On leaving Loch Ewe, we stood away southward for the Sound of Rona, but the weather was hazy and the wind adverse; so that it took us twenty-four hours to reach Portree, the capital of Skye. The scenery on both sides of the narrow strait that separates the islands of Rona and Rasay from Skye is wild and stern; rugged mountains and lofty cliffs, a streak of foam here and there marking where a waterfall pours into the sea, and extensive moorlands of dark brown heath sloping away into the interior. In a few spots there is some appearance of verdure, but with the exception of some stunted and scraggy bushes, no trace of foliage.

The Bay of Portree forms a spacious land-locked harbour, on the north side of which stands the village, built along a steep slope. The entrance is narrow, between two lofty headlands, which form the commencement of a splendid range of coast scenery, extending northward to the Point of Aird. We found ourselves surrounded by a perfect fleet of fishing-boats and herring-coupers, as they are here termed. These are, for the most part, powerful sloop-rigged vessels, whose crews do not fish themselves, but buy from the fishermen. They are often very fast sailers. The scene around was very busy and picturesque; the quay, where an active traffic was being carried on, piled up and cumbered with herring-boxes, nets hanging from posts on shore, or depending from the rigging of vessels in the bay; boats constantly arriving and setting sail; and, above all, a perfect Babel of tongues, bargaining, abusing, and cajoling, in Gaelic and English.

It was Sunday morning when we arrived, and, on landing, we found that the service was in Gaelic; so, as the day was a remarkably fine one for Skye, whose weeping climate is proverbial, I left my companion to wait for the afternoon service, which was in English, and set out to walk to the Storr Hill, about seven miles to the north of Portree. The path leads at first along the bottom of a wide valley, bounded by a gentle acclivity, on surmounting which two lakes are seen filling up a similar hollow beyond. Keeping these lakes on his right, the traveller proceeds until he arrives at

their extremity, when he will reach the foot of the Storr, with a steep ascent of about one thousand feet before him. This surmounted, he will find himself close to a huge precipice of black rock, on the seaward side of which a number of isolated pinnacles of the most varied and fantastic forms, and of enormous size, jut out from the side of the hill, at every variety of inclination, whilst between these and the precipice above alluded to is a deep narrow valley, or rather chasm, strewed with fractured masses of stone. It would be difficult to imagine a more stern and dismal spot than this, especially under the aspect in which I beheld it; upon one hand that wall of black rock; on the other, these rugged pinnacles, and the deep ravine between, half filled with drifting wreaths of mist, now clearing off and disclosing frowning crags and yawning fissures; then, again, settling down, and involving everything in gloom and obscurity. I have never seen any place which more completely fulfilled, and, indeed, surpassed my expectations, than this Storr Hill. Below the pinnacles, it slopes rapidly down into the valley, which then rises gently for more than a mile, when it terminates in steep cliffs, which dip abruptly into the waters of the sound. The most conspicuous and remarkable of the crags which project from the face of the Storr is that called the needle-an enormous mass, nearly a hundred yards in circumference at the base, and about as high as the Scott monument in Edinburgh. It inclines so much, that I should think a plumbline dropped from the summit would fall thirty or forty feet beyond its base. Anglers should observe the lake nearest the Storr, where the fishing is open to all, and in which, as Mr. Skene of Portree informed me, it is no uncommon day's fishing to kill from twenty to thirty pounds of trout.

I got back to Portree about half-past five, but not without experiencing the provoking variableness of the weather, as the last three miles of my journey were performed under a perfect deluge of rain.

Next day we drove to Sligachan Inn, at the entrance to the magnificent glen of the same name, and near the foot of Scuir-na-Gillean,* the loftiest peak of the Cuchullin hills, which disputes

with Ben Blaven the honour of being the highest mountain in Skye. My companion hired a guide and a pony to proceed up the glen, cross the ridge, and descend upon the far-famed Loch Corruisk. This I had formerly seen; so I remained behind to sketch and fish. I caught some fine sea-trout in the Sligachan river, and afterwards tried, though not with much success, on account of the stillness of the day, a small moorland tarn, about a mile distant from the inn. By far the best fly for the Sligachan water is one dressed with a full, roughish-green body and brown wings.

Late in the evening my friend returned, sorely jolted and shaken by the rough roads over which he and his quadruped had passed, and with his feeling for the beautiful quite swallowed up in a sense of his bodily fatigue. Added to this, he was exorbitantly charged for the Celt and the pony, so that when we left the inn for Portree it was certainly not a blessing that parted from his lips. The innkeeper's niece, known in this part of the world as Mary of Sligachan, is the principal person in the establishment, which she seems to manage with much address. We received a great deal of information from her with regard to the roads and scenery around, which she dispensed with a more than feminine share of volubility, looking quite picturesque in the broad-brimmed wide-awake, which she wore to shade her from the sun, which may occasionally be felt in Glen Sligachan, though it is said that the oldest inhabitant scarcely remembers a day without a shower.

We set sail from Portree in the forenoon of a fine day, with a steady easterly breeze, hoping easily to reach Loch Alsh by the evening; but we were again doomed to experience and to suffer from the mutability of this singular climate. It continued bright and warm until two o'clock, when we were between the islands of Scalpa and Rasay, where we lay becalmed for some time, though at a little distance on either side there was a strong breeze. Presently it came on to blow so hard where we lay that we had to take in sail, and soon after a dense fog settled down all round us. The result was, that instead of proceeding, we were glad to come-to for the night in Clachan Bay, close to the beautiful

residence of Mr. Rainy, of Rasay, whose yacht, the Falcon, was anchored close to us.

Next day we got sail on the cutter at six o'clock, and, with a fine leading wind from the north-west, which continued steady throughout the day, passed through the narrow channel which at Kyleakin separates Skye from the mainland. The position of this village is very romantic; and every one must admire the ruins of Castle Moyle, whose shattered and weatherstained walls look down upon the strait. At Balmacara, in the district of Loch Alsh, the scenery assumes a more gentle and sylvan aspect. Here we diverged from our course for the purpose of visiting Loch Duich, an arm of the sea whose beauty we had heard highly praised; nor did we find this praise misplaced. We sailed somewhat beyond the ruins of Eilan Donan Castle, the ancient stronghold of the Mackenzies of Kintail, built in the thirteenth century as a defence against the Northmen, to whom most of the western isles belonged, and who often ravaged the coasts of Scotland. From this point we had a good view of the head of the loch, and the noble mountains which overshadow it.

An arm of the sea, called Loch Loung, diverges from Loch Duich; a small river flows into the head of it; and some miles up the southern branch of this stream is the finest waterfall in Scotland, the Glomak, nearly twice the height of the better known fall of Foyers, in Invernesshire. The scenery around it is wild and desolate; and where the stream leaps into the deep chasm below there is no trace of foliage, not even a blade of grass, nothing but barren rocks.

On leaving Loch Duich we entered the sound of Sleat, which for more than twenty miles separates Skye from the mainland of Invernesshire. Both sides of this strait are of wonderful and varied beauty. There are lofty and rugged mountains, wild tracts of heath, and sea lochs running far into the mainland; but there are also sheltered pastoral valleys and quiet bays, with undulating wood-covered hills sloping up from the waters of the sound.

One of the most beautiful scenes is Glenelg. There is a fine sweep of a bay, with several neat white houses peeping out of thick foliage, and the ruins of an extensive barrack, built in

the last century, to overawe the turbulent Highlanders. On the Skye side, Armadale, the residence of Lord Macdonald, with its verdant sward, and well-kept policies, is a sweet spot. Nothing on the mainland more forcibly attracts and rivets the attention than the opening to Loch Hourn,* guarded by the lofty Ben Screel. Its form is very noble, and, from the sharp summit its outlines sweep down in grand curves to the water. We regretted much that our time did not allow us to explore this loch, as all the adjacent mountains are highly picturesque, and it forms a splendid anchorage, within which the British navy might ride in safety. Southward of Loch Hourn is Loch Nevish,† also a fine sheet of water and a good harbour, but the scenery around it is of a quieter and tamer cha

racter.

After passing the point of Sleat, the views of Ben Blaven and of the Cuchullin range were varied and magnificent in the extreme. Years before I had beheld them; but then their sharp peaks were seen peeping through wreaths of drifting mist, or were entirely hid by heavy rain clouds; now the scene was quite changed; the sky was cloudless, and the dark serrated peaks of the Coolins and the less pointed summits of Ben Blaven stood out sharply defined against the clear blue. Our course brought us in full view of the island of Rum, a mass of mountains which, even in the neighbourhood of the Coolins, asserts its claim to admiration. This island belongs to the Marquis of Salisbury, having been bought by him for a deer forest. Beyond Rum, we passed close to Eig, distinguished by a strangely shaped precipitous rock, called the Scaur of Eig. In the distance were the islands of Canna, Coll, and Tiree. Towards the evening we rounded the rocky point of Ardnamurchan, which is exposed to the full swell of the Atlantic, and where a well-appointed light-house has recently been erected. We then entered the Sound of Mull, passed the grey old castle of Mingary, and concluded the most successful day's run we had had by casting anchor in the land-locked Bay of Tobermory.

We found two English yachts in the

bay; one of them was the Surprise, a beautiful little cutter of sixteen tons, belonging to the Mersey Yacht Club; she had been lying for some days in Loch Scavig, in Skye, from which she had just arrived. The other was a very long, low, racing-looking craft, in beautiful order, which, on inquiring, we found to be the far-famed Volante, one of the fastest cutters in England. She had come from London, round the the Land's End, and was now preparing for her return southwards.

The village of Tobermory is built along one side of a semicircular bay, the other side of which is covered by the woods of Drumfin, belonging to a Mr. Crawford, whose house is quite buried in foliage. Near it is a beautiful little lake, embosomed in trees; and from it flows a stream which tumbles, in a pretty cascade, into the bay. Some of the houses in Tobermory are painted a bright yellow, and the natives have a strange way of constructing signboards; above the shops part of the wall is painted red, and upon this is printed the name and trade of the owner. It is merely the Mull fashion of puffing.

Early on the morning after our arrival the Volante started to sail up Loch Sunart, a long arm of the sea, which, for twenty miles, indents the mainland opposite Mull. We also set sail, and followed in her wake. The entrance to Loch Sunart is beset with rocks, but, once within, the channel is clear and safe. We, however, effected the entrance in safety, although we had no pilot; indeed during our whole cruise we never had a pilot on board. Our sailing-master was cautious and experienced, and we had excellent charts, and these we found amply sufficient. The shores and islands of Loch Sunart present pictures of varied and romantic beauty. Undulating hills, clothed with verdure, rise gently from the water. the rocks and mountains are thickly fringed and covered with copsewood- and, in many a green spot and sheltered nook along its shores are nestled little thatched hamlets, or sunny, whitewashed farmhouses. We penetrated some distance above Salen, a fishing village, beautifully situated, and al

most buried amongst the woods that encircle a deep and quiet bay. On our return we had to beat down the loch against a strong breeze, but we got back to Tobermory in time to land and walk across the island to an elevated point, from which we had a glorious view of the sun setting behind the distant islands of Coll and Tiree.

Our homeward course lay by the west side of the Island of Mull, passing the singular group known as the Trishinish islands, one of which is called the Dutchman's Cap, and resembles a wide-awake, with a particularly broad brim. Afterwards, favoured by the weather, we visited the caves of Staffa, and the ruins at Iona, but these are so well known, and have been so often and eloquently described, that any notice from us would be equally presumptuous and unneces

sary.

We then steered for the sound of Isla, passing Colonsay, the property of the Lord Justice-General of Scot

land. We made a fine passage through the sound, meeting, amongst other vessels, a handsome small cutter yacht, belonging to the St. George's Club of Ireland. On clearing the sound, we stood across for the Mull of Cantire, a promontory which bears an evil reputation for storms, and around which the tides run very rapidly. We were, however, destined to experience none of the stormy influences of the Mull; the wind was favourable, the sea smooth, and we entered the noble estuary of the Clyde just a month after we had left the Firth of Forth. During that time we met with no accident, and encountered few difficulties; the weather was almost uniformly beautiful, there having been only two wet days in the whole cruise; and we returned with spirits raised, and health invigorated, after having visited and admired some of the finest and least known scenery of which the British isles can boast.

THERE are few names connected with the literature of Ireland, which will bear repetition, without danger of satiety, more frequently than that of THOMAS MOORE. The inherent vitality and variety of the subject are not exhausted by the late vo-luminous compilation of Lord John Russell, which inevitably suggests a reminiscence of Sheridan's joke, or ambiguous compliment to Gibbon, in his speech on the trial of Warren Hastings. In the

pages so industriously heaped together by the ex-minister for the Colonies, we find scarcely any allusion to Moore's dramatic attempts, and only one or two slight references to them in his own selected letters. Yet he wrote for the stage, and in one instance with temporary success, which might have induced him to repeat the experiment. Dramatic writing pays well, perhaps better than any other branch of literary labour, when great excellence is attained. Authors, within the circle

of the present generation, have ere now received one thousand pounds sterling for weak, indifferent plays, merely because there was something in the title, or the incidents selected, or the time chosen, which gave them a fleeting importance; or that the name of the writer was invested, either by himself, or his friends, or critics, with overrated influence. A few failures caused the market to decline a little, but still, as book auctioneers say of old, useless, scarce quartos, they brought "stiff prices," and four hundred pounds per article were readily demanded and paid. The supply is still abundant, but not in such request as formerly, although the standard price (without purchasers) remains considerably above par. "To think," said the other day a quick writer with a large stock on hand, "to think of the madness and folly of some managers! Here is has laid out three thousand pounds on the revival of an

old, worn out thing of Shakspeare's, when he could have secured ten of my new pieces for the same money!" Only three hundred sovereigns, ready cash, for a modern tragedy or comedy, and this in the land where Otway died of hunger, and Milton sold "Paradise Lost" for fifteen pounds, paid by instalments !

"Fresh fish from Helicon! who'll buy? who'll buy! The precious bargain's cheap,"

exclaims the self-complacent seller and proprietor "In faith, not I!"* responds the suffering manager, whose exchequer is scarcely yet convalescent from former unhealed wounds.

Moore seems to have possessed all

the elements and conditions which are required to produce a successful dramatist. He had imagination, genius, cultivated taste, a boundless command of poetical language, great conversational power, ready imagery, a clear perception of character, intimate acquaintance with the best society, good classical scholarship improved by reading and observation, and a fund of natural humour, which saw and seized the ridiculous with happy facility. There seems to have been nothing wanting here to constitute a first-rate votary of Thalia, even though his bent inclined him not to worship at the shrine of her more stately and severer sister. Yet Moore, with all these apparent requisites, and an inclination to make the attempt, did little in the dramatic line, and that little gave few indications of the brilliant immortality which awaited him in other departments. Walter Scott furnishes another, and a very remarkable parallel instance. His novels abound in nervous dialogue, with diversity of original character, action, incident, and interest. With very little change, beyond the necessary condensation, they have been transformed into some of the most popular and profitable plays of the day, and were eagerly watched, as they appeared, by rival managers, who had their cooks ready to hash them into the palatable shape within a few hours after publication. The sentences, said to be from "old plays," but known to be written by the novelist himself, and prefixed as headings to the different chapters, are full of

* Byron.

strength and poetic beauty.

Many

were wont to say, "If Sir Walter would only take to writing plays, what a dramatist we should have!" Yet when he tried his hand at last, the effort evaporated in such dull failures as Macduff's Cross, Auchindrane, The Doom of Devorgoil, and the poor, Germanised mediocrity entitled, The House of Aspen, supplied first as a contribution to one of the ephemeral annuals, although written many years before.

Where, then, are we to look for the true ingredients of the pure dramatic essence, and how, when, and where are they compounded into the happy harmony which produces a Shakspeare or a a Sheridan ? The question is easily asked, but a complete solution appears as difficult as the discovery of the longitude, the quadrature of the circle, the origin of evil, or the causes of the magnetic attraction of the pole.

Moore, as is well known, was born in Dublin, on the 28th of May, 1779, and died at his residence, Sloperton Cottage, in Wiltshire, on the 26th of February, 1852. He had nearly completed the seventy-third year of a long life, in which he had enjoyed much and suffered little, although his latter years were clouded by the failure of mental powers, and the loss of all his remaining children. Up to a late period, although his head was grey, his heart continued green and cheerful, as in the first dawn of youth, forming a marked contrast to his friend, Lord Byron, who suffered himself to wither into comfortless cynicism at thirty. An elastic, buoyant temperament is a better gift from Providence than an hereditary estate; and truly does the wise monarch of Israel observe, "A merry heart maketh a cheerful countenance, but by sorrow of the heart the spirit is broken."

Moore received his early education under the renowned Samuel Whyte, and afterwards at Trinity College, Dublin, where he took his degree of Bachelor of Arts, and from whence he departed to seek his fortune in the great world of London in 1799. Like Horatio, he was possessed of little revenue beyond his "good spirits;" but he had a translation of "Anacreon"