Sitting on the summit so narrow and acute, which has been compared to the bridge of Al Sirat, the very razor’s blade over which the faithful are to walk into Paradise, sitting astride on this rocky saddle, you may have one foot in Loch Long and the other in Glencroe. The scene is magnificent, and you may long and calmly gaze at it without any fear that your horse will get restive or impatient under you. The cliffs themselves are at once picturesque and sublime, and, most of all, that square mass at the western extremity, which rises in a lofty and broad magnificence, 200 feet or more, like a gigantic tower rooted on the mountain’s brow. Alexander Smith speaks of this as “the Cobbler’s wife sitting a little way off, an ancient dame, to the full as withered in appearance as her husband and as difficult of access. They dwell in tolerable amity the twain, but when they do quarrel it is something tremendous. The whole country knows when a tiff is in progress. The sky darkens above them; the Cobbler frowns; his wife sulks in the mist. The wife’s conduct aggravates the Cobbler, who is naturally of a peppery temper, and he gives vent to a discontented growl. The wife spits back fire upon him. The row begins. They flash at one another in the savagest manner, scolding all the while in the grandest Billingsgate, while everybody listens to them for 20 miles around. Afterwards, however, peace seems to be restored somehow when everybody is asleep. And for the next six weeks they enjoy as bright and unclouded weather as husband and wife can expect in a world where all is imperfect.” Those huge masses of rock, grand in their style and powerful in their effect, give this an advantage over most of the mountain views of Scotland by the wonderful foregrounds which they disclose. Immediately to the right of it, for example, are Ben Irne and Ben Vane, both higher than it; and yet it is the Cobbler we know, and almost as if he had no rival.