The north side of Ben Lomond excites a degree of surprise almost amounting to terror. This mighty mass, which hitherto has appeared to be like an irregular cone, placed on a spreading base, suddenly appears as an imperfect crater, with one side forcibly torn off, and leaving a stupendous precipice of nearly 2000 feet to the bottom. We on one occasion were fortunate enough during our stay on the Ben to be enveloped with a thick mist like a curtain, shutting off the view for a time, and leaving us alone on the mountain-top, far above the clouds, the sun shining on our heads all the time. We felt as if transported into a new state of existence, cut off from all meaner associations, and invisibly united with the surrounding purity and brightness. The clouds rising again, we had a view of the lake in almost all its length, and after this a slight shower came on, giving us many fine effects of light and shade and aerial tints. The hills would become of a dark purplish grey or blue, sometimes softened by a thin lawny veil of mist, which, again gradually increasing, enveloped all but a craggy point; and then a minute or two more and they would be enlivened by a faint gleam of sunshine, spreading a dewy green over part of the mountain, while the chief mass retained its dark brown or purple gloom. When shut out from sight-seeing we turned our attention to the etymology of the word Lomond; we tried to answer the question why it was that Loch Loamin means “a lake of islands,” and Ben Lomond “the bare green mountain.” They are both correct and true to nature, but why so? And we had to give it up; we had to admit that Gaelic is unfavourable to philological accuracy. Its words admit of so many changes in form, and from their vocality coalesce so readily together, that a very little ingenuity is sufficient to discover many different radiations in the same compound. But once more the sun shone out, and, turning from these dry roots to something more savoury, we discussed our bill of fare and made up for the liquid loss sustained in the climb. We sympathised with the party who wrote on the window-pane of the Balloch Hotel long ago— O Scotland, grand are thy mountains! But why on their summits Are there not fountains Of good bitter beer From Burton-on-Trent? ’Twould add to their value A hundred per cent.