rock and left remorselessly
to pine there amid the squalls. Let me briefly summarise this affecting
history.

Lord Grange, a Scottish judge of strong Jacobite leanings, was known by
his Lady to be concerned in a plot, along with Lovat, Mar, and others,
to bring back the Pretender. This was in the year 1730. Stung in her
wifely pride by her husband's ill-treatment and licentiousness, she
openly threatened to expose his treason. To prevent such exposure,
Grange caused his wife to be kidnapped and clandestinely conveyed first
to a small island off North Uist, and subsequently to St. Kilda. In the
latter island, no one could speak any English except the catechist, and
here for seven years this polished society dame lived amid the blasts
and the screaming ocean-fowl, lacking even the privilege, which Ovid
enjoyed, of sending letters to child or friend. In 1741, when the
catechist left the island, she made him bearer of letters to her
law-agent, Hope of Rankeillor. Hope fitted out a sloop, with twenty-five
armed men on board, and set out for St. Kilda to rescue the lady.
Macleod, who was, of course, privy to her detention, at once removed her
to Skye, and Hope's expedition came to nothing. The poor woman, worn out
with sorrow and suffering, died in 1745, a helpless imbecile!

The story, which throws a lurid light on the savagery of the eighteenth
century, and which, to my thinking, surpasses in pathos anything
occurring in fiction, was long disbelieved. But it was only too true. It
is said that ill-luck pursued the lady even after death, and that her
funeral was a miserable parody. A coffin filled with stones and turf was
interred, before a large crowd, in the churchyard of Duirinish, the real
remains being, with maimed rites or none at all, secretly buried
elsewhere.

It is noteworthy that Lady Grange died in 1745, the year when Prince
Charlie's hopes were shattered on Culloden Moor. Like her, he too had
the ill-luck to be a hopeless wanderer in the Misty Isle.

PIERLESS TIREE.

I regret to say that I did not stay long enough in the island of Tiree
to add to my store of legends, and yet, I went there with a capacious
note-book and excellent intentions. What is more, I read from beginning
to end, Dr. Erskine Beveridge's detailed book on the island, and could
have passed an examination on semi-brochs, rock-forts, marsh duns,
islet-forts, sandhill dwellings, and prehistoric burial-sites. I steeped
myself so thoroughly i