to the epoch when the Baron of Bradwardine still lived-I, who, after the festivals of Edinburgh, gave up the idea of re-perusing, except in light of fiction, the last efforts of jacobitism, in Waverley or Rob Roy.

We prepared to visit the cave of M'Gregor. While standing at the door of Coll Walker's Inn, Charles F-e and myself were relating to our host and some travellers, the triumphal entry of George IV. into the northern capital, when a female, who till then had remained at a distance, recognized us by our accent, and approaching us with a degree of familiarity, grasped our hands, affectionately squeezed them, and exclaimed in a mixture of English and Scotch, or Gaelic, "Good Frenchmen! faithful friends of Charles Stuart." Not perfectly comprehending at first her gesticulations and expressions, we continued to describe the pomp displayed around the king, and especially the renewal of ancient customs, as if old Caledonia had issued from the tomb, to proclaim her allegiance, in common with modern Scotland. By degrees, to an air of doubt, and afterwards of illrestrained impatience, we perceived a smile of incredulity succeed on the features of the female, as if she thought that the subject of our narrative had been maliciously suggested by such of our auditors, as knowing her susceptibility on the question, had prompted us to ruffle her associations. At length she exclaimed with a kind of enthusiasm, but in vulgar expressions, the sense of which I have preserved. "No, no! you are Frenchmen; you cannot betray

Charles Stuart. I am of Montrose's Clan; George is a whelp." "But my good woman, all the Stuarts are dead." "It is loyalty that is dead. Who has told you that there are no longer any Stuarts? If it were even so, we should still be faithful to their ashes."

I might, certainly, while standing on the domains of the Montroses and Macgregors, calling to my aid the associations of Walter Scott's heroes, make a Madeleine of this woman.* But I shall limit myself to the truth. She had nothing remarkable, either in her person, or in her figure: but she expressed herself with great warmth; there was poetry in the emphatic accentuation of her words, which we got Coll Walker to explain to us. The latter, from the first, had made signs to us that she was mad; the word, which he after. wards employed to characterise her madness, gave us to understand that she was merely what we call exalté (flighty). She, herself, quickly returned to the subject of more material affairs, pathetically describing her mode of livelihood and her poverty; not for the sake of begging, but to induce us to purchase a basket of apples, which she went to fetch as soon as she perceived that we were willing to give her the price she demanded. Prudence and adroitness, combined with fanaticism, these are the characteristic features of many women of the same class in Scotland, and in the novels of the Scotch Chronicler. But I must

The Abbot.

conduct mond.

you with us from Callander to Loch Lo

It is reckoned to be ten miles from Callander to the Trosachs by the shortest road. We traversed this distance in a few hours, so as to be enabled to sleep at an inn lately established on the banks of Loch Achray. On our right, we left the plains of Bochastle, and to the left the Waterfall of Carchouzie, which issues from Lake Vennachar. Supplied with a map arranged by the Rev. Mr. Stirling, we easily recognized

"Clan Alpine's outmost guard,
Coilantogle's ford."

Lady of the Lake.

Not far from thence was the scene of the terrible conflict, foot to foot, between Roderick and FitzJames, in which the royal knight was victorious, after having vainly offered the hand of friendship to the savage Son of Gael. Lake Vennachar, which is somewhat monotonous in consequence of the scarcity of trees on its shores, extends in a basin of five miles in length by one and a half in width. It was formerly the abode of one of those aquatic genii called Kelpies, which the superstition of the country continues to station there even now. This Kelpie, according to Sir W. Scott, destroyed one evening the whole funeral procession of a burial. According to another legend, some children who were playing near the Lake beneath the shade of the melancholy wood, (Coilleburoine) perceived a pretty little horse issue from it, which, by

its gentleness, induced them all to hazard themselves on its back. As each new rider mounted, the horse's crupper extended to make room for another; it was the Kelpie, who suddenly plunged into his watery cavern with his prey.

Not far from Vennachar is Lanrick mead, the appointed rendezvous of the clan of Alpine, when the fiery cross was sent through the Highlands by order of Roderick Dhu.

After a mile's walk, the traveller finds himself on an eminence near the Turk's Bridge, whence he descries the charming lake Achray, the windings of its waters, which escape through a vast meadow, and the dome of Ben Venu, which commands all the various points of view in the district from Callander. To the right is Glenfinlas, the scene of a ballad which commenced the poetical reputation of Walter Scott, and the waterfall where Brian performed the mysterious ceremony of Taghaim, in order to consult the oracles respecting the fate of Roderick.

The mountains which surround Glenfinlas, have no features of rudeness or abruptness in their elegant delineation. Heath is seldom seen on their summits; but it is replaced by a carpet of turf, which effaces all the inequalities of their contours. Numerous silvery threads of water descend, and sometimes intersect each other towards their feet.

Twilight surprised us at the entrance of the Trosachs, and we passed the night in the New Inn, built on the banks of Loch Achray, by James

Stewart, a celebrated guide, who is indebted for his little fortune to the Lady of the Lake.

While our supper was getting ready, we availed ourselves of a fine moonlight, to reconnoitre the banks of Loch Achray. This lake, which is so graceful in its limited dimensions, and which I should be inclined to call the jewel of the Scotch lakes, is only, perhaps, an accessory to the landscape of which it constitutes a part; but that landscape, tranquil and picturesque as it is, is especially delightful when reflected in its motionless chrystal. The water is so pure, and so silvery, that it reflects, with all their incidental varieties, every shade of colour, and the least details of the local scenes which environ it. Next morning, rising an hour before the two guides, whom we had hired for the Trosachs, we saw the first rays of morning effacing the lustre of the last star in the waters of Loch Achray,* and we heard the earliest morning thrush awaken his companions of the bower. This bird, here called the Mavis,† has a melodious song, and is a good substitute for the nightingale of our rural plains.

What a contrast, to pass from this gentle and smiling lake into the gorge of the Trosachs. The boatmen-guides preceded us with their

"Alas! thou lovely lake that e'er
Thy banks should echo sounds of fear.”

+ Turdus Musicus.