It was this name tempest which yesterday carried me off to the castle of Finlarig. I gave the old castle watchman a dreadful fright, for he was just cleansing a former place of execution and perhaps he took me for a ghost. When he had calmed down he gave an account of the aforesaid place of execution in an odd dialect but with great gusto; it contains a hole through which the amputated heads fell into an underground spot; as for me, I consider it possible that this orifice and the underground chamber served bloodless and natural purposes. An American who was present smiled sceptically at all this as if it were humbug; but the Americans have no proper angle from which to view the mysteries of the Old World. The dear old watchman was remarkably proud of his castle; he pointed out all sorts of trees, old horse-shoes and stones, and explained at inordinate length, apparently in Gaelic, about Queen Mary Stuart, Marquis Ballochbuich and Scottish history. There is also a chamber with statues there; one represents Queen
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