granary standing near is said to have been built of the debris of the house, and this helps out one’s faith when struggling to believe in the existence of such a building at all.  A certain ridgy rising in the ground, to which you try to give an octagonal shape, is pointed out as indicating the foundations; but an unsatisfactory obscurity rests upon the whole history of the establishment.  Whether true or not, that history of the house which one would prefer to believe runs thus:—­

In the reign of James IV. of Scotland, three brothers, Malcolm, Gavin, and John de Groat, natives of Holland, came to this coast of Caithness, with a letter in Latin from that monarch recommending them to the protection and countenance of his subjects hereabout.  They got possession of a large district of land, and in process of time multiplied and prospered until they numbered eight different proprietors by the name of Groat.  On one of the annual dinners instituted to commemorate their arrival in Caithness, a dispute arose as to the right of precedency in taking the door and the head of the table.  This waxed very serious and threatened to break up these annual gatherings.  But the wisdom and virtue of John prevented this rupture.  He made a touching speech to them, soothing their angry spirits with an appeal to the common and precious memories of their native land and to all their joint experiences in this.  He entreated them to return to their homes quietly, and he would remedy the current difficulty at the next meeting.  Won by his kindly spirit and words, they complied with his request.  In the interval, John built a house expressly for the purpose, of an octagonal form, with eight doors and windows.  He then placed a table of oak, of the same shape, in the middle; and when the next meeting took place, he desired each head of the different Groat families to enter at his own door and sit at the head of his own table.  This happy and ingenious plan restored good feeling and a pleasant footing to the sensitive families, and gave to the good Dutchman’s name an interest which it will carry with it forever.

After filling my pockets with some beautiful little shells strewing the site of the building, called “John O’Groat’s buckies,” I returned to the inn.  One of the gentlemen who accompanied me was the tenant of the farm which must have been John’s homestead, containing about two hundred acres.  It was mostly in oats, still standing, with a good promise of forty bushels to the acre.  He resided at Thurso, some twenty miles distant, and found no difficulty in carrying on the estate through a hired foreman.  I never passed a more enjoyable evening than in the little, cozy, low-jointed parlor of this sea-side inn.  Scotch cakes never had such a relish for me nor a peat-fire more comfortable fellowship of pleasant fancies, as I sat at the tea-table.  There was a moaning of winds down the Pentland Firth—­a clattering and chattering of window shutters, as if