hers. Perhaps it is scarcely
expressed--only some word dropped in casual conversation, some flash of
pride as you are pointed to the spots where Prince Charlie's triumphs
were won, or some thinly veiled sentiment in local guide-books will make
it clear to you that Scotland still cherishes the memory of the prince
for whom her fathers suffered so much. Passing Falkirk, now a large
manufacturing town, dingy with the smoke from its great furnaces, we
were reminded that near here in 1746 the prince gained one of his most
decisive victories, the precursor of the capture of Edinburgh by his
army. A few miles farther on is Linlithgow with its famous palace, the
birthplace of the Queen of Scots. This more accords with our idea of a
royal residence than the fortified castles, for it evidently was never
intended as a defensive fortress. It stands on the margin of a lovely
lake, and considering its delightful situation and its comparative
comfort, it is not strange that it was a favorite residence of the
Scottish kings. It owes its dismantled condition to the wanton spite of
the English dragoons, who, when they retreated from Linlithgow in face
of the Highland army in 1746, left the palace in flames.

From Linlithgow the broad highway led us directly into Edinburgh by the
way of Princess Street.

XI

FROM EDINBURGH TO YORKSHIRE

Two men above all others and everything else are responsible for the
romantic fame which the bleak and largely barren Land of Scots enjoys
the English-speaking world over. If Robert Burns and Walter Scott had
never told the tales and sung the songs of their native land, no endless
streams of pilgrims would pour to its shrines and its history and
traditions would be vastly second in interest to those of England and
Wales. But the Wizard of the North touched Scotia's rough hills with the
rosy hues of his romance. He threw the glamour of his story around its
crumbling ruins. Through the magic of his facile pen, its petty chiefs
and marauding nobles assumed heroic mould and its kings and
queens--rulers over a mere handful of turbulent people--were awakened
into a majestic reality. Who would care aught for Prince Charlie or his
horde of beggarly Highlanders were it not for the song of Burns and the
story of Scott? Nor would the melancholy fate of Queen Mary have been
brought so vividly before the world--but wherefore multiply instances to
illustrate an admitted fact?

In Edinburgh we were near the