hand. In each case the pick was placed in the narrow crack already mentioned. The ledge proved to be covered with ice, and had to be cleared before a foot-hold was obtained on it. I am informed that Raeburn on a former occasion, imitating the contortionists, stretched his feet from ledge to gully and managed to cross; but we found this impossible, and access to the gully had to be obtained higher up. The gully itself was filled with ice, and being at a very steep angle, afforded no safety. Leaving the axe here, Parker crept cautiously to the right, where a projecting knob vertically above me afforded the first and only safe hitch. The rope, a sixty-feet one, barely sufficed to turn the knob till I had climbed a few feet. The ascent of the ice-covered slab for the last man would have been impossible but for the rope; but it was excellently used by Parker, and a hand over hand progression for some ten feet landed me on the ledge, whence a detour, first to the right and then to the left, brought me into the gully to recover the ice-axe. From this to the top of the Tower was but a short climb. We counted that the passage of the sixty feet had occupied one and a half hours, during which the temperature of the last man had steadily fallen. Scientific men tell us that the temperature of the body cannot fall more than a few degrees without death; but after holding on to icicles for an hour or more we think there must be some error in their observations. On arriving at the top we received an ovation from a crowd of tourists and others who had been watching our progress farther down on the ridge; but the demoralising effect this had on Parker was sad to relate. While on the rock-wall, butter would not have melted in his mouth; but once in sight of the ladies on the top, the way in which he ordered the married man to lead across the cleft was a sad revelation. The cleft did not prove difficult after our late experiences, nor did the subsequent ascent up the snow-covered rocks to the summit, where we arrived about four hours after we started the climb.

MOUNTAIN MEMORIES.

BY J. G. STOTT.

DEAR MR EDITOR,-Seven years have now passed since the publication of the first number of our Journal. Glancing through the pages of the three handsome volumes into which it has grown, an occupation I often indulge in, -I flatter myself that the predictions I ventured to make in the preface were indeed prophetical. I will not now recapitulate them; but I will aver, without fear of contradiction, that in the fullest measure they have come to pass.

I am much struck with a feature in many of the later articles; it is the opening up of new ground, and the conquest of that which was before deemed very difficult, if not impossible. Compare what used to be said of certain of our better known mountains, in some of the early numbers, with more recent records of ascents. Cliffs and faces, ridges and gullies, formerly thought impracticable, have now succumbed to the "agile Ultramontane," and are numbered, tabulated, and described in most approved orographic phraseology. An increasing spirit of adventure is permeating a large section of the Club; things are now. done that would not have been done in the old days; and exploration is pushed further afield into the remotest fastnesses of the Highlands. I look upon the Journal as in large measure responsible for this vigorous order of things. A strong esprit de corps and feeling of emulation are fostered by it; and under your able management, Mr Editor, it is bringing the Club up to the full of that pitch of excellence foreshadowed by the first President in his memorable opening address.

I doubt if you can altogether appreciate my feelings as I read these back numbers-so far, far away from the scenes they describe. Ah! these good old days, these pleasant faces, these dear old comrades. Stop! one of them I still have with me—a mute companion truly, but none the less a tried and trusty one. In a corner of my room, opposite me as I write, stands a sturdy staff of oak. Warped, weather

bleached, ironshod is he-the veteran of many a hundred leagues of Highland travel, the hero of eight-and-thirty ascents of proud three-thousand-footers of Munro's list, as a long column of graven notches testify, much as Fenimore Cooper's braves notched their rifle stocks for scalps taken.

Come, old friend, let us reminisce together for a while. Maybe 'twill strike a friendly chord in far-away Scotland, and those who know us not may skip the page if the tale is too dull for them.

It was away back in June 1890 that a small party of us foregathered for a sniff of Highland breezes. My two companions could not manage more than one of those delightful week-end expeditions we all know so well; for myself, I meant to take a few more days, and go farther afield. We left Edinburgh, then, one bright Saturday afternoon, and travelled through to Balloch, where we embarked for the sail up Loch Lomond.

Never had the loch looked more charming. Every shade of green and yellow glowed in the woods or rolled in waves of colour along the hill-sides. Wet crags and rocks flashed back the sunbeams; the burns ran riot down the braes; the loch, blue as the sky overhead, shimmered in the sunshine, or laughed in silver ripples on the shingle beaches of the wooded islands. Aloft the grim old Ben bore up the heavens on his rocky peak; and as we travelled sufficiently round him to scan his north-west cliffs, we saw winter's snowdrifts still reposing in many a shady cleft. From Inversnaid, we looked right up the course of the Inveruglas Water into the heart of the rough and rugged mountains of the Macfarlane country-the stalwart Arrochar fraternity-their streams roaring adown the corries; their cliffs throwing darksome shadows; their snow streaks flashing in the sun. And higher up the loch the view disclosed a giant peak, black and minatory against the sunset; and we knew our old love, Ben Laoigh. Then came Ardlui, and the smooth reaches of the Falloch River; and in the quiet of evening we started on our walk up the glen to Crianlarich.

Aye, it is a bonnie walk; the dew is falling now, and the air is heavy with the scent of the larch and the haw

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thorn. Somewhere on the hill a cuckoo is calling; but presently his note gives place to that of the mournful owl. But still the sunset is flaming over the western hill-tops, and golden gleams are pouring through the bealachs, and gilding the opposite side of the glen, where the hawthorns cluster like snowdrifts at the foot of the crags, and the russet heather and bracken mingle with yellow broom and grass of the greenest on those big, bold slopes.

And as we rise along the line of the glen, the Falloch chafes and boils beneath us; and adown deep woodland ravines beside leaps many a flashing cascade to join it, with Gaelic name, sweet-sounding as the turmoil of its waters. All too soon we topped the ascent; the road swung down the brae; and the white gables of Crianlarich came into view, nestling almost at the foot of huge Ben More, whose lofty cone seemed miles away up in the starspangled sky.

The ancient proverb anent men and mice and their schemes was fully and unpleasantly exemplified next morning. When we took our last look round about midnight, the sky was blue and starry, flushed with warmer colour in west and north; the mountains were unclouded, and the air was soft and balmy, dew-laden and heavy with the scent of wild flowers. But while we slept, the weatherdemon had gone to work, slewed round the wind to the east, and nailed it there by the ears; laid his cold paw on the thermometer, and lowered it ten degrees; rummaged up the clouds from the four quarters of heaven, and piled them on all the mountains round about. Thus when we came down from Slumberland, mist and drizzle made things look very cheerless; and of the three hills we had meant to climb not a trace was visible.

Some enthusiasts would have recked little of this-so on occasion have we done-but under present circumstances we spent the morning in a course of tobacco smoke and barometer-beating. I am an infallible believer in thumping the barometer. If you only thump it long enough, it is sure to go up! It did not disappoint us on this occasion, and about mid-day, the weather showing signs of clearing, we departed.

Our plan for the day had been to commence with Ben Chaluim over to the north of Crianlarich, and follow the summit line between Glens Dochart and Lochay, pretty well down to Killin. But it was much too late to attempt this now, so we turned eastward, and for about three miles strolled down Glen Dochart to the foot of Loch Tubhair. Here we crossed the river, and laid a diagonal course over hummocky moorland to reach the upper waters of the Riobain Burn. We soon made up our minds to confine our attention to Meall Chuirn, as the nicest-looking "top" in sight. It is a little over 3,000 feet in height, and when you are pretty well under it, you mount over slopes of bent and heather, some of them very steep, and reach the shoulder. This is a really very handsome little rocky peak, quite the best among the summits immediately surrounding; and having surmounted its last ledge, and stretched yourself out by the cairn, you are surprised at the singular excellence of the view you command. From no other point is there a finer view of Ben More. His peak overtops us by over 800 feet, and although six miles away in the south-west, quite overwhelms us. From base to summit it is one long steep slope. The slopes of Ben More are, I think, the longest in the kingdom. The rocky cone of the Binnein peeps from behind his great mossy brother; and over its shoulder again are seen Balquhidder's braes, and the rugged Bens to the east of Glen Falloch. Farther round to westward is the Ben Laoigh group. Grand old Laoigh himself looks regal from here. Imagine a huge rocky cone that has been cleft down the chine, and one-half removed bodily. Now tear the inside out of what is left, plaster his black old ribs with ice and snow, pull one of them half out here and there, and heap up the shattered ruin of the rest of the mountain round about, then you will have some idea of him. Viewed from the north-east in the first half of the year, Ben Laoigh is one of the most imposing mountains we have.

Then the eye travelled on to Cruachan, and thence north and eastwards to the clans of giants away about Blackmount, Dalness, and Mamore-Ben Heasgarnich's flat snowy top forming the stepping-stone to Meall Ghaordie,