tars and earthly friendships, or died silent to the
roll of the drums. Down by yon outlet rode Grahame of Claverhouse and
his thirty dragoons, with the town beating to arms behind their horses'
tails--a sorry handful thus riding for their lives, but with a man at
their head who was to return in a different temper, make a bold dash
that staggered Scotland, and die happily in the thick of the fight....

"The palace of Holyrood is a house of many memories.... Great people of
yore, kings and queens, buffoons and grave ambassadors played their
stately farce for centuries in Holyrood. Wars have been plotted, dancing
has lasted deep into the night, murder has been done in its chambers.
There Prince Charlie held his phantom levees and in a very gallant
manner represented a fallen dynasty for some hours....

"There is an old story of the subterranean passage between the castle
and Holyrood and a bold Highland piper who volunteered to explore its
windings. He made his entrance by the upper end, playing a strathspey;
the curious footed it after him down the street, following his descent
by the sound of the chanter from below; until all of a sudden, about the
level of St. Giles the music came abruptly to an end, and the people in
the street stood at fault with hands uplifted. Whether he choked with
gases, or perished in a quag, or was removed bodily by the Evil One,
remains a point of doubt, but the piper has never again been seen or
heard of from that day to this. Perhaps he wandered down into the land
of Thomas the Rhymer, and some day, when it is least expected, may take
a thought to revisit the sunlit upper world. That will be a strange
moment for the cabmen on the stands beside St. Giles, when they hear the
crone of his pipes reascending from the earth below their horses' feet."

In Edinburgh to-day there are armed men and cannon in the castle high up
on the great rock above you: "You may see the troops marshalled on the
high parade, and at night after the early winter evenfall and in the
morning before the laggard winter dawn, the wind carries abroad over
Edinburgh the sounds of drums and bugles." (Stevenson, "Essay on
Edinburgh.")

Long before Louis could write he made up verses and stories for himself,
and Cummie wrote them down for him. "I thought they were rare nonsense
then," she said, little dreaming that these same bits of "rare
nonsense" were the beginnings of what was to make "her boy" famous
across two seas in ye