grass-grown and cheerful with gowans. What are these heaps of stones? And can that mound be the almost obliterated foundation of the outer wall? Preaching and praying on Sabbaths here there are none; but the Highlanders devoutly love their old burial-places, and this is still used, sometimes, for interment. Bodies have been brought a hundred miles to be buried here; thine was, young Angus of the yellow locks-from the great city-according to a dying request made in thy native tongue to a wild and withered-looking man, who suddenly stood from afar by thy bed-side, and said that he had come there at the bidding of a dream. Of old, this The Fair Isle was the principal burial-place of the highest of the hillboru; and the state of some of these tomb-stones indicates great antiquity; like coffin-lids. Nor are they without suitable rude ornaments. There is a sort of fret-work-strange figures of one hardly knows what, mould-eaten and moss-woven, but they look like flowers. Aye, we remember it well-that is the form of a warrior with his two-handed sword. But there are no inscriptions-perhaps there never were"the fame of their name," it might have been thought, would never die within the shadow of Cruachanbut chiefs lie there, all dust and no bones, like ravens and eagles that perished in their pride and became part of the thin soil on knolls and cliffs. Aye nobody knows any thing now of the M'Naughtons of Fraoch Elan, and the Campbells of Inbheraw. Yet there, on the south side of what once was the Chapel, lies a large flat stone, with the family arms in high relief, which, they say, is the cemetery of the Campbells. Two warriors bearing a shield-surmounted by a diadem. What a multitude of rabbits! a perfect rotten burgh is the Lovely Isle.

A young bird in its first flight could almost fly from Inishail to Fraoch Elan. Not in the whole wide world, we venture to say, is there a more beautiful islet. Small as it is, it wants nothing-on one side the rocks rise abrupt from the deep water, on the other a shrubby slope, shewing here and there an old stump or wreathed-root, softly

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carries down its loveliness some way into the shallows, through which, at this moment, we see large trouts lying on the greensward. Tall trees, —some of them pines-ennoble the still stately ruin of the M'Naughtons' Castle - and there, we are happy to see, still alive and cheerful, the large ash that has been growing for ages from the foundation of what was once the hall, and proudly lends its shade to the window-niches, (rooks! none of your impertinence,) without intercepting the sunshine from the matted ivy. We like gulls. In some weathers they are a clamorous clan, even during summer, on quiet islands on inland lochs; but to-day they are all silent as their shadows. Not that they are afraid of the water-eagle, who has built his nest for many and many a year on the top of that sole remaining chimney, for he never dreams of hurting a feather of their heads, and besides, neither he nor his lady is at home; but one might believe the creatures are enjoying the day's serenity, and are loath to disturb it even by the flapping of their wings. One or two only are wheeling about, and now they have alighted, and walking up and down, seem almost as large as lambs. Loch Awe is a darling haunt indeed for all manner of wildfowl-teal, widgeon, divers, whiteducks, shell-drakes, kitty wakes, pitkairnies (sea swallows), and millions of anonymous creatures very fair to look on; but there is ample room for them all, for Loch Awe is more than thirty miles long, and then the river is but a short one that unites it with the sea.

This isle, according to tradition, was the Hesperides of the Highlands. Delicious apples grew here, but were guarded by an enormous serpent. "The fair Mego," says poetry, "longed for the delicious fruit of the isle; Fraoch, who had long loved the maid, goes to gather the fruit. By the rustling of the leaves, the serpent was awakened from his sleep. It attacked the hero, who perished in the conflict. The monster was destroyed. Mego did not long survive the death of her lover." No fruit grows here now, but hips and haws in their season, and, we believe, some wild strawberries. Why not put in a few score currant and

gooseberry bushes? Such small fruit is most refreshing, especially grozets, and that they would bear well there can be no doubt, for it would require a better botanist than we are to name all these blossoms.

Last time we were here, "a sma' still" was at work in a cozy crevice formed by these two inclining rocks. A more industrious creature never saw we than that" prime worm." The spirit it produced was almost unbearable; indeed, till he was christened, no man with impunity could tackle to such a heathen. He laid you on the broad of your back in two glasses. Rashly confiding in our head and heart, without drawing our breath, we took off a quaich, and from about ten minutes after that moment (nine o'clock of a summer evening) till what had the appearance of sunrise, and no doubt was so, we were without consciousness of the existence of this wicked world. Yet, to do our enemy justice, we awoke without the slightest touch of a headach, and our tongue, as we took a look at it in the water, was red as a rose in June.

Guides, and better far, (they have likewise their own instructive letterpress,) excepting one we are leisurely writing ourselves, and which shall be published as soon as the "Trade," now like a drooping poppy, again lifts up its languid head in the Row, and the reading Public grows impatient to purchase, in two volumes, that choice poetical prose in which, with the exception of a few.envious ninnies, it is admitted by mankind that we egregiously excel. But how can we prate thus, in presence of Kilchurn? We have seen it like a great ghost; and once, on a night-like day, during a thunderstorm, when it rose fitfully out from the blackness, at every wide yellow flash of the sheeted lightning that seemed fiercely levelled at its time-beaten bulk; but now the ruin looks calm in decline, and happy in the sunshine, to be insensible that it is mouldering away. There it stands in the very centre of the picture-and there is an impressive massiveness about the old chief, in spite of the dilapidation of his towers and turrets. Aye-we have just a peep of the farm-house in the near wood, the hospitable farmhouse of Can-a-chraoicin, where with those pleasant old ladies, the Miss M'Intyres-now no more-we have whiled away whole evenings listening to their traditionary lore. Very rich, seen from this stance, is the vale of Orchay-still silvan in spite of the furnaces of the iron-works at Bunawe. The white square churchtower of Dalmally has more an English than a Scottish look, and we could for a moment believe ourselves in Westmoreland. High, and far up and away is winding yonder the wild road to Tyndrum. The mountain in the farthest distance can be no other than the conical Bein-Laoidh, or Mountain of the Hind; Bein-a-Chleidh (but what that means we forget, for we have little Erse) nobly occupies the middle background, and seems in the sunshine more than usually preci pitous; and he whose stature reaches the sky must be-yes it is-we recognise him by that chasm-Mealna-Tighearan, or the Mountain of the Chieftains. What a mystery is-a Whole!

Now, let us re-embark, Tonaldand lie on our oars beneath the Goose's Rock. Sassenach is a meansounding language-in Gaelic 'tis written Creag-agheoidh, but when pronounced, the word is indescribably different from any thing that might be expected by a Lowland eye looking at that silent congregation of letters. The silvan shadow above our heads is Bein-bhuridh, a portion of Cruachan. This used of old to be one of our favourite stations, and our ingenious friend John Fleming has done it justice, with a fine poetical feeling, in one of his Views, engraved by our ingenious friend Joseph Swan, for the Select Views of the Lakes of Scotland, a publication which deserves the patronage of the public, and we are happy to hear receives it, for it is true to the character of the Highlands, and we remember with delight the shadow of this scene on paper, even with the glorious reality before our eyes. Colonel Murray, too, of Ochtertyre, has finely shewn us Loch Awe, almost from this very same point, in his lithographic Scenes of the Highlands and Islands; and these two works, both wonderfully cheap, are worth all the printed

Half an hour's imperceptible motion-with an indistinct and inter

mittent sound in our ears of the clug -clug-dip-dip-of the oars, and we are at a landing-place on the peninsula, where on a rocky but not high elevation, near the junction of the Orchay, the Ruin welcomes us with a solemn but no melancholy smile. 'Tis now connected with the shore by an extended alluvial plain, frequently flooded; but we see at once that the rocky site of the castle was at one time an island. The waters of the Loch have so far subsided by the wearing away of the bed of the Awe, while the depositions formed by the mountain-torrents were accumulating, that when the rivers are in spate, 'tis often an island still, and we have seen it through the driving mists and cloud-rack surrounded by billows as big as if this were indeed an arm of the sea. Castle Kilchurn, Coilchourn, or Caölchairn, had gone considerably into disrepair before the middle of the last century; the great tower was repaired and garrisoned in 1745; but after that period, having been damaged by lightning, it was allowed to go to ruin. Perhaps 'twas as well-for why should stone and lime last for ever? If old castles were all to be taken care of, where would there be any ruins? And, besides, under reform, whether destructive or preservative, they are in danger of becoming mongrel modern-antiques, the abhorrence of gods and men. What tremendous strength in that Keep! six feet thick at least the walls, in which there is a secret passage, leading, no doubt, to some dismal place where toads may have been sitting for centuries with jewels on their heads, and as fat as puffins, for they attain longevity on the va pours of a dungeon, and in the heart of a block live for ever. Roof and floors are all gone, for time, though slower, is sure as fire. Yet some thirty years since, or thereabouts, the castle was not only habitable, but inhabited by an old woman, who showed us tapestry in a bedroom fit for a honey-moon. If we recollect rightly, there was an iron door in the charter-room, though, we daresay, within no deeds; and on the wall of the armoury were hanging skull-cap and mail-shirt, and other relics of the olden time. For Colonel Murray says truly, these towers must have been no less admired than feared

in the days when the nobles of Glenorchy were foremost in the ranks of the Knights Templars, and when that influence, which is now felt in the Cabinet, and is seen in the encouragement of the arts of peace, was exhibited in the number of menat-arms, and their many majestic castles, while their banners floated in the Balloch, Finlarig, Glenorchy, Barcaldine, and Loch Awe.

We cannot make even a guess at the distance between Kilchurn and the Manse of Dalmally. It has seemed but a step. Nay-were we to tell the public this-our veracity would be more than suspected-why, we have walked hither without our crutch! We must have a private class for grown-up bachelors, and give lessons in dancing-in the gallopade. So-there's the step that would have astonished Prince Swartzenburgh; but we must beware of pirouetting into the church.

'Tis a very beautiful little building, and were we to encourage old remembrances, we could weep. But to keep them at a distance, suppose we fire off our pocket-pistol. There -was a most romantic echo. As the Glenlivet gurgled out into the reci pient old man, we heard a faint reflective shadow of the pleasant sound from the Hill of Hinds. There will seem nothing incredible in that to those who have read Mr Wordsworth's verses on the Naming of Places. A young lady, called Joanna, laughs; and all the mountains in Westmoreland, Lancashire, and Cumberland, take up the lady's voice, and there is a general guffaw. Now, as Joanna, though a wild creature, had been brought up, we presume, in civilized society, we are justified in asserting that her laugh at its loudest could not have been louder than the gurgle of Glenlivet into our mouth from that of our pocket-pistol. That reflection will enable the public to give credence to the natural phenomenon now recorded in our note-book.

Yes-the beautiful little church is beautifully situated indeed, and we wish it had been Sabbath, that we might have taken some sermon. It is built upon the site of the ancient place of worship, which was Druidical; so its name seems to tell, "Clachan Disort," the "Place of the

High God." We remember the old church-not the place of worship of the Druids-for that was before our time-but the old church in which Dr Joseph did duty many a year before the day when, with a smile and a tear on his fine honest intelligent warm-hearted face, he looked up at this building, and hardly knew if he ought to bless it, so dear to him in his piety had been the humble house of God, in which he had ministered from youth upwards. Here is the burying-place of the Breadalbanes; but it has been disused, we believe, since their removal to Taymouth. Wherever the burial-place be, may its gates be opened at long intervals, and grow rusty on their hinges, for we like the name of Ormelie. Here are gravestones from Inishail-as we said before-richly sculptured with devices of flowered and wreathed work, with figures of warriors helmeted and mailed, as in the age of the Crusades; and here is a rude stone, with anvil, hammer, pincers, and a galley, initials D. M. N., of one who, in his day (1440), was a famous fabricator of arms and armour, and ancestor of the Macnabs of Barachastailan. "Non omnis moriar" in this world, was the desire of Duncan; and the fame of the dirk-maker blossoms and smells strong, even as he did himself when living, in the very dust.

And now we trudge it along the high-road, while Tonald goes down to Castle-haven to bring round the boat, towards the Mount of Broughna-Store, the threshold of GlenUrcha. Here Burke stood enraptured, and held up his hands at the Highlands. Cowper once cried,

"Oh! for a lodge in some vast wilder

ness,

Some boundless contiguity of shade !"

Oh! for a lodge, cry we, on this heaven-kissing hill, with all Loch Awe at our feet!

There would seem to be two kinds of time, physical and metaphysical; with the latter you may do what you will-cram an age into an instantthe former is found to be very fractious, and to bear a strong family resemblance to that obstinate existence, space. As a mile is a mile, though you remove the milestone,

so is a minute a minute, though you lose your reckoning; and all attempts to make it otherwise is uphill work. But the metaphysical triumphs over the physical, and no wonder, since mind is superior to matter any day of the year. An hour ago of physical time we were standing on the platform of Brough-naStore; and any one who had chanced to see us progressing from the eminence towards the margin of the Loch, would have had no doubt that they had at last seen a land tortoise. Yet not more than one metaphysi cal minute has elapsed since we began to crawl water-wards, and here we are sitting at the bow-oar with our backs in the direction of Port Sonnachan. The bow-oar — that is, the Crutch. A month ago-as you must remember-we used it as a landing net on the banks of the Tweed, and now it is found handy in another kind of aquatics on the bosom of Loch Awe. Of course we handle it by the end that on shore indents the gravel; and it proves— in our fists-so powerful an impeller, that we have to husband our strength, and even occasionally to back water, to prevent ourselves from turning Tonald round, or at least diverging from our right course in the direction of the Pass of the Brander. How magnificently and scientifically all those mountains are conducting their retreat! That demonstration looks as if they had a mind to encamp at evening in the moor of Rannoch. Always row away-when you can-from the head of a loch, and the army of mountains will seem marching away from you-as they are now doing

perhaps with colours flying and music playing, as if about to fall back on a position, where they purpose to offer pitched battle before the rising of the stars.

Ha! a capful of wind-nay, a sudden flaw that makes our galley heel and our kilts rustle. We had forgot that we are in kilts, but are reminded of the fact by Favonius. A general breeze is springing up-and though for the present whispering from "a' the airts the wind can blaw," will soon settle, we see, in a North-Easter, and in an hour or less we shall be at the Ferry. Ship oars, Tonald-let us hoist every inch of

canvass, and away, goose-winged, right before the wind. There-she is masted in a jiffy-and now for the sails. No need for either standing or running rigging-our check-shirt will do for a foresail-let it blow great guns, the Crutch (what a stick!) will stand the storm, nor ever be sprung so as to require being fished; and that tartan jacket of yours, Tonald-though rather ragged-will make a passable mainsail. There she has it-Tonald! Why, we cannot be going under nine knots! But hang her she's luffing-up with that thoft, Tonald, and fling it to us in the stern-sheets. That'll do, my boy! we shall take out a patent for our rudder-why you could steer her with your little finger! If Inishail does not slip her anchor and get under weigh, we shall cut her in two, right in mid-ships, and astonish the rabbits. What! you were never before now, Tonald, in a schooner ? She is called the Water-witch, Tonald; and dang it, if we don't challenge Cowes. "Prythee, why so wan, fond lover-prythee, why so wan ?" You would not have us take in a reef in our foresail? Whew! check-shirt blown overboard! Sit still, you lubber-we're in a squall-and if the live ballast shift to larboard we capsize. These holes in the mainsail are most providential, for the wind escapes through them like water from a sieve. If your jacket goes, Tonald, we must hoist our kilt-that oar makes a far superior figure as a mast-we call that flying, Tonaldand lo! not a cable's length ahead on our weather-beam-the Ferry!

There we have run her up along side of the jetty-and are once more safe and sound on terra firma. Proctor-our good fellow-how are you -how is the Missus and the Graces? What do you mean, you Southron, by that smile on your jib? Oho! we see how it is-here stands Christopher North on the margin of Loch Awe, in front of the inn at Larach-aban-except for his kilt, in a state of nature-yea, verily, in puris naturalibus-for a squall, d'ye see, carried away our fore-sail, Proctor-and in the excitement of such a crisis, the fact of its being our shirt had wholly escaped our recollection. Thanks, Tonald, for our jacket-now all's

VOL. XXXIII. NO. CCIX.

right, and we are impatient to salute the ladies.

The public-house at Cladich will be found a comfortable howf to those who know how to make themselves comfortable; and at Port Sonnachan, we understand, the accommodation is excellent, and the view of the lake very good, which perhaps is no very great matter. We ourselves like a pleasantly situated inn, but are easily satisfied in that particular, and cannot say that we care much about looking out of a window, when there is a table in the room with eatables and drinkables and readables close at hand, and perhaps an agreeable family-party. An inn should not absclutely turn its blind back on a loch or river, but 'tis unreasonable to demand of it that it shall command all the wood, water, and mountain in the neighbourhood, and also in the distance. Gleams and glimpses there must be from parlour and bedroom; but we say to it, "Give all thou canst, and let us dream the rest." People there are who must be always staring; but strong in our inward sense of the sublime and beautiful, we are in noways dependent on our eyes. The situation of the inn at Larach-a-ban is delightful. Here it stands, about a mile to the south of Hayfield, (many a pleasant day have we passed there,) on a rising ground, commanding a magnificent view of a great part of the Loch. Our dear friend Goldie-pleasant man and accomplished angler— calls it "the Elleray of Loch Awe." Quite in the style of a minister's manse, white-washed and slated, with some trees immediately behind it a modest grove. The door, as all doors should be in regular houses, built for accommodation and not for the gratification of a foolish fancy for the picturesque, is in the centre; and the room to the right, in which we are now sitting, is the principal apartment, and the perfection of snugness. Behind it is a small dormitory, (ours,) with one window looking to the Modest Grove. To the left of the door is another neat parlour. Up stairs, above our apartment, is the Lascelles-bedroom, so called from a gentleman of that name, who, from Liverpool, annually visits Loch Awe, some

3 s