them. In front are Bute and the two Cumbraesgolden islands bathed in sunlight; far away to the left are the hills of Argyle; and on the right the dark wall of Holy-Island shuts in the view. We descend rapidly, but not without difficulty, to the entrance of Glen-Sannox. We can see, even in the dark, the beautiful burn rolling on its white bed towards the sea and we pause for a moment at the old graveyard near the shore. A chapel once stood here dedicated to St. Michael, but nothing remains of it now beyond an almost obliterated image of the saint which has been built into the wall of the cemetery. It is a sad and lonely place- sad, even when seen at noon, and answers well to that description which Wordsworth has given of 'A Place of Burial in the South of Scotland: '

:

Part fenced by man, part by a rugged steep

That curbs a foaming brook, a Grave-yard lies;
The hare's best couching-place for fearless sleep;
Which moonlit elves, far seen by credulous eyes,
Enter in dance. Of church, or Sabbath ties,
No vestige now remains; yet thither creep
Bereft Ones, and in lowly anguish weep

Their prayers out to the wind and naked skies.

SEPTEMBER.

When soft September brings again
To yonder gorse its golden glow,
And Snowdon sends its autumn rain
To bid thy current livelier flow;
Amid that ashen foliage light
When scarlet beads are glittering bright,
While alder boughs unchanged are seen
In summer livery of green;

When clouds before the cooler breeze

Are flying, white and large; with these
Returning so may I return,

And find thee changeless, Pont-y-wern.

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH, Written on a Bridge.

XXXIV. - REMINISCENCES:

BEN-GHOIL AND

LOCH RANZA.

Moston: Sept. 3, 1878.

ALTHOUGH the hazel and the birch are the most frequent trees in Arran, as, if we may judge from the conventional use made of them in Scottish poetry, they probably are in other parts of Scotland, yet the charmed rowan or mountain-ash, as we call it in England, is common enough to make it a feature in the scenery. And so there is a thread of connection,

if it be but a slender one, between our temporary home by the sea and that to which we have just returned, for almost the first thing which caught my attention in the garden here was the mountain-ash, gay with the bravery of its coral-like berries. I think the clusters are not of so brilliant a scarlet as those which we have left behind in the island woods, but still the tree is the same, and the fancy runs back to a certain nook on the mountain side, where of late I have often stood, knee-deep in fern, by a streamlet which comes down a narrow gorge, and being myself in shadow, have seen, up in the clear sunlight, the waving branches of a slender rowan, bright red and green, against the white cloud or the smokeless blue of the sky above.

Before we settle down to the quiet record of country life here it may be worth while to catch up a few reminiscences of Arran while they are yet fresh in the mind. To remain long on the Island without attempting the ascent of the highest mountain is a kind of practical heresy which exposes you to constant reproach. It is well, therefore, to have it disposed of as early as possible. It must not be supposed, however, that the task is merely a perfunctory one, for few of our British mountains will better repay the trouble of climbing. Goatfell has two summits. The southern one is 2,866 feet in height, and the northern one 2,628. It stands

back some two or three miles from the eastern coast, and is between Brodick and Corrie. The name

Goatfell,' by the way, is a vulgar and unmeaning corruption, and should be discarded. Its real appellation is Ben-Ghaoith, 'the Mountain of the Winds;' or, more euphoniously, Ben-Ghoil. Sir Walter Scott gives it in the latter forın :—

The sun, ere yet he sunk behind

Ben-Ghoil, 'the Mountain of the Wind,'
Gave his grim peaks a greeting kind.

The easiest ascent is from Brodick; but we took the shorter, though more difficult, one which rises. from Corrie. It was three in the afternoon when we started. That was a mistake, for the day is then too hot for climbing, and we found it hard work at first. The way lies through the hamlet of High-Corrie—a picturesque gathering of huts up on the hill-side-and then along the Whitewater until that stream-which, lower down, falls through a deep and wooded chasmhas become narrow and shallow enough to be crossed. Here it runs perfectly pellucid over a smooth bed of white stone, and, even under the burning sun, it is as cold as if it flowed from caves of ice. Before Before you now is the wild hollow, rock-strewn and thick with heather, which lies between Ben-Ghoil and AmBinnein. To the left is a steep and narrow ridge.

This must be scaled; and, as there is no path, you have to clamber from rock to rock and wade breasthigh through the heather. Once on the ridge it is easier work, and you see the long and winding road coming over the moorland from Brodick. But what is this portentous thing which, having reached the end of the ridge, still rises above us? It is the last peak; and, looked at from below, seems almost inaccessible. A more extraordinary piece of naturebuilding—a pyramid of huge granite slabs piled wildly one on the top of another-it would be difficult to imagine. A path, however, is found amongst the rocks, and the constant tread of feet has made it tolerably easy. The summit itself is simply a broad and bare platform of rock; the last, in fact, of the great slabs which build up the north front. As at Snowdon, so here-the ascent up what I should call the outside of the mountain is comparatively commonplace; but the moment you reach the peak and see the inner recesses, a prospect of bewildering beauty breaks upon you. For a moment all the wild peaks and deep glens which seem to run from north and west towards Ben-Ghoil are clear and distinct, and amaze you by their number and their fantastic variety; but suddenly a mass of white vapour, not wet mist but sun-lighted cloud, rolls and tosses over