way, however, is at once to turn east from the bealach and cross the rocks aforesaid. Now the fun begins. No course can be laid down. The climber can disport himself as he thinks best. It will take one and a half to two hours to reach the grass saddle, by narrow ledges, over walls, down and up a dozen little ravines, where there is never any difficulty however. There is no more drinking water after this until a long descent has been made, possibly some hours later.

On arriving at the saddle an entirely new and striking view eastward presents itself, whilst the summit wall of Clach Glas shows in the form of a massive tower, like the menagerie monster, "terrifying to the beholder." The illustration to represent the scene is drawn from a careful sketch taken at this point. Where the ridge is not pinnacled it consists of steeply sloping slabs-in many cases cut off smoothly on the edge-terraced at intervals by grassy ledges, the whole surmounted by the great central tower-just 200 feet from base to summit-whose walls are not many degrees removed from the perpendicular. With the exception of the few hundred feet of ridge rock, the eastern side appears for the most part to be merely grass slopes to the valley below.

Instead of taking to the rocks at once, Donald led off along a grass traverse. We objected, being resolved to follow the crest of the ridge. The answer was, "She will be on the ritch soon enough." We insisted, in spite of protests about the time required, and in the result “went the whole hog, every bristle," as Dr Rose expressed it. There was nothing specially noteworthy until the foot of the tower was reached. Here again our guide wanted to pick an easy way, but, yielding to pressure, consented to climb direct from the neck. Whilst he and Dr Rose were engaged here, I thought I saw a more sporting way, and presently found myself on the west face of the tower. Soon further progress was impracticable. To retire was ignominious. A glance downwards revealed a prospect of immediate dissolution and eternity, so the next best thing was to climb up by such hold as there was for some twenty-five or thirty feet, and rejoin my companions as they were finishing a tough little bit. I forget the exact number of hundreds of pounds sterling that was fixed as the price of temptation to go my way; whatever the sum, it was but a figurative form of saying that it looked bad. As I had no intention of losing either hold or head, there was no risk, and I found that my confidence was not betrayed when I whispered to the rock, "You stick to me, and I'll stick to you." It is, as we all know, the keen enjoyment of such moments that lifts a climb out of the ordinary, although I should be the last to say that Coolin climbing can ever be called monotonous. It is always a succession of surprises; if the difficulties are seldom great, the problems are none the less interesting, and the chances of sport endless. Besides, there is the ever-present possibility of a fall resulting in a body being, in the words of the Ettrick Shepherd, "dashed on the stanes intil a blash o' bluid." This keeps the wits alive.

After the first fifty feet or so there is no difficulty, and the top of the tower is soon reached. The height is given in Dr Collie's tables (Vol. II., p. 171) as 2,590 feet. There is just room to perch like the eagles that had been pluming themselves shortly before our arrival. Leaving the summit, the way for six or eight yards is along a good crack

in a sloping slab, followed by a steep and rather rotten and narrow arête of some sixty feet in height, requiring caution. This is Mr Pilkington's "impostor." Looking back it will be seen that the way down has been only a few inches from the edge of a perpendicular face of rock, at least a hundred feet high. No wonder it impressed the first climbers as looking far worse than it turned out to be. The rest of the way to the last bealach simply requires careful scrambling, but is narrow. From there a descent may be made into Lonely Corrie, but it is usual to take Blaven into the day's work. First there is a steep fifteen-feet wall. The hold is ample, but the landing on the grass above will have to be effected by sprawling over the edge. Should one be descending instead of ascending this place, the last step will very likely be a combined tumble and jump, if the experience of three at least of our party in 1893 is any criterion. The rock is so steep as almost to compel one to fall off. The northern end of Blaven is a perfect maze of shattered pinnacles. It appears to be generally want of time that prevents scrambling amongst these, and the guides leave them severely alone. We therefore proceed over open grassy ground to where two stone shoots are distinctly seen a little way ahead. The second of these is the better and shorter one to take; both lead into an enclosed place, Mr Naismith's half-crown pinnacle forming the eastern side. Facing south we next climb a pretty sixty-feet chimney, leading to the final walk to the top of Blaven. The second top is quite close, but not worth visiting; and here, parenthetically it may be said, let no one be deluded into walking along the ridge of Blaven to descend at Camasunary—it is a fraud. The view from Blaven is very fine, and it would be well to make much of it as a moral tonic before descending to Loch an Athain. If one arrives there unshaken and in a serene frame of mind, and has not known rebellious thoughts on the way down, he must be of a more gracious disposition than the majority of his fellows. Those Blaven screes have this to be said for them, they dwarf the trudge homewards along Glen Sligachan into a mere detail.

For the drawing taken from the foot of Drumhain I have had the advantage of supplementing a sketch with

details from photographs by Mr John N. Kitching. The third small illustration is drawn from a fine photograph taken by Mr J. B. Pettigrew on the summit of Marsco. It shows

Am Fraoch Coire, the bealach connecting Garbh Bheinn with the Red Stack, and the rock walls of Lonely Corrie unusually well, Clach Glas assuming a very sharp-edged appearance.

ASCENT OF SUILVEN BY THE GREY CASTLE. BY PROFESSOR G. G. RAMSAY.

"A PERFECT Matterhorn!" was the cry; and then a long and loud "Whoo-hoop! whoo-hoop!" repeated again and again, broke from my son Malcolm and myself as the splendid form of Suilven, seen in profile from the east, burst upon us for the first time. It was a lovely evening, the 26th August 1895. I had never seen the mountain before; I did not know that Scotland contained a hill so fine in shape, so unique in its isolation. We had walked all day westwards from Lairg, along the road, with our packs upon our backs -a charming but uneventful walk. Over the long rolling heather slopes, in their finest Tyrian hues, to Rosehall; up the Oykell to Oykell Bridge and Oykell Bridge Inn, with its well-spread tea-table; then up the quiet-going ascent which gradually carries the Inchnadamph road across the watershed between East and West. So far, we had been coming up a sweet Highland valley, with its never-ending beauties and varieties of form, colour, and material, but without one outstanding feature—no jagged outline, no peak, to challenge the mountaineering instinct. We stroll leisurely up the hill, across a bit of flat moor, and unconsciously reach the watershed: and then, O ye gods of the mountains! what a glorious sight is before us! In one moment the scene has changed, and the full glory of western form and colour breaks upon us. The sun is setting in yellow splendour, paving with gold a strip of distant sea; in the foreground is spread a broad low waste of wild and rugged moor, studded with lochs and tarns innumerable, out of whose somewhat dreary flats three magnificent hills toss their heads into the air. Canisp, on the right, his long razor-like crest running straight away from us; on the left, the long sweep of Cùl Mòr, caught up at intervals into points from which it hangs in folds like massive drapery; while right in front, most superb of all, Suilven leaps out of the earth, erect and solitary, as if disdaining all intercourse with his kind. Foreshortened as we look at him from this point, his three peaks show only as two, of which the eastern, in reality