To ride in fast express trains from town to town, across the Strathmore, or Great Valley, containing the central plain of Scotland, on which lies almost every one of its large cities and industrial centres, makes one thrill when contrasting the present with the past. Our comrade, Quandril, so fresh on Scottish soil that she had hardly got the ship’s motion out of her head, was completely daft, when speeding from Edinburgh to Stirling. So much history, visualized and made real, acted like a fierce stimulant. The cannonade of fresh impressions, at every moment, added still further to her delightful brain disturbance. Here are two entries from her journal:-- “I am delighted with Scotland. As I realize that I am on Scottish ground, I can scarcely understand the indifference of the people, who walk about as if it were nothing remarkable.... Such a sight as met our astonished vision! Never had our New World eyes seen anything like this ancient city.” In riding about in the suburbs, Quandril gathered some wild poppies. She noticed that every place had its title--Lanark Villa, Rose Villa, Breezy Brae, etc. In several places, a sign was up announcing that “this land may be ‘fued.’” The person who rented the land, using it, without receiving a title in fee simple, was a “feuar.” How different the Scottish landscape, with its myriad chimneys, from the feudal days, when this French invention was unknown! When Scotland had a Robin Hood, in the person of Rob Roy, this feature was rare. In picturing the long-armed and famous cowboy, cattle-dealer, friend of the poor, and enemy of the rich, Sir Walter Scott has told of the desolate character of the tract of country stretching from the Clyde to the Grampians. One may recall how the young English horsewoman, whose feelings are described during the tedious ride toward the adventurous mountain-land, found a willow wand before the door, as an emblem that the place was tabooed. At one town we were told of a relic--the coulter of a plough--kept in commemoration of the event, which may remind us of the story of the cicerone, who showed the sword with which Balaam smote his ass. Being told by the tourist that Balaam did not actually smite, but only desired a sword that he might smite with it, he received the answer, “Well, that’s the sword he wanted.” This outdid even our own P. T. Barnum’s story of the club that (might have) killed Captain Cook. Since at twenty smaller places had the authentic club been exhibited, Barnum’s show could not be without it, and keep up its reputation.