Well, as I started out to say, I became so nauseated with these inherited, worn-out, loose-fitting titles of nobility that I determined to leave the rendezvous of “honor,” and get out into the country among the common people. Accordingly I left Edinburgh, a week ago to-day, for an extended tramp-trip through the Highlands. I came first by rail, via Glasgow, to Dunbarton, a ship-building town of 13,000 inhabitants, on the river Clyde. Thence, a pleasant walk of three miles brought me to Dunbarton Castle, which I saw from the steamer as we were coming from America, and which was barely mentioned in a previous chapter. “This Castle,” says the Scottish historian, “is one of the strongest in Europe, if not in the world.” It is, as before stated, a great moss-covered rock, standing in the river, measuring a mile in circumference, and rising nearly three hundred feet high. In the first century of the Christian era, the Romans gained possession of, and fortified themselves in, this Castle. By the treachery of John Monmouth, Sir William Wallace, while on this rock, was betrayed, in 1305, into the hands of the British, who took him to London and struck off his head, after which his body was quartered and exposed upon spikes of iron on London Bridge. A long two-handed sword, once used by Wallace, and other ancient relics of warfare, are shown to the visitor. From the top of the Castle, one gets a commanding view of the surrounding country. While there, looking northward, I saw Ben Lomond, more than twenty miles away. I could not refrain from taking off my hat to this “Mountain Monarch.” And, as if to return my salute, the clouds just then were lifted, leaving the snow-covered head of the mountain bare for a moment. For this act of civility, I determined to pay His Royal Highness a visit. Hence, with felt hats pulled down over our eyes, with canes in hand, and small leather satchels strapped across our backs, my traveling companion and I set out on foot for the Highlands. We followed no road, being guided by the river only, which flows from Loch Lomond into the Clyde. The general scenery along this route is nothing unusual; but the river itself is surpassingly beautiful, its water being transparent, and flowing deep, smooth and swift, but silent, between its level green banks. Just before entering a small town, on the river, called Renton, we met hundreds of girls and young women homeward bound, all wearing sleeveless dresses, and carrying tin buckets. Their dyed hands and arms bespoke their occupation. They were factory girls, employed in the paint works the largest in Scotland. In this town, is a splendid obelisk to Tobias Smollet, the novelist and poet, who was born here in 1721.