I took advantage of a much-needed leave of absence by a trip to Gibraltar, where an odd incident happened. A fellow-passenger and frequent visitor to the Rock–Mr. Ernest A. Sandeman–kindly offered to act as guide during a long walk on the day of arrival. Returning at dusk (just at gun-fire, after which no appeal gains admittance), I heard the distant tones of a violin, and in hopes of entertainment proposed to trace them to their source. Soon we stood before a high house, much like those in Edinburgh, in the upper story of which a good performer was practicing. "He is playing something of mine," said I to my doubting friend. "Surely I ought to know my own Pibroch?" To be listening to a quite recently published and exceptionally difficult work thus unexpectedly on a dark night in so unlikely a spot as "Gib" had a weird effect upon me. After mounting many stairs, I soon found myself giving a lesson to an astonished and very promising young "Scaup" (native of the Rock), the son of a regimental bandmaster whose name has now escaped me. << less