Should His
Grace ever unbend so far as to permit the temperance hotels to obtain
the licence, learned men might flock in greater numbers to Tiree, and
dazzle themselves and the world with further antiquarian finds.[3]

Rum has not been dowered with a Paisley library, and I regret to say
that the natives have the reputation of not keeping the Sunday with
ostentatious strictness. Eigg, the little island contiguous, is a little
heaven below. The missionary there well deserves a word of commendation:
the island of Muck is under his spiritual supervision, and with a
sandwich and a sermon in his pocket, he often sets sail, scorning gust
and current, to preach to his parishioners in that tiny islet.

[3] Coll is also a very interesting island for the antiquarian.
It contains distinct traces of twenty-nine Hill-forts or Duns,
so that there must have been lively times out there long ago.
Some fine shells, beads, pins and pottery have been found in the
prehistoric _kitchen-middens_. Before the Reformation the island
was thickly peopled, and sites of old churches and deserted
crofts are numerous. Coll has gone back in population; in 1901
it had 432 inhabitants; in 1755 the number of natives was 1,193.

WINTER SAILING.

The summer tourist knows Skye very imperfectly, for he goes there in a
commodious steamer and traverses the island at a season when the days
are long and the weather benign. No one should vaunt of knowing Skye
unless he has seen it in winter also. It is the small _Lochiel_ that, in
the dark days of December, bears the passengers along the chilly Sound
of Sleat, and through the narrows of Raasay, into the haven of Portree.
At such a time there is something fearsome and weird in the aspect of
the coast, as seen from the cabin window of the brave little boat as
she battles and plunges along in the teeth of the north-eastern gale.
Her progress is slow, for when passengers are few Macbrayne wisely
economises his coal. The long-stretching hills of Raasay (on the highest
of which Boswell danced a jig) are white from head to foot, and gleam
through the darkness of the afternoon, vivid and ghostly. As Raasay
House, with its lamp-lit windows shining in a snowy recess, is
approached, the engines slow down, and through the howl of the wind can
be heard the plashing of oars. The broad waves swirl and seethe cruelly
around the ferry-boat and toss it about at all angles, up and down, on
crest