Summer at the Lake of Monteith

The Lake of Monteith.
winter never disturb, nor the zephyrs of summer kiss their
waters. Before us on the north lie Lochs Vennacher and
Achray, the road from Callander to the Trossachs winding
along the shore, while the huge form of Ben-Ledi towers
beyond. We see the wood-adorned summits of the Tros-
sachs, Loch-Katrine up among the hills, with Glengyle
and the misty tops of Balquhidder in the back ground.
As we look around on the Highland country, and admire
the glories of the Creator's works, as they stand before us
in the grey mountain, sink deep in the rugged glen,
stretch out in the green valley, or dip amid the placid
waters, our mind wanders back to the marauding charac-
ter of its inhabitants, when the hardy natives of the hills
and glens learned only to handle the bow and studied
nothing but the sword; and oft has the heath on this
mountain side been dyed by the blood of those who
fell in the fierce conflicts between the Macgregors and
the Grahams, in the days of the war cry and fiery cross.
Those days are now gone, and as we look around on the
peaceful scene, we think of the change since the wild boar
roamed through its marshes, and the wolf growled deep in
its caverns — since the wild cry of the war-chief was heard
from the hill, or saw him return with his trophies. There
was a time, and that not long ago, when the bloodhound
tore the Macgregor, and the eagle fed on his carcase. Ay,
we fancy we can see the blood-bespattered beast, as he
returns from his fell mission, snuffing the fresh breeze or
lapping his gory fangs; or hearken to the mountain raven, as
he perches on, and picks the eyes out of the fallen victim,
when that brave but ill-used and unhappy clan was hunted