After standing still and spending a few minutes in adding its age to its size, and its size to its solitude, it becomes appallingly mournful in its growing closeness.

A squally wind blows in the face with an impact which proclaims that the vapours of the air sail low to-night.

The slope that I so laboriously clamber up the wind skips sportively down.

Its track can be discerned even in this light by the undulations of the withered grass-bents--the only produce of this upland summit except moss.

Four minutes of ascent, and a vantage-ground of some sort is gained.