Thus the initial spell of the Scottish landscape lay first of all upon us who had known Scotland only through books or by word of mouth. Yet to such the human appeal is immense. Who can look upon this egg-shaped island of Arran, with its jagged peaks and its singularly grand scenery, without emotion? The conformation, as seen only in part from the ship’s deck, appears shaggy, because so mountainous and heathy, with many a romantic glen and promontory; and there are picturesque masses of columnar basalt forming a link between the Giant’s Causeway and Staffa’s wonder. In fact, we are told by the scientific men that the geology of Arran is almost unique, displaying as it does a greater succession of strata than any other single portion of land of equal extent, in the whole area of the British Isles. In the gathering twilight, even though this was prolonged, so that a lady could see to thread a needle at 9.30 P.M., we catch glimpses of this appendix to the land of Burns; for Arran belongs in the poet’s native shire. In later years nearer views enabled us to see again the trap rock, the granite, and the slate, and to catch a glimpse of some of the streams, one of which falls over a precipice more than three hundred feet high. In truth, the first impression of Arran furnished even less delight than those in later years, when we were saturated with Scottish lore; then the island spoke with new tongues and even more eloquently than at first sight, of nature and human history. We had left Ireland the day before, steaming out from the Giant’s Causeway. Our steamer ploughed her way, and perhaps may have cast anchor during the night. In any event, after breakfast, we were well into the Firth of Clyde. In sunlight and in joy we moved swiftly up the river of the same name. At Greenock, during a pause, we saw granite docks. These, in contrast to the wooden wharves of New York, mightily impressed us with the solidity and permanence of things in the Old World, though there were enough smoky foundries to make the air black. At Greenock, Burns’s “Highland Mary” is buried, but is elsewhere glorified in a statue. Rob Roy once raided the town, which has history as well as romance. To us, on that day of first sight, the chief interest of Greenock lay in the fact that our honored Captain Macdonald, of the Europa, had his home here. Brave man! He was afterwards lost at sea and at the post of duty, when a colossal wave, sweeping the ship, carried away the bridge and the officers on it!