Then, around its foot, as we saw on our way up, there is much that will please botanists. We passed here quite a small battalion of them, each with the symbol of his order—a vasculum. Here are to be seen dark red spikes of fumitory, which Shakespeare calls “rank fumitory,” from its abundance, a sign of waste ground. It is a pretty little flower. The flowers bruised in milk is a favourite village cosmetic. Among the nettles is borage, a plant whose azure-blue blossoms and little white rims at the centre figure so prominently in Titian’s picture of the “Last Supper of our Lord,” and which has called forth the warmest praise of Mr. Ruskin. At one time every country garden had its plant of borage. It was used for quite a variety of purposes, and like many a good but plain individual, it is better than its ragged appearance would lead us to imagine. You need not be at all surprised if a cock pheasant steps out proudly from the thicket, or if a squirrel darts up a tree, or a rabbit comes out of the brackens to see what you are after, or a partridge should alight on the stump of some tree that has seen better days. A walk back to Darvel for the coach to Newmilns station will enable the traveller to reach Glasgow early in the evening. TINTO. If any one wishes for perfect quiet, and to be well out of the way of smoke and bustle, of duns and other visitors—in fact, has a particular desire to find within 40 miles of Glasgow a place which, for all practical purposes, shall be to him or to her the world’s end—let him make up his mind to spend a day on the top of that well-known yet comparatively little climbed hill, Tinto. And for this purpose let him take a return ticket and follow us to Symington—and there is Tinto, or the Hill of Fire, before his view. There can be no mistake as to what we have come out to see. There is not much to distract our attention from the object we have in view, nothing near of a like kind to compete with it. There it stands, like a large self-contained house, all others at a respectable distance from it, not to be mistaken with any other—nay, as destitute of relations as Melchisedeck, a great porphyritic hill, dominating like a king over the Upper Ward. After leaving the station, a quarter of a mile to the south, there is a camp still to be seen covering half an acre. This takes us back in thought to that old Simon Liscard, who, in the days of Malcolm the Fourth or William the Lion, got this district as a territory, and called the settlement Symon’s Town, abbreviated into Symontown, and again corrupted or improved, according to the individual taste, into Symington.