An amusing illustration of this Celtic obtuseness of perception may be given. About half a century ago an accomplished young French nobleman, who recently held an appointment of importance at the Court of St. James’s, was fortunate enough to secure the hand of a Scottish lady, who was heiress to a title in her own right, and to extensive estates in the north. After his marriage, which was celebrated in England, the happy couple went to spend the honeymoon at an ancient castle belonging to the lady in a remote part of the Highlands. This was, perhaps, rather a mistake, as the French do not understand our English institution of the honeymoon, and consider that throwing two young people together for a month tends rather to make them tired of one another’s society. Be that as it may, they reached the Highlands in safety, and spent the first night in the ancient castle. The excitement and fatigue of the journey kept the Frenchman awake the greater part of the night, and he had just dropped quietly asleep at an early hour in the morning, when all at once he was roused to consciousness by a loud discordant noise beneath his window. Springing to his feet, he drew aside the curtains to ascertain the cause of this disturbance. It was a charming morning, the grass on the lawn was glistening with dew-drops, and the heath-clad mountains were tipped with the golden rays of the rising sun. But he had no eye for the beauties of nature; every other feeling was absorbed in indignation at being roused from his pleasant slumber by an old fellow in the Highland garb, who was strutting backwards and forwards on the lawn and playing “Hey, Johnnie Cope, are ye waukin’ yet,” to his own intense satisfaction. If the indignant Frenchman had stopped to inquire, he would have found this was old Donald, the family piper, who had been in the habit of waking the family by this morning serenade ever since he entered on his office; but his only thought was how to get rid of this nuisance, so he shouted, “_Allez, allez-vous en, tout de suite!_” “Sir!” said Donald, surprised at hearing himself addressed in a language which he did not understand. “Go, go away,” said the Frenchman. “Your music is execrable; it is murderous; it will kill me.” If the earth had yawned before him, Donald could not have stood more aghast than he did on hearing these words. The sound of the bagpipes was to him the most delightful of all music, and he could not understand how it could be otherwise than pleasing to everyone else. But here was a man who actually ordered _him_, the family piper, away; who pronounced his music murderous, and declared it would kill him. There must be some mystery in this, some secret cause for this unaccountable dislike. The bagpipes were silent; but Donald walked backwards and forwards on the lawn, holding his head erect, distending his nostrils, and sniffing with indignation at the insult offered to him. “Maybe the carl (fellow) does na like music,” he at