eresting place. Here a son
of a King of Denmark was drowned, and at the adjacent slate quarry some
six hundred men are employed at wages averaging about three pounds
a-week. It is their dinner hour as we pass, and I am struck with the
fineness of their _physique_. Though they speak mostly Gaelic, and are
shut out from English literature, they must, from their appearance, be a
decent set. In an English mining village of the same size I should see a
Wesleyan and a Primitive Methodist Chapel, and a goodly array of
public-houses and beer-shops. Here I see neither the one nor the other.
At this end of the village is an Episcopalian place of worship, with its
graveyard filled with slate stones. At the other end is the Free Church,
and then, separated from it by a rocky stream, are the Established Church
and the Roman Catholic Chapel. The village street is, I fancy, nearly a
mile long, and the cottages, which are well built and whitewashed, seem
to me crammed with children and poultry--the former, especially, very
fine, with their unclad feet, and with hair streaming like that of Mr.
Gray's bard. How they rush after our carriage like London arabs! I am
sorry I don't carry coppers. Late as the season is, a few women are
hay-making. What sunburnt, weather-beaten, wrinkled faces they have!
Plump and buxom at eighteen, they are old women when they have reached
twice that age.

As to Glencoe, what can I say of it that is not already recorded in the
guide-books, and familiar to the reader of English history? The road is
carried along the edge of Loch Leven, and is really romantic, with the
rocks on one side, the winding glen in front, and the loch beneath. It
is very narrow, and as we meet two four-horse cars returning with
tourists we have scarce room to pass. Another inch would send us howling
over into the loch below, but our steeds and our driver are trustworthy,
and no such accident is to be feared. In the loch beneath we see St.
Mungo's Isle, marked by the ruins of a chapel, and long used as a
burial-place, the Lochaber people at one end, the Glencoe people at the
other, as their dust may no more intermingle than may that of Churchmen
and Dissenters in some parts of England. A little further on is the
gable wall, still standing, of the house of M'Ian, the unfortunate chief,
who was shot down by his own fireside on that memorable morning of
February, 1690. Is it for this the Glasgow people erected a statue to
W