During a sojourn of some weeks on the western coast of Scotland, I was the guest for a time of Mr. Stewart, the head of what remained of a once powerful clan in the Highlands. My host was a distinguished member of the London Bar, but spent his Summers at the home of his ancestors a few miles out from Alpin. Here, in as romantic a locality as is known even to the Highlands, with his kindred about him he enjoyed a full measure of repose from the distracting cares of the great metropolis. At the time of my visit his brother, an officer of the British army, just returned from India, was with him. Both gentlemen wore kilts for the time; and all the appointments of the house were reminders of bygone centuries when border warfare was in full flower, forays upon the Lowlands of constant occurrence, and the principle of the clans in action, "Let him take who has the power And let him hold who can." At the bountifully furnished board of my Highland host there was much "upon the plain highway of talk" I will not soon forget. And then, with the gathering shadows in the ancestral hall, with the rude weapons of past generations hanging upon every wall, and the stirring strains of the bagpipe coming from the distance, it was worth while to listen to the Highland legends that had been handed down from sire to son. Not far away was the old castle of Dunstaffnage, which in its prime had been the scene of innumerable tournaments and battles that have added many pages to Scottish annals. Within the enclosure of the old castle sleeps the dust of long ago kings--the veritable grave of Macbeth being readily pointed out to inquiring travellers. The conversation around the hearthstone of my host turned to the famous island of the Inner Hebrides, Iona, with its wonderful history reaching back to the sixth century. The ruins of the old monastery, built fourteen hundred years ago by the fugitive Saint, Columba, are well worth visiting. The dust of the early kings of Norway, Ireland, and Scotland rest within these ancient walls, and it is gratifying to know that here even the ill-fated Duncan "After life's fitful fever sleeps well." It would have been passing strange, with host and guests all of Scottish lineage, if there had been no mention of Robbie Burns, for in old Scotia, whether in palace or hovel, the one subject that never tires is the "ploughman poet of Ayr." A little incident of slightly American relish which I related the evening of my departure needed no "surgical operation" to find appropriate lodgment.