Summer at the Lake of Monteith

From Stirling to Inchmahome. 109
tinkle, than my companion plunged into a first-class car-
riage — I, of course, following hard at his heels — placing
ourselves under the care of " old Hugh." All now seems
bustle and animation — porters running with luggage, passen-
gers taking their seats, while the bang of the carriage-doors
lends music to the scene. Suddenly the short " All right!"
sounds in our ears, a sharp, shrill whistle is heard in front,
while the clankling of the couplings tells us we are on the
road; and in the twinkling of an eye we are sweeping
round the Castle rock and entering the rich Carse of Stir-
ling. As we roll past, we look on the old grey face of the
Castle, and think of the changes — the fetes and the fights
that have ever and anon been enacted on its summit, since
the Roman Eagle first spread her wings on its bald head!
Onwards dashes the locomotive; and as we look out of
the carriage window, we can see the smoky spires of
Stirling fast dying in the distance. On our right rolls the
sluggish Forth; and Craigforth, that proud usurper of the
Pass, rears its head in the morning sunshine. On our
left stretches the dark hills of Touch and Boquhan; and
as our eyes scan their rocky face, we see the falcon hunting
after his morning meal. Approaching Kippen, we get a
glimpse of the famous glen of Boquhan — famous in tradi-
tional and historic lore, and
" Where to the skies
The riven rocks fantastic rise."
By-and-by, we reach the Port of Monteith station, and
instantly we are out on the platform. The train disap-
pears, and we hear its hollow sound dying in the distance,
like the echoes of distant thunder. We are now left to