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��them to Talisker Hay, within sight of Colonel Macleod's house. Yet, had the wind risen, or had there been a swell from the Atlantic, they would have been forced to keep out to sea. Boswell describes " the prodigious force and noise with which the billows break on the shore." "It is," says Johnson, "a coast where no vessel lands but when it is driven by a tempest on the rocks." Only two nights before his arrival two boats had been wrecked there in a storm. " The crews crept to Talisker almost lifeless with wet, cold, fatigue, and terror." What could not be safely done


��near the end of September, might, we thought, be hazarded in June. As the day was fine and we had a good sea-boat, an old fisherman to manage it, our trusty gamekeeper to help in rowing, and an accomplished yachtsman in our artist, we boldly sailed forth into the Atlantic. We passed in sight of Macleod's Maidens, beneath rocks such as Mr. Brett and Mr. Graham delight to paint. In one spot we were shown where, a few years before, a huge mass had come tumbling down. At the entrance to the Bay we passed through a narrow channel in the rocks with the waves foaming on each side. Even our stout-hearted game-

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