angle. Here the dark summits of the Cuehullin hills come in view, and new features and new scenes arise to re-excite the interest which so long an extent of an almost uniform character had suffered to languish.
Loch Scavig is an inlet of the sea about a mile in depth, formed by the Cuchullin hills, which rise with all their spiry and naked crags high towering above it. At the bottom of this bay they descend suddenly into the sea, brown and bare, with scarcely a spot of verdure to enliven their dark sides, the only semblance of life they possess consisting in the motion of the few cascades which foam down their rugged declivities. Points of detached rocks projecting into the sea from their base, produce foregrounds for the use of the artist, and relieve that intense depth of shadow which seems ever to reign where the sun beams can scarcely find access. But even the grandeur, the silence and desolation of this place are forgotten, when in a moment on turning the angle of a huge rock, the spectator enters on a scene which suspends the recollection of all which had fascinated him before. He finds himself in a lone valley surrounded by a wall of dark and naked rock, of which the rugged summits are lost in the clouds, intercepting the light of day and casting a twilight gloom over the seat of eternal repose. If ever a sound disturbs this repose it is that of the wind which whistles against the rocks, or of the cascade which rushes down their sides; if ever vestige of life is seen, it is the lone sea-gull dipping its wing in the black still waters of Coruisk. The valley once closed behind the spectator, he sees no more its egress, and calls to mind the tales of eastern fiction, where the victim of magic
- Coruisk, the water of the mountain hollow, not Coriskin.