pleasing than the lake itself.  These prevailed at the southern portion of the lake only, and for at least twenty miles the road closely followed the shore, leading around short turns on the very edges of steep embankments or over an occasional sharp hill—­conditions that made careful driving necessary.  Just across the lake, which gradually grew narrower as we went north, lay the low Scotch mountains, their green outlines subdued by a soft blue haze, but forming a striking background to the ever-varying scenery of the lake and opposite shore.  Near the northern end on the farther side is the entrance to the Trosachs, made famous by Scott’s “Lady of the Lake.”  The roads to this region are closed to motors—­the only instance that I remember where public highways were thus interdicted.  The lake finally dwindled to a brawling mountain stream, which we followed for several miles to Crianlarich, a rude little village nestling at the foot of the rugged hills.  From here we ran due west to Oban, and for twenty miles of the distance the road was the worst we saw in Scotland, being rough and covered with loose, sharp stones that were ruinous to tires.  It ran through a bleak, unattractive country almost devoid of habitations and with little sign of life excepting the flocks of sheep grazing on the short grasses that covered the steep, stony hillsides.  The latter half of the distance the surroundings are widely different, an excellent though winding and narrow road leading us through some of the finest scenes of the Highlands.  Especially pleasing was the ten-mile jaunt along the north shore of Loch Awe, with the glimpses of Kilchurn Castle which we caught through occasional openings in the thickly clustered trees on the shore.  Few ruins are more charmingly situated than Kilchurn, standing as it does on a small island rising out of the clear waters—­the crumbling walls overgrown with ivy and wall-flowers.  The last fifteen miles were covered in record time for us, for it was growing exceedingly chilly as the night began to fall and the Scotch July day was as fresh and sharp as an American October.

Oban is one of the most charming of the north of Scotland resort towns, and is becoming one of the most popular.  It is situated on a little land-locked bay, generally white in summer time with the sails of pleasure vessels.  Directly fronting the town, just across the harbor, are several ranges of hills fading away into the blue mists of the distance and forming, together with the varying moods of sky and water, a delightful picture.  Overhanging the town from the east is the scanty ruin of Dunollie Castle, little more than a shapeless pile of stone covered over with masses of ivy.  Viewed from the harbor, the town presents a striking picture, and the most remarkable feature is the great colosseum on the hill.  This is known as McCaig’s Tower and was built by an eccentric citizen some years ago merely to give employment to his fellow townsmen.  One cannot get an adequate idea of the real magnitude of the structure without climbing the steep hill and viewing it from the inside.  It is a circular tower, pierced by two rows of windows, and is not less than three hundred feet in diameter, the wall ranging in height from thirty to seventy-five feet from the ground.  It lends a most striking and unusual appearance to the town, but among the natives it goes by the name of “McCaig’s Folly.”