the steep ridge among and over huge masses of rock lying in grand confusion. As you get higher the granite boulders become of immense size, some of them 20 by 10 feet, toppled on the top of others of all shapes and sizes, till one wonders how they ever came there, and can understand what the man meant who said, though his theology might have been more correct and his language more fitly chosen, “O man, are the works of God no devilish?” Near the top there is an immense precipice of granite blocks laid on each other as regular as mason work, which geologists call a cyclopean wall. Keep to the left till you are clear of the blocks and are facing a very abrupt steep, put your feet in the well-worn footprints, and a few minutes of hard toil will land you safe on the summit of Goatfell. When we made the ascent it was a very hot day in a very hot week, each day almost more calm than its predecessor, reminding us of the sergeant newly arrived in India, who, not much accustomed to such a warm climate, was always remarking to his commanding officer when he met him, “Anither het day, kornel.” But he will soon be cooled down who lingers on this (appropriately termed) “hill of winds.” Therefore, improve your time in taking a mental photograph of the grand prospect. Here is a place for learning a lesson in geography; here is a map of the south-west of Scotland that beats Collins’ all to sticks. On the north-east you see the two Cumbraes, and behind them Largs, Wemyss Bay, and the Clyde sparkling with tiny white sails, and the green hills of Renfrewshire in the background. To the north is the Island of Bute, and the Kyles, like a silver thread, nearly surrounding it; while Ben Lomond, Ben Voirlich, and Ben Ledi fill up the distant background. To the north-west the eye reaches far up Loch Fyne, and round by the Paps of Jura and Islay and Mull. Looking across Ben Gneiss down to the Sound of Kilbrannan you see Campbeltown, and over Kintyre, and, if the day be clear, to the coast of Ireland. Due south you see Wigtonshire and the lonely Craig of Ailsa, “Paddy’s Milestone,” with Pladda, the Holy Isle, and Lamlash in the foreground. Looking east, the eye sweeps round the sunny coast of Ayrshire, taking in Ayr with its tall spire, Troon, Irvine, and Ardrossan, and inland, the conical Loudon Hill. East and south-east are the Muirkirk and Cumnock ranges, Cairnsmuir and the dark mountains between Loch Doon and Loch Trool, several of which are nearly as high as Goatfell, though, on account of their tangled and featureless character, they attract little notice.