In the immediate vicinity, and apparently on the same level with yourself, though really considerably lower, there is probably the most terrible congregation of jagged mountain ridges to be seen anywhere in the same compass, and yawning chasms between—all dry, bleak, and barren in the extreme. Away to the left lies the mighty Glen Sannox, _i.e._, “the glen of the river trout”—grand and wild and lonely “beyond the reach of art,” at the foot of which there once stood a chapel dedicated to St. Michael. Almost at your feet is Glen Rosa, with the river meandering at the bottom like a silver thread, and the foaming waterfall of Grabh-alt bounding down the opposite mountain side. We were slow to leave such a scene, for we felt that we might never see the like again. At last, with one long soul-satisfying gaze, we bade farewell to the prospect, which few surely can look upon without a feeling of awe and a sense of their own insignificance, and which defies the skill of the painter and engraver. There are some who make the descent by scrambling down the steep slope of Glen Rosa; but we had heard that this was a dangerous route, and that a man-of-war’s man, who, with some shipmates, had previously made the descent that way under the guidance of a local worthy who has been up to the top at least once every month in the year, fairly broke down. We therefore took the advice _Punch_ gave to those about to marry, “Don’t,” and we didn’t. Come down the way you went up, carefully observing the track lest you should lose your way and come to grief among the boulders; once past these you will be out of danger, and will be able to look around and enjoy the scenery. In coming down you may, as we did, pass through a herd of deer of close on 150, none of them putting themselves more about than merely to gaze at us with their great soft eyes as we pass through their midst. At the kennel turn to have a look at the old Castle, so often demolished and rebuilt, from the tower of which Bruce is said to have watched for the fire on the Turnberry Coast which the faithful Cuthbert was to light, should there be any hope of striking a blow for Scotland’s freedom. Here also we saw on our visit a rude deal table, drilled by moths and seasoned with age, around which the royal exile and his trusty friends were wont to sit and quaff their wine, drinking revenge to Scotland’s foes. A pleasant walk will bring you to the road at the old inn, and you are soon at the pier in time for the steamer. THE EARL’S SEAT.