us, or infamous, career as a marriage
mart, had little to offer a passing tourist beyond some silly, vulgar
postcards on sale at a newsdealer's.

Across the border topographical characteristics did not greatly
change, at least not at once, from what had gone immediately before,
and it was not until Lockerbie was reached that we fully realized
that we were in Scotland.

It was a long, long pull, and a hard, hard pull of seventy miles from
Lockerbie to Edinburgh, via Moffat, Biggar, and Penicuik, skirting
the Fells of Peebleshire and running close beneath the Pentland
Hills, with memories of Stevenson's tales ever uppermost in our
minds.

Via Dalkeith the entrance into Edinburgh is delightful, but via
Rosslyn it is unbeautiful enough until one actually drops down into
world-famed Princes' Street.

Romantic Edinburgh is known by European travellers as one of the
sights never omitted from a comprehensive itinerary. It is quaint,
picturesque, grand, squalid, and luxurious all rolled into one. Its
castle crowns the height above the town on one side, and Arthur's
Seat does the same on the other, with gloomy old Holyrood in the gulf
between, the whole softened and punctuated with many evidences of
modern life, the smoke and noise of railways, trams, and factories.
There are many guide-books to Edinburgh, but there are none so
satisfactory as Stevenson's tales dealing with the town. In
"Kidnapped," "The Master of Ballantrae," and "Catriona," he pictures
its old streets and "stairs," its historic spots, its very stones and
flags, and the charming countryside around in incomparable fashion.

The Carlton Hotel at Edinburgh is _the_ automobile hotel of Britain.
There is nothing quite so good either in England or Scotland. The
proof of this is that the _Automobile Club de France_ have given it
distinctive marks in its "_Annuaire de l'Etranger._" There is the
tiny silhouette of a knife and fork, and four-poster bed, indicating
that the tables and beds are of an agreeable excellence. This is a
great deal more satisfying as a recommendation than Baedeker's.

We crossed the Firth of Forth via the Granton Ferry, from Granton to
Burntisland,--pronounced Burnt Island--a fact that none of us knew
previously.

Via Kinross and Loch Leven we arrived at Perth for lunch. We went to
the Salutation Hotel, because of its celebrated "Prince Charlie
Room," and had no reason to regret the lunch that was given us, or
the price paid for it. Sco