Out in the middle of the Frith we can see the long, low, white line of buildings on either side of it, nestling at the foot of the hills.  We are drawing near Dunoon.  That opening on the right is the entrance to Loch Long and Loch Goyle; and a little further on we pass the entrance to the Holy Loch, on whose shore is the ancient burying-place of the family of Argyle.  How remarkably tasteful many of these villas are!  They are generally built in the Elizabethan style:  they stand in grounds varying from half an acre up to twenty or thirty acres, very prettily laid out with shrubbery and flowers; a number (we can see, for we are now skirting the Argyleshire coast at the distance of only a few hundred yards) have conservatories and hot-houses of more or less extent:  flagstaffs appear to be much affected (for send a landsman to the coast, and he is sure to become much more marine than a sailor):  and those pretty bow-windows, with the crimson fuchsias climbing up them—­those fantastic gables and twisted chimneys—­those shining evergreens and cheerful gravel walks—­with no lack of pretty girls in round hats, and sportive children rolling about the trimly-kept grass plots—­all seen in this bright August sunshine—­all set off against this blue smiling expanse of sea—­make a picture so gay and inviting, that we really do not wonder any more that Glasgow people should like to ‘go down the water.’

Here is Dunoon pier.  Several of the coast places have, like Dunoon, a long jetty of wood running out a considerable distance into the water, for the accommodation of the steamers, which call every hour or two throughout the day.  Other places have deep water close in-shore, and are provided with a wharf of stone.  And several of the recently founded villages (and half of those we have enumerated have sprung up within the last ten years) have no landing-place at which steamers can touch; and their passengers have to land and embark by the aid of a ferry-boat.  We touch the pier at last:  a gangway is hastily thrown from the pier to the steamer, and in company with many others we go ashore.  At the landward end of the jetty, detained there by a barrier of twopence each of toll, in round hats and alpaca dresses, are waiting our friend’s wife and children, from whom we receive a welcome distinguished by that frankness which is characteristic of Glasgow people.  But we do not intend so far to imitate the fashion of some modern tourists and biographers, as to give our readers a description of our friend’s house and family, his appearance and manners.  We shall only say of him what will never single him out—­for it may be said of hundreds more—­that he is a wealthy, intelligent, well-informed, kind-hearted Glasgow merchant.  And if his daughters did rather bore us by their enthusiastic descriptions of the sermons of ‘our minister,’ Mr. Macduff, the still grander orations of Mr. Caird, and the altogether unexampled eloquence of Dr. Gumming, why, they were only showing us a thoroughly Glasgow feature; for nowhere in Britain, we should fancy, is there so much talk about preaching and preachers.