upon one of our gifted historians, "Why, he might be a
duke!" Our fellow-traveller was only Sir Thomas, however,--Sir Thomas
Somebody,--I have forgotten what, a London baronet, holding some high
office or other under Government. We may imagine it anything we please,
for I have forgotten that too. Indeed, the little we ever knew of him
was learned at a later day, I suspect, from a buxom lawyer's wife, up
North with her husband for the vacation, and who, as well as Sir
Thomas's family, was of our travelling company on an ensuing journey,
and had her little gossip with Christie. Other acquaintance than that of
accidental companionship we never had with any of the Pioneer's
passengers; but what a charm there is in that involuntary knowledge one
comes to have of these chance fellow-travellers whom we meet, pass, fall
behind, and come up with again, until they become at last familiar
features of our route!

But we have been long enough getting on board. It is well that these
laggards are the last, for it is high time we were off.

The wind being fair for our purpose, we are able to take the northern
course and commence the circuit of the island by striking directly for
the Sound of Mull, much the most favorable route, as it introduces the
traveller at once to some of the most picturesque objects of the
excursion.

The first of these, standing like a sentinel to the land-locked bay of
Oban, is Dunolly Castle, which commands the bold promontory around which
we bend our course, as, emerging from our little harbor, we gain the
comparatively open sea. The only remnant of this once proud dwelling of
the Lords of Lorn which remains entire is the old mossy tower or keep,
around which are grouped numerous ivy-grown fragments, attesting the
former greatness of a stronghold whose chieftain once had power to defy
and defeat Robert Bruce. Many are the traditions and associations that
cluster about this spot, but none, perhaps, more ancient and suggestive
than that which still points out the Clach-nacau, or the Dog's
Pillar,--a huge, upright pillar, a detached fragment of rock,--which
stands at the very edge of the promontory, and which is still pointed
out as the stake to which Fingal, chief of the race of Morven, mighty in
the hunt as well as in battle, was accustomed to bind his white-breasted
Bran, that "long-bounding son of the chase." "Raise high the mossy
stones Of their fame," sang the poet of Scandinavian heroes. The fame of
th