that many visitors now came like ourselves. There are no finer stretches of road in Scotland than the broad, beautifully engineered highway from Carlisle to Lanark, winding among the hills with grades so gentle as to be almost imperceptible. The rain, which followed us since we left Carlisle, has ceased and many panoramas of hill and valley lie before us. Oftentimes the low-hung clouds partially obscure the view, but aside from this the scene stretches away clear and sharp to the gray belt of the horizon. We are passing through the hills of Tintock Moor, which Burns has sung as "Yon wild mossy mountains so lofty and wide That nurse in their bosom the youth of the Clyde." They may have seemed "lofty and wide" to the poet who never left his native soil, but they are only low green hills. The river here is little more than a brawling brook, leaping through the stony vale. Before we came into Edinburgh we paused at Rosslyn Chapel, perhaps, after Melrose, Abottsford and Ayr, the most frequented shrine in all Scotland. Conveyances of all kinds ply continuously from Edinburgh during the season, and though the day was not especially favorable, we found a throng at the chapel. The chapel is admittedly the most elaborate Gothic building in Britain. The intricacy and minuteness of detail are simply marvelous and compel the admiration of even those who condemn the ornamentation as overdone and wearisome when studied closely; still, Sir Gilbert Scott designated Rosslyn as "a poem in stone," and Wordsworth was so impressed that he wrote one of his finest sonnets in praise of it. One must of course hear the oft-told story of the master workman who, puzzled over the intricate drawings of one of the carved pillars, went to Rome to consult the architect of the Vatican; but while he was away his apprentice solved the problem and when the builder returned the finished column greeted his eyes. He was so enraged at the success of the apprentice in overcoming the difficulty that he struck the poor youth dead at the foot of the pillar and was hanged for the crime. Anyway, the pillar is there and it is not at all unlikely that the master workman was hanged--a very common incident in those days. Nor will the guide forget to remind you that in the vault beneath your feet the barons of Rosslyn for the past six hundred years have been buried, each one sheathed in full armor. And there is a tradition that on the night before the death of a lord of Rosslyn the chapel seems to be enveloped in flames, a superstition upon which Scott founded his ballad of "Rosabelle." "Seemed all on fire that chapel proud Where Rosslyn's chiefs uncoffined lie, Each baron for a sable shroud Sheathed in his iron panoply."