The best plan to adopt in order to “do” it, and return to the common level of Glasgow life in one day, is to take an early train and boat (Queen Street low level) to Tarbet on Loch Lomond; walk or coach it from that through the beautiful pass or valley by which King Haco and his grim, death-dealing warriors in the thirteenth century are understood to have dragged their boats after sailing up Loch Long. This they did with the view of devastating Loch Lomond side and its then populous islands, with a vengeance terrible in its results. Through this peaceful and dreamy glen also marched Robert the Bruce, Scotland’s great deliverer from England’s hated yoke, with his five hundred followers, when making his way to spend the winter in Cantyre. In passing through this cross valley you can see on the hillsides the striations of the glacial age over the watershed from Loch Lomond down into Loch Long. Keep on the coach or coach road past Arrochar, across the Lyon at the head of Loch Long, a stream which divides Dumbartonshire and Argyllshire, till you come down to a point on the other side of the loch opposite Arrochar. Here—Ardgarton House not being far off, formerly belonging to Mr. Campbell of Armidale, but more lately to Mr. Macgregor, of the Royal Hotel, Edinburgh—there is a burn or mountain stream which rejoices in the name of the “Butter-milk Burn.” Your course is up the left side of this burn till you come to a hollow place 500 or 600 feet up; cross the burn here, and, avoiding the soft ground as much as possible, keep to the right, and instead of making the old man’s acquaintance too hurriedly, take round to his north side, and you will find him more approachable and will get better on with him. The ascent, though stiff, is not difficult till you reach what may be called the foot of the Cobbler. The likeness is preserved even in such a detail as this, but the whimsical effect of the figure is almost obliterated by the greatness of those rocks that tower high above, and are perched like the Semi of Eig on the utmost ridge of the mountain. Your first impression is that here “you get the air about you;” that, as a Lancashire man once said to the writer of this about Blackpool, making a slip, “There’s a deal of ozedone (ozone) about it.” We suggested that he probably meant zoedone, to which the answer came, “Yes, now you have got it.” You are on a mountain 2891 feet high, whose praises have been sung by the Queen, by M’Culloch, and Alexander Smith, and now that you have presumably made its acquaintance, you feel that your climb of two hours is well repaid, and that the half has not been told you.