dimpling of the waves of the deep.' 'Of ocean waves thou smile innumerous!' In Milton there is a parallel Cheer'd with the grateful smell old Ocean smiles. In Byron the resemblance is closer : There, mildly dimpling, Ocean's cheek Caught by the laughing tides that lave In one of John Keble's hymns it takes the follow ing form : When up some woodland dale we watch The many-twinkling smile of ocean, Still as the surging waves retire We cannot choose but think he lives. The life of Corrie is, of course, coloured much more by the sea than it is by the mountains. There is some quarrying of sandstone, a little on the way towards Brodick; and there are a few shepherds; but the men live chiefly by boating and fishing. About half-way through the village there is an old and picturesque stone harbour, lying at the foot of a little cleft in the hill, where limestone was formerly got. Here there are generally to be seen two or three trading smacks—the 'Bella,' and the ‘Jeannie,' and the 'Zephyr.' They take loads of sand or gravel to Glasgow, and return with any cargo they can get, coming round, perhaps, by the Head of Loch Fyne, or the Sound of Mull, or the coast of Cantire, and so making a voyage of about a fortnight. Here too are the fishing boats and the strange-looking trestlessome twenty feet in height-on which the fishermen spread out their nets to dry. These trestles give quite a character to the place, especially when they are seen standing out against the last gleam of twilight in the north. People who know Clovelly well say that this particular part of Corrie gives them just a slight remembrance of that unique village in the West. The fishermen get sea-trout along the shore; farther out to sea they find whiting, mackerel, haddock, and gurnet; for herrings they go to Loch Ranza, or to Mauchrie Bay, on the west side of Arran. These fisher folk are a curious race and quite half amphibious. They should, at any rate, I think, be included in the marine zoology of the island. They like the water better than the land, and always turn their faces to the sea as a sunflower to the sun. One fine old fellow interests me much. He must be nearly ninety, for his father came to the island and entered 1 into the service of the 'third duke back' one hundred and twenty years ago. From morning till night he hangs about the sea, and is ever looking wistfully over the water, as if he thought some ship might bring back the lost treasures of his youth. In sunny weather he sits basking on the top of the rocks; in rain and storm he crouches behind them; but all the same, his eyes are ever fixed on the sea. He has had his troubles. Thirty years ago he lost his wife, who was the 'bonniest woman on the island;' when he was over sixty he broke his leg, and was lame for years; and his lad-his 'braw lad'-well, the bitter war, the Crimean war, took him and never sent him back. And yet he is cheery, and looks to the now near and inevitable end with pious hope. Like most Scotchmen of the past generation, he is great in the 'Auld Testament.' He thinks the 'ministers are often a' wrang,' and is confident in his own ability to set them right upon certain crucial points in Scotch theology. My own notion is that most 'ministers' would find him a grim and tough antagonist to deal with. Finally, I must say of him, that he looks over the comedy of life with a philosophic eye, and has arrived at certain broad and incontestable conclusions. One of his favourite sayings is the following: 'Well, there's a deal o' ingenuity in maun. His Maker's work is varra perfect, an' a'togither wonderful; but there's somethin' in oursells, too-somethin' in oursells; an' a deal o' ingenuity in maun.' XXXIII. ON THE MOUNTAIN. Corrie: August 27. I HAVE spoken already of the nearness of the sea; the hills are equally near. We reach the mountainfoot as easily as we do the sea-margin. Turning by the garden wall we begin to climb at the first step. Not that we are at once scaling the precipitous granite, or ascending the dark and tortuous glen; but we are immediately on that steep, green foreland, which is literally the foot of the mountain stretched forward into the sea. It is one of the peculiarities of Arran, and especially of the northern section, that the great central peaks are everywhere belted, towards the sea, by this green terrace, which runs along with singular distinctness and regularity at a height of four or five hundred feet. It is said to indicate the ancient level of the water. If that be so the sea must once have broken upon the sheer granite. Immediately over the village we pause at the gate of a little garden, for which room has been found on the steep hill-side. It belongs to Dugald, the shep herd. Dugald is one of the characters of Corrie. He has a large sheep farm, and we rarely go on to the hills without finding him somewhere about, wandering with slow stride and peering up and down, into the thickets and along the hollows of the water-courses, looking for his sheep; or hallooing to his dog away in the distant corrie. He is a kindly and open-hearted creature, gentle as befits his occupation-a 'gentle shepherd' in fact. He knows all the ferns and plants, and where the rarest are to be found. He will tell you the names of the peaks, direct you to the passes, and show you how to find your way over the ridges out of one wild glen into another. He knows the weather, too; and with a look at the sky all round will apprise you of what is coming. On the beach the prophecies are very wide, and generally resolve themselves into the tolerably safe statement-'Ah, weel, there may be shooers, but they'll be doin' ye no harm; just keep ye green that's a'. But Dugald is more precise. He will inform you when there will be thunder in the south; and when you may expect wind from the east ; and when the hill-tops will be clear enough for a long and adventurous climb. For two things he has unbounded admiration-the great patches of blooming heather, which he says are grander than all the flowers of the South; and-either with or without the national |