birds are, as the French would say,
"Quitte pour la peur," and whirl and
scream over our heads with continually
increasing vehemence. As our vessel
proceeds on its course, they settle down upon
their nests, and we watch them through
telescopes and opera-glasses until the noble
rock is left a mile in our rear. On the
south-eastern slope there is a landing-place,
only accessible in calm weather, whither
pleasure parties from Leith and Edinburgh
often resort in the summer for a wild
picnic in this palace of nature.

The Bass Rock has a history of its own,
and has the honour, if honour it can be
called, of having been the last place
within the British Isles that held out for
the "lawful king" against the Revolution
of 1688.* One Captain Maitland, with
a garrison of fifty men in the little
fortification built on the only accessible side
of the rock, defended it so valiantly for
nearly three years for James the Seventh
of Scotland (James the Second of
England), that the Scottish privy council
thought it expedient to enter into negotiations
for its surrender. The garrison was
allowed to retire with the honours of war;
the little fort was demolished, and the
rock, with its pasturage of seven acres of
scanty herbage, and its wild-fowl, present
and to come, were bestowed by the Crown
upon Sir James Dalrymple, lord-president
of the Court of Session, to whose descendants
it still belongs. The ruling party,
whose principles sprung into the ascendant
along with King William, were not sorry
to destroy a fortress which had often
served as a state prison for the Covenanters
in the unhappy days of "the persecution."
The Bass was originally the property of
"the Lauders of the Bass," who retained
it for upwards of four centuries. In the
year 1628, the then head of the family
being in great pecuniary straits, took
refuge upon their all but inaccessible rock
along with his mother, "Dame Isabel
Lauder, Lady of the Bass," whence for
many months they set their creditors and
the laws of Scotland at defiance. The Lords
of Council, scandalised at this contempt of
court, issued a proclamation, threatening
the laird and his mother with the highest
pains and penalties of the law if they did
not quietly surrender. Ultimately they
quitted their fortress, and proceeded to
Edinburgh, where they quietly arranged
their debts with their creditors.

* See ALL THE YEAR ROUND, First Series, vol. xviii.,
p. 83.

On the mainland of Scotland, nearly
opposite to the Bass, stands the picturesque
conical hill, known as North Berwick Law,
and close beside it the town of North
Berwick, so called to distinguish it from
Berwick-upon-Tweed. This little town is
famed in the melancholy annals of Scottish
superstition for its warlocks and witches,
nine of whom were burnt alive at one time
upon the Links of Leith, in the year 1644.
From North Berwick, still skirting the
shore into the narrowing Firth, with the
county, sometimes jocularly called the kingdom
of Fife, looming hazily to the north,
we pass various small towns before we come
fairly in sight of Arthur's Seat, with the
beautiful city of Edinburgh at its base.
Among these is Dirleton, with the ruins of
its famous castle, besieged by King Edward
the First, and afterwards the property of
the luckless Earl of Gowrie, whose alleged
conspiracy against King James the First
puzzles posterity to this hour to decide
whether it was the earl's conspiracy against
the king, or the king's against the earl.
After a short interval, we pass Prestonpans,
famous for its excellent beer—not so
potent as that of worthy Mr. Bass, but
sparkling and exhilarating. My companion,
with his soldierly instincts, desires
particularly to have pointed out to him the site
of Prince Charles's victory over General
Cope, where the gallant and pious Colonel
Gardiner was slain. The battle is called by
the three names of Tranent Muir, Gladsmuir,
and Prestonpans, the scene of the
conflict being on the moor of Tranent. A
spirited ballad was written on the Jacobite
victory, by a doughty Haddingtonshire
farmer of the name of Skirving, in which
he distributed his praise and blame among
the combatants in the most impartial manner.
Among others, he accused one
"Lieutenant Smith, of Irish birth," of having
leaped over the head of "Major Bowie, that
worthy soul," when lying wounded on the
ground, and of escaping from the field,
instead of rendering the assistance for
which the sufferer had called. Smith being
aggrieved, sent the author a challenge to
meet him at Haddington.

"Na, na," said the worthy farmer, who
was working in his field when the hostile
message reached him, "I have no time to
gang to Haddington; but tell Mr. Smith
to come here, and I'll tak' a look at him.
If he's a man about my ain size, I'll fecht
him; but if he's muckle bigger and stronger,
I'll just do as he did—I'll run awa!"

The sun is setting in clouds of amber and