Turning to the west, and looking down the valley of the Ayr Water, we have in sight not only Aird’s Moss, a large moss extending several miles in all directions, but the monument also erected on it, about a quarter of a mile off the Cumnock Road, to the memory of one of Scotland’s worthiest sons, Richard Cameron. The utter desolation of the spot gives it a melancholy interest, and nothing fair is to be seen but Heaven above, the hope of which sustained the heart of the Covenanters in their skirmish with the dragoons there in 1686. The heather and the long grass bear no trace of the blood which must once have stained them; but no true patriot will readily forget such scenes as those. Not far off is the birthplace of Dr. John Black, a former minister of Coylton, the author of a “Life of Tasso,” and of a learned work called “Palaico Romaica,” in which he endeavoured to prove, but with more ability than success, that the New Testament was originally written in Latin, from which the Greek version was a translation. In making the descent by the same route as that by which we reached the summit, we see Loudon Hill taking a sly peep at us over the top of the town; we think of the time not so long ago when there was not a building save the kirk in the muir, in the vicinity of the now thriving town, and of Lord Dundonald’s unfortunate coal tar manufacturing experience here. The adoption of copper for sheathing the vessels of the navy ruined the speculation, and the Earl lost heavily by it. Coming down once more to the level ground, a good walker, who is also a painstaking hunter of flowers, will not go unrewarded. All along our course there are the yellow blossoms of the buttercup family on the harder ground, daisies in the meadows, on the moor the bluebells hanging their delicate heads, each appearing a little lonely and pale; and there are also the exquisite waxlike blossoms of the bilberry, growing quite abundantly, and looking quite as beautiful as any of the rare heaths of the conservatory. We find our way to the station through and among some wrought-out lime quarries, the roughness of our route now reminding us of what must have been the state of the road to Sorn, a little further down the valley, when travelled on by one of our Scottish kings on his way from Glasgow, and which he found to be so disagreeable that he said, if he wished to “give the devil a job,” he would send him to Sorn in winter. What thoughts crowd upon us as we review the work of the last hour or two on our homeward journey; thoughts as to the probable, or established history of rock and plant, of mountain and moor! And what an insight do we gain into our ignorance as we have to acknowledge that to many of the problems we must subscribe ourselves “agnostic,” or without knowledge. In two and a half hours we reach the well-paved streets of Glasgow. BALLAGIOCH.