t whole-heartedly patronised by some of the natives, as they consider
the system is an un-Celtic innovation, and believe further that every
drink they take is written down in a big book with an alphabet on the
edge of the leaves to facilitate reference).

[12] Judging from the number of clans that make a similar claim,
we might fancy that all King Arthur's knights

"Gartened low their leg,
And rowed their hurdies in a philabeg."

LECTURE IN A DUNGEON, ETC.

I have an agreeable recollection of my stay in Saddell, on the coast of
Kintyre, as the guest of Colonel Macleod, son of the never-to-be-forgotten
Dr. Norman Macleod. The Colonel was born in 1820, was present at the
Eglinton Tournament, and is, to-day, in spite of his eighty-eight
years, hale in body, sound of wind, and perfectly clear in the
intellect. He is a walking encyclopaedia of all the social and political
changes that have come about since the accession of Victoria. He is also
an authority on live stock, and it is intensely amusing to see his
horses scampering from the far-end of the field when they see him, in
the hope of getting some of the bits of sugar he always carries in his
pocket for their benefit.

The school-house being badly situated for the convenience of the people,
the meeting was held in the _dungeon of the old castle_, a spacious and
airy place quite near the beach. Altogether, I reckon this meeting as
the drollest in all my experience. There were no windows in the
overhanging vaulted roof, and the long stone stair leading to the ground
above, was filled with the audience that could not get accommodation
below. The aged Colonel presided over about one hundred prisoners, and
humorously remarked that the table at which he was standing, was really
a _patent incubating apparatus_, under which four dozen of Mrs.
Macleod's chickens were coming to maturity. He hoped these embryo fowls
would not interrupt the lecture by any unseemly remarks. At the risk of
wearying the chickens, I spoke for an hour and a half, dealing in the
course of my remarks (to be as apposite as possible) with the dungeon
scene in "The Legend of Montrose," where Dugald Dalgetty squeezes the
windpipe of the Duke of Argyll.

In one little village hall in Kintyre, I was much perturbed by some of
the placards that had been placed on the walls. The hall had been used
for evangelical purposes, and there, facing me, in yard-long type, was
the dr