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Lovat, that such a formula was gone through.

"About eight o'clock, the Sheriffs of London and the executioner met and breakfasted together at a tavern appointed for the meeting. They then went to a house on Tower Hill that stood about thirty yards from the scaffold, which had been hired for the purpose of receiving the condemned lords from the hands of the Tower authorities. At ten o'clock the block was fixed on the scaffold and covered with a black cloth, with several sacks of sawdust near to strew on it. Soon after, the two coffins were brought, also covered with black cloth. At a quarter after ten the Sheriffs went in procession to the outward gate of the Tower, and after knocking at it for some time, a warder within asked: 'Who's there?' The officer without answered: 'The Sheriffs of London and Middlesex.' The warder then asked: 'What do they want?' The officer answered: 'The bodies of William, Earl of Kilmarnock and Arthur Lord Balmerino,' upon which the warder within said: 'I will go and inform the Lieutenant of the Tower,' and in about ten minutes the Lieutenant with the Earl of Kilmarnock, and Mayor White with Lord Balmerino, guarded by several warders, came to the gate. The prisoners were then delivered to the Sheriffs, who gave proper receipts for their bodies to the Lieutenant, who as usual said, 'God Bless King George,' to which the Earl of Kilmarnock assented by a bow, and Lord Balmerino said, 'God Bless King James." Lord Kilmarnock had met Lord Balmerino at the foot of the stairs in the Tower and said to him, 'My Lord, I'm heartily sorry to have your company in this expedition.' The prisoners were then led to the house near the block, in Trinity Square, and they spent what time was left to them in devotions. Kilmarnock was brought to the block first. The executioner, who before had something administered to him to keep him from fainting, was so affected by his lordship's distress, and the awfulness of the scene, that on asking Kilmarnock's forgiveness he burst into tears. My Lord bade him take courage, giving him at the same time a purse with five guineas, and telling him that he would drop his handkerchief as a signal for the stroke. In the meantime, when all things were ready

for the execution, and the black baize which hung over the rails of the scaffold having, by the direction of the Colonel of the Guard, been turned up that the peoexecution, in about two minutes after he ple might see all the circumstances of the handkerchief. kneeled down, his Lordship dropped his The executioner at once severed the head from the body, except only a small portion of skin, which was immediately divided by a gentle stroke. The head was received in a piece of red baize, and with the body was immediately put into the coffin. Lord Balmerino followed shortly afterwards, wearing the uniform in which he fought at Culloden."

The Tower is in the Parish of All Hallows, Barking, that takes its name from the Parish Church, which dates back to Saxon times. It was founded by one Erkenwald, a seventh century Bishop of London. He endowed it with lands and built the first church in memory of his sister, who was Abbess of the Convent at Barking, in Essex. This is why the affix, Barking, is added to the name of the church. The present church building-often restoredreplaced the one built by Bishop Erkenwald, that was destroyed by fire in the eleventh century. Being near to the Tower, it was always a favorite church of the Kings. It is claimed that the heart of Richard the Lion-hearted was placed under the altar of the chapel. Archbishop Laud was also buried here, after being beheaded in the Tower. The district is one of the oldest in the city, and lay on the very edge of the old city, the Tower itself being the city limits. William Penn was born in this parish, on the east side of Tower Hill, October 14th, 1644. The house in which he was born has long since disappeared, a street passing over the spot where it stood. Penn was baptized in All Hallows' Church. His father was an Admiral in Cromwell's navy; his mother a Dutch lady. The boy, William, was sent to Chigwell, in Essex, for his early education, where he became impressed by the preaching of the Quakers. He forsook the church and became a member of the Society of Friends. In 1679-'80, he was imprisoned in the Tower for preaching and defending the Quaker doctrines. While in the Tower he wrote his most famous book, "No Cross, No Crown." Edmund Spencer, the poet, author of the "Faery

Queen," was born and spent his boyhood on Tower Hill.

Peter the Great, Czar of Russia, while learning the art of shipbuilding in London, lived on Tower Hill, spending his evenings at an inn there, where it is said that he drank almost enough ale and brandy to float a ship. The landlord, after Peter had gone, named the inn "The Czar's Head." The building now on the site still bears the name.

The Royal Mint, formerly within the Tower walls, is now located on Tower Hill, outside of them, having been moved there in 1811. Trinity House, the headquarters of one of the oldest guilds in London, is also there. It was first organized in 1529. King Edward VII, when Prince of Wales, was its master. He made it a practice to visit the house on every Trinity Monday, dining with the Elder Brethren, and worshiping with them in the Parish Church of All Hallows.

I might go on indefinitely, telling of old places and incidents of the far away time that are very interesting, but perhaps I have said enough to arouse the interest of some who may later visit old London Town, so they will be induced to hunt them out for themselves. One has to wonder why the leading men of the nation tolerated

such government as was given them by the Tudors and Stuarts, bloody tyrants, all of them. The common people were taught to believe and obey, and they did; but the nobles were a race of fearless men that came of generations born to command, who looked death in the face fearlessly on land and sea, yet they were, with rare exceptions, silent as slaves, enduring untold oppression. Thoughtful men, too, grown grey in the service of the state, were tortured, maimed, crippled and sent to the block; gallant chiefs and captains were racked for heresy and trifling misdemeanors, and the pleasure of the King seemed to be the pain of dying men. These were the days of travail and pain that finally gave birth to the great free nation and Empire that we have with us to-day, the champion of freedom, justice and right the world over. But we have lingered long, too long, perhaps, 'mid the memories of suffering and terror, and to quote from Gray's poem, "The Bard," must leave

"Those Towers of Julius, London's lasting shame.

With many a foul and midnight murther fed."

[Besides my own notes made on the spot I am indebted for many of these facts and figures to "Baedeker's Guide to London," also The Tower of London," by Arthur Povser.-C. P.]

Kirkintilloch and Luggie-side

BY SAMUEL M. ANDREW, DENVER, COLO.

"Oh lanely and laigh runs the stream o' the Luggie,

Aye boring through glens as it wimples alang,
Whar aft in the nazei, or sleathon sae seroggie,
The bonny gray lintie sits liltin' his sang.
The bricht speckled trout haunts the water o'
Luggie,

The fringe on her lip gi'es him covert to hide. And gloamin' gets lovers, fu' blythsome and vogie,

To whisper their feelings on sweet Luggieside. W. WATSON.

This fort,

Few Scottish towns can boast of an antiquity equal to that of Kirkintilloch, created a Burgh of Barony in the year 1184, during the reign of William the Lion. There are memories of even earlier times in the remains of the Roman fort situated on the ridge overlooking the town. referred to locally as the "peel" was the particular encampment of the Fifth Legion, which came direct to Scotland, after taking part in the siege of Jerusalem. Many coins and relics have been unearthed in the vicinity, the most important being an inscribed Roman tablet, presently preserved in the Hunterian museum of Glasgow.

The old name, Caerpentulach, signifying a fort on the head of the hill, has been subjected to some contortion since the sojourn of the Roman soldier, for a perusal of old charters since that time show no less than thirteen different spellings until the present designation of Kirkintilloch has been reached.

Caerpentulach, Kyrkintulok, Kirkintullocht, Kirkenttulacht, and many other combinations have been formed, but it is to be hoped that the inhabitants of the present day have finally settled on a lasting name.

The lands of Kirkintilloch were granted to William Comyn by Alexander II in the year 1216. After the death of Bruce's rival, "The Red Comya," the baronies were bestowed on Sir Robert Fleming, in recognition of services rendered. It will be remembered that Sir Robert was one of Bruce's companions at Dumfries, who, after the stabbing of Comyn, entered the kirk with Kirkpatrick to "maksiccar".

In the stirring times of the '45 Kirkin

tilloch was sacked by some of Prince Charlie's highlanders. This party of soldiers was passing through the town when an indiscreet shot was fired from a barn, killing one of the highlanders. On the townsmen failing to produce the offender, the soldiers in their fury confiscated the goods and chattels of the inhabitants and destroyed part of the town.

Leaving the musty records of olden times, mention might be made of the poets of which the town boasts not a few. A good story might be related at this point. Some years ago a number of prominent townsmen were banqueting together. The usual loyal toasts were responded to with acclamation, when somecne rose to propose the Pcets cf Kirkintilloch. The proposer, not having coupled the toast with anyone in particular, was surprised to see the whole company rising en mass to respond.

Of the poets, David Gray must take pride of place. David Gray was the son of a weaver, and was born at Duntiblae. Duntiblae is a picturesque hamlet by the banks of the Luggie-the Luggie of which Gray sings so sweetly:

"Beneath an ash in beauty tender leaved. And through whose boughs the glimmering sunshine dow'd

In rare etherial jasper, making cool

A chequered shadow in the dark green grass,
I lay enchanted.

Before me streams most dear unto my heart-
Sweet Luggie and Sylvan Bothlin-fairer twain
Than ever sang themselves into the Sea-
Were rolled together in an emerald vale."

Gray received his earlier education at the parish school of Kirkintilloch and being a most assiduous scholar, his parents planned that he should devote himself to the ministry. Early in life he started to compose some verses, many of which were published in the Glasgow Citizen. On mak ng the acquaintance of Robert Buchanan, then in the heydey of success,, Gray was advised to persevere as a poet rather than take up the ministry as a profession. Lord Houghton took him under his care for a time, but just as Gray was giving some promise of blossoming out as a poet of promise, he was stricken with illness and died at the premature age of twenty-three. Like the bard of Ayrshire, he wrote his own epitaph

"Below lies one whose name was traced in sand;

He died not knowing what it was to live;
Died when the first sweet conciousness of man-
hood

And maiden thought electrified his soul;
Faint beatings in the calyx of the rose.
Bewildered reader, pass without a sigh

In a proud sorrow! There is life with God,
In other kingdoms of a sweeter air.
In Eden every flower in bloom. Amen.

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career. He started life as a herd laddie, then, after a spell at winding pirns followed the occupation of his father at the loom. Of a restless disposition we find him next at farm work, then as a wood sawyer, and while yet in his teens he "jined the sojers", taking the Kings shilling at the old Tontine at Glasgow. After serving a few years with the Scots Greys, he received his discharge, and returning to his native village, settled down at his loom, and some time later married. Dull times during the Napolionic wars and the upbringing of a family of ten meant frugal living for Wattie, for "weans maun ha'e brose and brats o' duddies" yet he was of that cheery disposition that troubles come lightly to, for he gaily lilts

"Sit ye doon ma cronies, and gie's us your crack, Let the win' tak' the care o' this life on its back:

Oor herts to despondency we ne'er will submit, For we've aye been provided for, and sae will we yet.

"Long live the king, and happy may he be, And success to his forces by land and by sea; His enemies to triumph we ne'er will permit, Britons aye hae been victorious, and sae will they yet."

On one occasion, Wattie, encouraged by his success as a rhymster, composed a sonnet which he dedicated to the laird of Bedlay, hoping to receive that individual's appreciation. So the "Braes O Bedlay" was written, and the poet dressed in his Sunday "braws" presented himself in person at the big hoose. He was ushered into the presence of the "maister," tendered his verses and waited for the expected praise. But alas? for his hopes. When the laird got to those lines "Whaur Mary an' I meet amang the green

bushes

That screen us sae weel on the braes o' Bedlay,"

he promptly accused the poet of trespassing on his grounds and tearing up the manuscript, ordered the now trembling Wattie back to his loom. The laird evidently regretted his harsh words in later vears. for the pair afterwards became good friends.

on

Other poets of note were Jamie Slimmin and Willie Muir. Those who have made the ascent of the Campsie hills are familiar with Slimmin's lines which appear Jamie Wright's well, built into the hillside on the Fintry Highway. Many a hot day have I negotiated this hilly pass and always when partaking of the clear crystal spring lingered to read those verses of Slimmin's inscribed on the granite receptacle.

"Hail to your wimplin', dimplin', drap
Clear, caller, caul,

That bids the drouthy traveller stop
And tak' his fill.

Hail to your health reviving tipple
Enticing, slee wi' twinklin' ripple,
Thou crystal milk frae Nature's nipple
We mountain well."

"Born of the wintry whirlin' flake
Of Arctic shower,

When charging storms the welkin rake,
And scrudge the bower,
You joukit frae the furious blast,

And, seepin' doom, the mountain past, Till here my craig you weet at last, Sine ower the stour."

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odd jobs such as going errands, shovelling coal, etc., and with a little parochial relief eked out an existence. Poor Dan was the butt of the mischievous boys of the town who delighted to take a rise out of him. Many good stories are told about Dan.

One day he was delivering a can of milk to a patron when some boys told him his can was "rinnan oot" and Dan turned it upside down to see the hole. On another occasion he was engaged to shovel some coal, but turning up late was vexed to see another at the task. Dan's competitor was evidently engaged by the piece, for he bustled at the work much to the disgust of Dan who usually performed such work in a leisurely manner. He looked on dejectedly then he burst out, "Oh wumman, my hert's

like tae break to see who thae coals is haunl't." Delivering a message late one night he was given a lighted candle to see his way home. Dan carried the light to the end of the street, then returning to the house again surprised the guid lady by returning the candle with the remark: "Thank ye kindly, I've seen nne

There is a standing joke against Kirkintilloch, often told, but well worth retelling. A native was one night returning from Glasgow, after having done the sights of the city. He had imbibed not wisely, but too well and was making his way home with difficulty from the car terminus at Bishopbriggs to Kirkintilloch, a distance of thee miles. When he was almost home he strayed into a wayside cemetery and feeling drowsy lay down and went to sleep. Early next morning he was awakened by the sound of a bugle (a brake load of picnicers having passed). He sat up, viewed his strange surroundings and apparently thinking the bugle sound heralded the final call, he soliloquized, "Man Sandy, this is a puir turnoot for Kirkintilloch."

The Exploits of The Aged

Translated from the Gaelic of DOмHNULL MACEACHARN by the Hox. R. ERSKINE of
MARR, Editor of The Scottish Review

A day or two ago, since I had nothing else to do, I started telling a tale to my wife. It so happened, however, that she was in no humour for that sort of pastime. Moreover, she remarked that she had already heard my tale time after time. I replied, half jestingly and half in earnest, that she would not be the worse for hearing it once again, if only she would listen to it. She declined to listen.

"Perhaps," I said, "you have never yet heard about the great big monster I slew on the Island-of-the-Seals, and to secure which I was obliged to swim far out into the Atlantic Ocean, dragging it to land after me, against wind and tide?"

"I have heard that also," she said. "Or," I continued, "about that huge salmon which was on my hook throughout the whole of a white summer's day, and that got off after all? Ah! yon was the sal

mon! It was more like a whale's calf than an ordinary salmon. Indeed, it was no common salmon at all; I have never seen its like."

"I don't suppose you have, nor anyone

else, either," returned my wife. "And if my memory serves me, the first time you told me about the salmon, you spent but an hour or two playing it, but now you have stretched out the time to a white summer's day."

"Why not? That is natural enough. Are not our own days stretching out? Why then should not the salmon's do likewise? According to my first recollections of yourself, you were but a stumpy little lassie who, up to that time, had done very little stretching in bone or sinew-neither, by the way, had the wee bits of clothes that were about you. There was not a single stitch of them that came a scrap lower than your knee; but see you, my lass, you and your clothes have stretched considerably since those days-particularly the gown. Two or three feet of it must now be

sweeping the floor-in place of the broom which we used to sport."

"Be that as it may," she replied, "it is not becoming to be always telling the same story over and over again."

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"Tut, tut," I said. "A good tale is never the worse of repetition."

At this stage of the dispute, my wife cut our conversation short by taking up a book that was lying on the table, and in less time than it takes to tell, she was up to her two ears in a tale that was vastly more pleasing to her than anything I could tell her about my own exploits. This caused me some displeasure, although I had a suspicion that there was not a little foundation for what my wife had said to me that is to say that she had heard those tales of mine a good deal more often than was strictly necessary, though I do not suppose that that was a matter touching which I was under any obligation to feel much concern. I have a suspicion also that the charge which she laid at my door is one that is to be preferred against old age in general. I once knew a most worthy old man who persisted in relating to me every time I happened to meet him every exploit that he had ever achieved. He was ninety-four years of age when last I met him, and true to immemorial habit he set about repeating to me the same old tales once more. Listening to this most estimable ancient, one would be inclined to think that not so much as a palm's breadth of the cloud of trouble had ever crossed the firmament of his existence-that,

"The primrose and the daisies were covering the banks"

summer and winter throughout the entire period of his youth, and that the glorious sun of those days proved constant to him during the whole of his journey through the world. The joyous and sanguine spirit that filled that old man's breast was a constant source of envy to me, for well did I know that he had had his own share of the sorrows and vexations of this life, although never a word did he ever say to me concerning them. I know not whether his later experiences were altogether too melancholy to admit of their being recalled to memory, or whether the mind, in active sympathy with the body was desirous to avoid everything that might tend to aggravate that burden of the years which was causing the erstwhile strong man to stoop beneath its weight. Perhaps it is to the mercy of Providence that we owe this beneficent provision, and that it is out of compassion for man's state when his strength begins to fail him that the peculiar faculty

of which I speak has been bestowed on him the power of turning from the troublous days of old age towards those earlier ones that were so infinitely superior to these last.

Instead, therefore, of finding fault with old people on account of their always seeking to revive the glories of the days of former years, should we not rather be profoundly thankful that such a blessed faculty is theirs? Young people, however, do not understand this. So long as they themselves enjoy the fulness of life, they have little sympathy with the aged, whose humour it is to be always exaggerating, "The deed of the days of the years that have gone"

days in which the world was of a different shape to that which it wears in their declining years; in which

"The glory of the sky and of the whole universe"

was to them marvellous beyond measure, generating in their breasts thoughts that were infinitely higher than the concerns of this life.

Some reflections of this nature were passing through my mind when my wife. raised her eyes from the book she was reading, and with an engaging smile on her lips, again addressed me—

"Donald, my jewel, listen to this."

"I will not listen," I replied. "You would not listen to what I had to tell you." "How foolish you are!" she cried. "Small is the value of what you had to tell me compared with what I have here."

"It is every whit as valuable as anything you will find in your book," I retorted. "But if what I had to tell you has no value in your eyes, continue what you are doing, but rest assured that it is not your own appreciation of what you are reading that will render it in the least degree more valuable."

This put her into a huff. She thrust her nose again into the book, and for my part I continued my former train of reflection. But stop, where was I? Nothing save heart-ache is to be got by having dealings with women. When I am sitting comfortably and sensibly in my own arm-chair, covering myself with the glory of the poems and the smoke of tobacco, ten to one but she will burst in upon my high imaginings with some stupidity or other,

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