fied fort, very rare in the Hebrides. The rocks seem to have been piled and burnt into a sort of flint-glass, probably the work of the early Kelts. It is one of the four peels of McDonald-Knoch, Duntulm, Kylakin, and Dunscaith.

The coast road from Armadale leads by Kinloch Daal to Kyle Inn, and thence we may cross the hills to Broadford, or coast round by Kylehakin, where there is a ruined peel-Castlemaoil, built by a Norwegian lady, who had married a laird in Skye. And in our course, especially if we ascend Ben Ashlaig, or the scuir over Broadford, we behold in perspective eastward, Glenelg smiling in its wild and rich beauty, Ben Scree lifting high its peak above it, and of Cairn Gorm that towers over Loch Alsh; and there is the Cailleach stone on the strait where Hacho anchored his fleet, and far beyond the ravines of Loch Duich, with its Eilean Donan Castle, and those of Glen Stivie, in which roll down the falls of the Glomac, the loftiest in Britain.

We contemplate the survey of Loch Coruisk from Broadford-twenty miles of rough walking; but that is light labour after hours of soft slumber, and in a cool summer day, with fleecy cumulus clouds, that always promise faithfully; so we rise with the lark, or before her; and there are coffee and fresh milk, and eggs boiled one minute and a half, and roll two days old; and so, with fine bannocks and whiskey in our pouch, we are ready. Seven miles to Torrin, which may be reached with car or pony, from which we are to run by the Spar Cave to Scavig, one mile from the bay to Coruisk, and nine to Slichagan. Ben na Cailleach, the Hag Hill, 3000 feet high, is on our right, and on its top a

cairn, the grave of a Norwegian princess, and Glamaig, one of the red hills of porphyry and sienite. The route leads by Broadford water, and by Kilchrish, the black lochs lying off on the left. There are, 'tis true, burnies to be waded, but this is little trouble, and they form a pure bath for the feet. When heavy floods have swollen them to torrents they must not be attempted. This route is a course of wild beauty, elevated to the sublime, as Blaven and the Cuchullins loom in the distance. On the beach at Torrin we may take boat (one holding six for twenty-four shillings) and scud round the point of Strath to Scavig, and so visit by the way the two caverns of Strathaird; or, landing at Kilmore, we may wind over a wild mountain track to Camusanary, under Blaven; or we may diverge to the left, along Loch Slapin's western cliff, to the Spar Cave, and rounding the cliff by Elicho, meet a boat at the Cave of the Prince. The walk is fertile in scenic and geologic interest, the red hills lifting their majestic cones like those of Auvergne. Blaven, or Blath-bhein, the

Mountain of the Blast, rises most majestically the monarch of the red range. The view on the ascent is glorious, ranging over Skye and its satellites, and the land and coast rocks of Inverness and Argyl, the Cuchullin hills frowning in the finest relief over Glen Sligachan, and the deer forest beneath our feet, from Blaven to Loch Aynort. There are "stags of ten" roaming abroad unstalked; and perchance that is a hart royal swelling his broad front on yonder scaur. We may not moralize with Jacques, for there is no "poor and broken bankrupt, that from the hunter's aim had

ta'en a hurt;" but the vision of St. Hubert will float before us—a fair deer, bearing the cross upon his antlers. But there is one perilous step on Blaven that even checks the shepherds of Aird; for the Saddle of Blaven is only one foot wide for the space of two yards, and ravines of immense depth on either side. On these limestone beds of Aird we may often light on the Dryas octopetala trailing along its dark oak-leaves, and displaying its beautiful white asteroid flowers.

The Spar Cave is in strict seclusion on the western shore of Loch Slapin; and the wanderer must not be without an attendant and a torch. The cavern is ten feet wide, and about forty deep. The ascending floor looks as if it were of white ice suddenly congealed, or of marble dust petrified by some instantaneous agency while yet slightly in motion. It may be that we must wade from the boat on hands and knees on this slippery floor, clutching a friendly rope for our safety; then we ascend to a gallery of frosted or crystallized marble, beautifully embossed with stalactites, and immensely varied in form; and beneath is a black lakelet, and around and about are quartz rocks, standing out in eccentric shapes like spectres turned into stone by the spells of a gnome king. Across the lake we see two pillars of white crystal beautifully encrusted and embossed with deposits of lime; but here the splendour ends, for this fairy arch leads only to a rude and stony chaos. At Elicho, by Prince Charles's Cave, we may perchance find a boat to carry us to Scavig, or a private boat, by favour, at Camusanary. The cliffs are rising into beauty, and there is a fine arch near the point.

The deeper we penetrate into Scavig the more majestic are the buttresses which adorn it. It is a deep dark cove, studded with spectral blocks and pillars; and with the flickering of light and shadow as they play on one and another of these fairy blocks the changeful hues and shades constitute the scene one beautiful dioramic

picture. And there are two burnies in the depth of the bay: the tiny Alt-haich on the left, and on the right the stream from Loch Coruisk, roll down in yon torrent of foam over the deep amber rocks like a shower of shivering pearls, as high as the mast of a tall bark, that may almost close on the cliff, so abrupt is its bold face, and so deep the pure green water at its very

base; yet Scavig, shut in as it is by these giant rocks on the Atlantic, and by its breakwater, the bank of Soa, may be calm and glassy as a Cumbrian lake. In a southern gale and spring-tide and flood, the billows lash the rocks, and meet the rolling waterfalls as it were half way-a scene of most magnificent effect. So fine a meeting of the waters, the fresh and the saline, is rarely seen in Britain. There is a little islet near the base of the cliff, Eilean nan Ice, and above it a perilous pass, the Slippery Step. And now to climb among grey column rocks, and cliffs, and clefts, to yon ridge, so completely arrayed in yellow, and black, and rufous lichens, especially the bright and golden Squamaria elegans, and thrift peeping out of the sheltered fissures, and a tuft of starved heather here and there; beyond these, botany is here a blank. At the edge of the spray tortoiseshell frogs are leaping, and trouts, yellow and speckled, are glancing like gold and silver arrows in the pale water, or rising at the flies in multitudes.

On the left rises Garsven, the Hill of Shouting-over it the fissured peaks of Scuir-nan-Eig and Scuir-Dhu, throwing down their sable shadows over the bottomless Corrie, and Corrie Iaghan, the cone of Trooba; Drunhain is on the right, coming down with its ocean cliffs, and dividing the ravines of two sister lakes. We climb to a bold and horizontal crag, and the glorious scene bursts forth in all its perfection, the sable peaks of the Cuchullins peer up into the clouds, which are floating down low into the valley; there are dark umber corries and clefts, and silver ribbon streamlets. And there, in the depth of the ravine, lies the dark mirror of Loch