a loch which seems to surpass all the Scottish lochs in the wild and rugged grandeur of the scenery along its shores. It was some such sight as here greets our eyes that inspired Sir Walter's muse to sing,—

For where more fittingly than here by Loch Maree, on some lonely mountain peak, could the Queen of Wilderness set up her throne? Here, in sooth, are pathless glen and mountain high and torrents flung from cliffs. And the very spirit of Desolation seems to brood over the place. You may travel miles on this loch without seeing a single human habitation. Steep mountains, bare of trees and even of vegetation, shut it in on all sides. The loftiest peak in Ruadh Stac Mor, which rises to a height of 3,309 feet; but there are several other peaks almost as high. Half way up the loch is a summer hotel for tourists, where Queen Victoria stayed a week something more than a score of years ago. Over against this hotel, near the other side of the loch, is a wooded islet, called Isle Maree, on which may be seen the ruins of a monastery, "in days of yore," says our guide book, "an oasis of learning in the desert of heathenism." Tradition has it that the waters of a well on this little island (mayhap another Tobair Moire or Mary's Well!) cured insanity—a tradition which the gentle Quaker poet Whittier has embalmed in these lines:

I suspect that Loch Maree is an English corruption of the Gaelic Loch Mairi (Loch Mary or Mary's Loch). The monks were ever and everywhere devout clients of the Blessed Mary. It is not at all unlikely, therefore, that the community of monks who anciently made their home in this romantic spot named both the loch and the little isle on which they built their monastery after their Heavenly Patroness.

On leaving Loch Maree the road follows the bed of a brook for some distance up a dark glen. On either hand are "rising mountains red with heather bells," on the slopes of which the hardy Highland sheep are grazing. Once the summit of the ridge is gained, it is down hill to Achnasheen, where we take the train for Inverness. Our way for several miles lies through a wilderness, but all at once we come upon a lovely strath, in as high a state of cultivation as any district we have seen in the Lowlands or even in England. It looks all the more beautiful by contrast with the barren and desolate region through which we have just passed. The name of it I cannot for the moment recall. But the valley itself as I saw it, with the bloom of summer upon it, and the light of the westering sun, is vividly present to my imagination.

Inverness, at the mouth of the River Ness, is, after Edinburgh, the handsomest city in Scotland. Prof. Blackie sings its praises in the following sonnet:

Scotland, as a glance at a map of the globe will show, is several degrees farther north than Nova Scotia. Up here at Inverness, during the first week of August, the twilight lasts till after 10 p.m. Towards the end of June, when the day is at its longest, the sun does no more than dip for a few hours below the horison, and at no time of the night does its light fade away altogether from the northern sky.

Four miles from Inverness is Culloden Moor. But we visit not that "field of the dead" so fraught with saddening memories to every Highlander.

Leaving the capital of the Highlands, we go by boat to Fort William through the Caledonian Canal. This passage is sixty-two miles long. There are twenty-four miles of canal, and thirty-eight of natural lake, namely, Loch Ness (24 miles), Loch Oich (4 miles), and Loch Lochy (10 miles). On these lochs and along the stretches of land between them the scenery is of surpassing beauty. On either side is a range of purple hills rising in places to a great height. Now they close in about us as if to dispute our passage. The next moment they fall back and form into line in the rear, keeping ward over the great highway of waters that cleaves the land of the Scottish Gael in twain and weds two seas together. And now Ben Nevis (4,406 ft.) looms afar off on the left, lording it over all the hills. At his feet and under his very shadow stands Fort William, known to the old folk as An Gearristan. Along the plain below rolls the Lochy River till it empties its waters into Loch Linnhe. Those glens that lie at the foot of the mountain range northeastward from Ben Nevis are Ruaidh and Spean, along the rivers of the same name. And this is Lochaber, "synonym for an exile's wail." Children we of those sad-eyed exiles, is it any wonder that our hearts beat more quickly as we gaze on the heather-clad hills now rising before us? Even we, of the third generation, still feel within us something of their heart-hunger for the old home they loved so well—the heart-hunger which found a voice and still finds an echo in that saddest of sad refrains,

The Highlands, and the islands on the west of Scotland, are to-day but sparsely populated. A hundred years ago these lovely straths and glens were filled with people. Even the braes and moorlands, now so bare and barren, yielded a frugal livelihood to a hardy race of men whose wants were few and tastes most simple. To-day whole districts are given over to sheep and deer.

So wrote the Hon. John Bright, in blunt but honest English fashion. More pathetic is the tale of desolation as told in Gaelic verse—in lines of exquisite tenderness and beauty—by one who is a native of those glens and "to the manner born"—one who has in our own day successfully wooed the Highland Muse "'mang the bonnie Highland heather"—Macleod, the spirited bard of Skye. I quote two or three stanzas from his poem, Anns a Ghleann 'san Robh Mi Og:

The song has been done into English, or rather into mixed English and broad Scotch, but it has lost somewhat in the rendering. The foregoing stanzas run thus in the translation:

Wherever you travel in the Western Highlands you hear Gaelic spoken. And ever as it strikes upon your ears, there arises within you—at least if you happen to be a Highlander yourself—the question, Will the old tongue live on here amid the bens and glens that have echoed with it since immemorial time? Or is it doomed to die out in this its ancient home? It is hard to say. For my own part, I believe Gaelic will be spoken in the Highlands so long as there are Highlanders there. But I don't know how long that will be. Certainly they are far fewer to-day than they were at the beginning of the last century. And the country is becoming more and more a mere summer resort for tourists and sportsmen. As matters stand at present there is no future for the Highland youth in their Highland home. On growing up to manhood and womanhood, they drift into the cities of the Lowlands, or cross the ocean. And ever as they go, their sad hearts echo the wailing notes of MacCrimmon's Lament, or Lochaber No More. I wish I could share the confidence in the ultimate repeopling of the Highlands that is expressed—perhaps rather than felt—by the Skye bard already quoted, in the following lines:

With the Gaelic language there also survives in the Highlands the hospitable spirit for which Highlanders, and all Celts indeed, are noted wherever they are found. But while the people there give of their Highland cheer to all who visit them, they have a particularly warm place in their hearts for "muinntir America," their kinsmen from across the seas.

Leaving Fort William, we go by boat on Loch Linnhe to Oban. The boat calls at several places, among them Ballachulish, at the entrance to Loch Leven, whence we get a glimpse in the distance of Glencoe. Even on this bright summers day the narrow pass, hemmed in by frowning mountains, looks gloomy and dark—fitting theatre for the black and fearful tragedy that was enacted there.

From Oban we return to Glasgow through the Trossachs, part of the way by rail, part of the way by boat on Loch Lomond and Loch Katrine, and part of the way by coach between the lochs. The whole country through which we pass is classic ground, familiar to every lover of Scott. To describe the scenery of the Trossachs, therefore, after the exquisite word-painting of it in prose and verse that we have from the pen of Sir Walter, were as "wasteful and ridiculous excess" as

As I write these last words the solemn bells are tolling the death-knell of our beloved Queen. The whole Empire mourns, and the grief is heartfelt, for all own and feel to-day the truth of the lines written by the worthiest poet laureate of the long and glorious reign that is now ended,