VII. 



Stats at Slamtasb. 



THIS quiet morning by the Clyde is the commence- 

 ment of an ideal holiday of the lazy kind. Stretched 

 on the greensward at Toward Point, one gives oneself 

 up entirely to the dolce far niente style of existence, 

 and to the dreams and fancies from which not even 

 the most matter-of-fact life, so far as I can discover, 

 is free. Active work is a thing of the past, and will 

 be a thing of the future ; for the present it is sufficient 

 that books are closed awhile, lectures finished, and 

 the gradgrind of life suspended. 



In a few weeks we shall be back in the roar of the 

 city : therefore, let us take the rest and content of 

 things while we may. From Innellan we set out this 

 morning, bent on a long stroll and on the exercise of 

 our walking powers ; but good resolutions melt away 

 in the heat, and the grass at Toward is green and the 

 air exhilarating ; so we rest close by the lighthouse, 

 and survey the prospect of hill and sea that never 

 fails to charm, and rarely fails to convey a sense of 

 graceful rest to the fagged city-dweller. 



Quiet as it is at Toward, there is bustle enough 

 not far away. Round the point at Rothesay, the 

 Margate and Ramsgate of Scotland rolled into one, 

 there is an eternal turmoil. Ardrishaig will be a 



