nty of money in his pocket. I don't blame
the Oban hotel-keepers. They have a very short summer, and are bound to
make hay while the sun shines; but they do stick it on. The Doctor tells
me of a Scotchman who came to London, and who, to illustrate the
costliness of his visit, remarked to his friend that he had not been
half-an-hour in the place but bang went sixpence. That economical Scot
would find money go quite as quickly here. At any rate, such are my
reflections as I turn into my little cot after, one by one, the lights in
Oban have been put out, and the last of the pleasure-seekers has retired
to roost.

On Sunday morning I wake to find that it has rained steadily all night,
and that it is raining still. Mrs. Gamp intimates that life "is a wale
o' tears." Oban seems to be such emphatically. This is awkward, as I
hear the refined and accomplished lady who shares with us the perils and
the dangers of the deep intimates that in Scotland people are not
expected to laugh on the Sabbath-day. It rains all breakfast; it rains
as we descend the _Elena's_ side, and are rowed ashore; it rains as we
make our way to the Established Church, in which that popular minister,
the Rev. Mr. Barclay, of Greenock, is to preach. His sermon is on the
death of Moses. He glides lightly over the subject, telling us that his
text, which is Deut. xxxv. 5, teaches the incompetency of the noblest
life, the penal consequences of sin, the mercy mingled with the Divine
judgment, and the uniformity of God's method of dealing. Mr. Barclay is
listened to with attention. In his black gown, his tall, dark figure
looks well in the pulpit, and there must be some eight or nine hundred
people present. There is a collection after, but I see no gold coin in
the plate, though the bay is full of yachts, and there must be many
wealthy people there. Perhaps, however, they patronise the small
Episcopalian church close by. After the sermon, we are rowed back in the
heavy rain to the yacht, and "it is regular Highland weather" is all the
consolation that I get, as I dry myself in the stoke-hole, while the
Doctor philosophically smokes.

In the evening we are rowed again on shore, and seek out the Free Church,
where Professor Candlish, the son of the far-famed Doctor of that name,
is to preach. He has the reputation of being a remarkably profound
divine, and certainly reputation has not done him injustice in this
respect. His sermon is a great con