Mary's Tomb, Westminster Abbey.

A Highland Mill.

The Edge Of The Atlantic.

Especially conspicuous for desolate grandeur, off this western coast, are the Scotch islands called the Hebrides, the Ultima Thule of the ancient world. Two of them well repay a visit: Iona, for its history; and Staffa, for its scenery. The annals of Iona are unique and marvelous. It is only a barren rock, about two and a half miles long; yet there is hardly an island on the globe whose history is more remarkable.

More than thirteen hundred years ago, when on our English-speaking race the light of Christianity had scarcely dawned, and when Great Britain was still largely peopled by savages, there one day approached this island, from the coast of Ireland, a frail boat made of hides stretched over ribs of wood. This little skiff contained Columba, a Celtic missionary, and twelve disciples who, subsequently, founded here a monastery which was for centuries a monument of learning and religion, the spiritual light of the northwestern world, towering like a beacon fire above the sea of ignorance and barbarism, and causing Iona to be revered throughout all Europe as the "Holy Isle." Time and again the Scottish coast was ravaged by Norwegian pirates, who, usually, had no respect for either piety or learning; but such were the sanctity and fame of Iona, that it was the only place in Scotland spared by the northern chieftain Magnus III. in his career of plunder, and from the portal of Columba's church he is said to have recoiled with superstitious fear, not daring to enter the sacred edifice. The principal structure now remaining here was erected more than eight hundred years ago, and marks the spot on which the earliest church was built.

" Bones Left By The Rapacious Sea".

The Tourist Steamer, At Iona.

Iona Cathedral And Royal Graveyard.

But what impressed me even more than this was the ancient graveyard of Iona, whither for more than a thousand years, chieftains and kings of Scotland, Ireland, and even the far-off shores of Norway were conveyed for burial, partly on account of the reverence inspired by Columba's name, partly because it was believed that though, at the last day, every other island in the world might be engulfed, Iona would remain secure from all assaults of the invading sea. Among the forty kings of Scotland here entombed is the ill-fated Duncan, and close beside him rests his murderer, Macbeth, whose name has been immortalized by Shakespeare. One of the monuments in this ancient cemetery is a cross, cut from a single block of red granite, fourteen feet in height and covered with Runic inscriptions. It is the only perfect one remaining out of three hundred and sixty once erected here. Standing beside it, a feeling of awe stole over me, as I gazed upon Iona's line of royal sepulchres, and thought of the time when, century after century, numberless vessels crossed the northern seas to bring to this remote and isolated rock, not only the bodies of dead kings, but a multitude of pious pilgrims eager to pay homage to the Holy Isle; or warriors, branded with the curse of Cain, desiring absolution for their deeds of blood; or sovereigns seeking consecration at Co-lumba's shrine. To-day, however, although the faith proclaimed here by Columba has been for centuries the religion of Europe, this island, which was once its most important northern starting-point, has sunk into obscurity and is almost uninhabited. Invaluable in its time, Christianity has nevertheless long since outgrown it; and poor Iona, therefore, rich alone in memories of the past, reminded me of Holmes' inspiring lines upon the "Chambered Nautilus":

"Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,

As the swift seasons roll!

Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,

Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!"