d ourselves left in the
middle of the street, and saw our noddy man, in a shop as bright as
day, poring over a directory. All he could learn was what we had
already told him, and so on he went, not knowing whether right or
wrong, giving us a fine opportunity of seeing the city in the evening.
At last, he came to the bridge over the Clyde, and there the tollman
directed us to the Observatory.

After a long drive, evidently over not a very good road, the driver
stopped, and told us that here was Dr. Nichol's house. He began to take
off our luggage. We insisted upon his inquiring, first, if that was Dr.
Nichol's. He took off our trunk, and would have us go in; we resisted;
and after a while he rang the bell, and the answer was, "Dr. Nichol
lives in the next house." Still higher we had to climb, and at last
stopped at the veritable Observatory, where our friend, who was
expecting us, lived. Nothing could exceed the hospitality with which we
were received.

Early, one misty, smoky morning, I embarked in one of the famous little
Clyde steamers, and set out on a Highland tour. I had heard of old
Scotia's barren hills, clothed with the purple heather and the yellow
gorse, of her deep glens, of her romantic streams; but the reality went
far beyond the description, or my imagination. The hills are all bare
of trees, but their outline is very beautiful and infinitely varied.
Picture to yourself a ridge of hills or mountains all purple with the
heather, relieved with the silver-gray of the rocks and with patches of
the bright yellow gorse, and all this harmony of color reflected in the
green sea water which runs winding far in among the hills. As the light
changes, these colors are either brought out more strongly, or mingle
into one soft lilac color, or sometimes a sort of purple-gray. Your eye
is enchanted, and never weary of looking and admiring. I would not have
any trees on the Scotch hills; I would not have them other than they
are. If I were dying I could look at them with joy; they are lovely
beyond words to tell.

I was on all the most celebrated and beautiful lakes. I was rowed in an
open boat, by two Highland youths, from one end of Loch Katrine to the
other, and through those beautiful, high, heathery, rocky banks at one
end of the lake, called the Trosachs. These exquisite rocks are
adorned, and every crevice fringed and festooned with harebells,
heather, gorse, and here and there beautiful evergreen trees. We passe