of muslin cloth, and the rush, the concussion, the upbreak, and the slow reluctant trailing off from the hill-side of the sunny cloud. The poor man's plaintive tone is the anchor which holds these things in my memory. The forest is of course treeless. Nor are deer seen there frequently. Although I have crossed it frequently, only once did I get a sight of antlers. Carefully I crept up, sheltering myself behind a rocky haunch of the hill to where the herd were lying, and then rushed out upon them with a halloo. In an instant they were on their feet, and away went the beautiful creatures, doe and fawn, a stag with branchy head leading. They dashed across a torrent, crowned an eminence one by one and disappeared. Such a sight is witnessed but seldom; and the traveller passing through the brown desolation sees usually no sign of life. In Lord Macdonald's deer forest neither trees nor deer are visible. When once you get quit of the forest you come on a shooting-box, perched on the sea-shore; then you pass the little village of Sconser; and, turning the sharp flank of a hill, drive along Loch Sligachan to Sligachan Inn, about a couple of miles distant. This inn is a famous halting-place for tourists. There are good fishing streams about, I am given to understand, and through Glen Sligachan you can find your way to Camasunary, and take the boat from thence to Loch Coruisk, as we did. It was down this glen that the messenger was to have brought the tobacco to our peculiar friend. If you go you may perhaps find his skeleton scientifically articulated by the carrion crow and the raven. From the inn door the ridges of the Cuchullins are seen wildly invading the sky, and in closer proximity there are other hills which cannot be called beautiful. Monstrous, abnormal, chaotic, they resemble the other hills on the earth's surface, as Hindoo deities resemble human beings. The mountain, whose sharp flank you turned after you passed Sconser, can be inspected leisurely now, and is to my mind supremely ugly. In summer it is red as copper, with great ragged patches of verdure upon it, which look by all the world as if the coppery mass had _rusted_ green. On these green patches cattle feed from March to October. You bait at Sligachan,--can dine on trout which a couple of hours before were darting hither and thither in the stream, if you like,--and then drive leisurely along to Portree while the setting sun is dressing the wilderness in gold and rose. And all the way the Cuchullins follow you; the wild irregular outline, which no familiarity can stale, haunts you at Portree, as it does in nearly every quarter of Skye. [Sidenote: Portree.]