ace
of the cold waters.

I never take this trip without thinking of such books as _The Brave Sons
of Skye_, which gives a record of the brave men born in the misty island
who have come south and distinguished themselves in many a different
walk in life. It is a most inspiring thing to reflect on the dauntless
way in which genius treads the stony road that leads from poverty to
glory. There is not a district in Skye but has its great man, who forms
the subject of conversation round the peat fire when the winter winds
are blowing down the strath. "From Log Cabin to White House" is the
American way of putting it: in Scotland we might say "From Crofter's Cot
to Professor's Chair."

A CROFTING VILLAGE.

The sight of a crofting village is at first rather surprising to one
accustomed to large towns. The low roofs are not far from the ground.
Often, while driving, if you turn a corner swiftly, you run the risk of
being thrown out of the trap on to one of the chimneys. It does not take
much imagination, especially in the dim dusk, to transform a
low-thatched cot into some weird animal that might begin to walk along
the hill-side at any moment. So irregularly grouped are the townships,
dropped here and there, as it were, that you might fancy the houses had
begun at one time to run a race with each other, and in the middle of it
had suddenly stopped. Dr. Johnson complained that the windows were fixed
into the walls and could not, in consequence, be opened to let in the
air. That fault exists to some extent still: I have been told, however,
that peat reek is very purifying, and that its thick fumes make short
work of any noxious germs that might lodge about the nooks of the
interior. Great changes are gradually coming over many of the clachans,
changes not loved by an artist or a devotee of the picturesque. Instead
of thatch, held down by ropes weighted with heavy stones, there is often
to be seen a roofing of tarred cloth or corrugated iron. Romance might
attach itself to a roof of thatch, but corrugated iron, with its
distressing parallelism, could never awaken a genuine lyric note.
Further, it does not make a very comfortable seat, whereas thatch is
soft. Now, children in the Highlands are rather fond of sitting and even
playing on the roof: thatch is less cruel on bare feet than iron is.

HORRORS OF THE MINCH.

I have alluded to the distresses of winter voyaging to Skye. But there
are other routes worse, notably that