or YACHTING IN THE HEBRIDES by J. EWING-RITCHIE Author of “ The Night Side of London ,” &c. &c. London JAMES CLARKE & CO., 13, FLEET STREET 1877 london w. speaight & sons , printers , fetter lane . to JOHN ANDERSON, ESQ., of glen tower , argyleshire , owner of the elena , This Little Volume is Dedicated by the author , in memory of a pleasant cruise on board the elena in the autumn of 1876. chapter   page I. Off for Greenock 3 II. From Greenock to Ardrossan 17 III

The late—I had almost written the last—Imperial ruler of France was wont to say—indeed, it was his favourite maxim—“Everything comes to him who waits.”  It was not exactly true in his case.  Just as he was to have placed himself at the head of his followers, and make his reappearance in France, and to have effaced the recollections of Sedan, Death, who waits for no one, who comes at the appointed time to all, put a stop to his career.  Nevertheless, the saying is more or less true, and especiall

I shall never forget my first view of the Clyde from the heights above Greenock.  It is true I had seen the Clyde before, but it was at Glasgow years ago, and it had left on my mind but a poor impression of its extent, or utility, or grandeur.  What a sight you have of dockyards, where thousands of men are ship-building! and what a fleet of vessels laden with the produce of every country under heaven!  As I take up a Scotch paper, I read:—“The cargoes imported during the month included 64 of gra

Taking advantage of a fine day, we left Ardrossan, with its coal and timber ships, early one Saturday, and were soon tossing up and down that troubled spot known as the Mull of Kintyre.  It was a glorious sight, and one rarely enjoyed by tourists, who make a short cut across a canal, and lose a great deal in the way of beautiful effects of earth, and sea, and sky.  On our left was the Irish coast, here but fifteen miles across, and far behind were the dark forms of the mountains of Arran.  Islay

A couple of days’ heavy rain quite exhausted the gaieties of Oban, and it was with no little pleasure that I heard the orders given to weigh the anchor and get up steam.  I shed no tears as I saw the last of the long line of monster hotels, which rejoice when the Englishman, who has, perhaps, never been up St. Paul’s, and who certainly has never visited Stratford-on-Avon, makes up his mind to turn his face northwards and do the Western Highlands and Islands of Scotland.  I believe the hotels are

As I sit musing in the dining-saloon of the Elena , it occurs to me that a Scotchman is bound to be a better educated man than an Englishman; for these simple reasons—in the first place, he does not drink beer—and beer is fatal to the intellect, inasmuch as it magnifies and fattens the body; and secondly, because the climate compels him to lead the life of a student.  In the south, we Englishmen have fine weather.  In this world everything is comparative.  We in Middlesex may not have the warm s

In rough weather it requires no little courage to make one’s way in a steamer from Tobermory to Portree, the capital of the Isle of Skye.  Our noble-hearted owner is very careful on this point.  The Elena is a beautiful yacht, and he treats her tenderly.  It is true, off Ardanamurchan Point we tumble about on the troubled waves of the Atlantic, and are glad to shelter in the quiet harbour of Oronsay, where we pass the night, after the Doctor’s lady has gone on shore in search of milk, whilst the

A fine day came at last, and we steered off from Portree, leaving the grand Cachullin Mountains, rising to a height of 3,220 feet, and the grave of Flora Macdonald, and the cave where Prince Charles hid himself far behind.  On the right were the distant mountains of Ross-shire, and on our left Skye, and the other islands which guard the Western Highlands against the awful storms of the ever-restless Atlantic.  Here, as elsewhere, was to be noticed the absence of all human life, whether at sea or

In my wanderings in the latter town I pick up the last edition of a useful and unpretending volume called “The History of Kintyre,” by Mr. Peter M‘Intosh—a useful citizen who carried on the profession of a catechist, and who is now no more.  The book has merits of its own, as it shows how much may be done by any ordinary man of average ability who writes of what he has seen and heard.  Kintyre is a peninsula on the extreme south of the shire of Argyle, in length about forty geographical miles. 

As next morning I crossed the Clyde, and took my seat in a crowded and early train, it seemed to me that rain was not far off, and that at Edinburgh Royalty might be favoured with a sight of what in England is known as Scotch mist.  Nor were my forebodings wrong.  The modern Athens was under a cloud, and many were the heavy-hearted who had come from far and near to do honour to the day.  The Glasgow men have but a poor opinion of the citizens of Edinburgh.  They took a very unfavourable view of

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