pose; nor could the unnatural husband and son be punished for their crime. The island of St. Kilda afforded no implements for writing, and the lady's history would never have been known, had she not worked it on her muslin apron with her hair. Her family, by some means or other, after her death (which happened at St. Kilda, near thirty years after her banishment) got possession of this curious piece of work, and preserved it with great care, as a memorial of her sufferings, and of the tyranny of the times in which she lived.
The inhabitants of the island of St. Kilda, to this day, are no better than savages; they are few in number, and live upon stinking fish, and rotten eggs, laid by birds in the hollows of the rocks. They will touch neither eggs nor fish until they are in a state of putrefaction. They are little known to the rest of the world, and very seldom visited; and lucky for them that this is the case, or the race of Kildaites would soon be extinct by frequent hemorrhages; for it is confidently affirmed, that the instant a stranger touches the shore, the noses of all the natives begin to bleed throughout the island.
The isle of St. Kilda lies about fifteen miles west from the northern point of North Uist, the
