Summer at the Lake of Monteith

A Sabbath on Ben- Lomond. 179
A SABBATH ON BEN -LOMOND.
It is a Saturday afternoon, early in summer. We are
leaving the Port-of-Monteith station, with the grave in-
tention of "doing" (as the Cockneys call it) Ben-Lo-
mond on Sunday morning. Our clerical friends may call
this Sabbath desecration, or anything else they choose
— no matter. Here we are, rolling along the Forth &
Clyde Railway towards Balloch; and, sweeping through the
grand old country of the Lennox, we reach the foot of
Loch-Lomond in time for the last boat to take us up the
loch. As we set foot on board, a gentle breeze is sweeping
down from the mountains, and ruffling the hitherto still
Avaters of the Queen of Scottish Lakes. As our gallant
craft ploughs the blue waters, and steers her course among
riven rocks and feathered islands, our eye scans the distant
shores where rise modern mansion and ancient feudal
keep — the home of the merchant prince, and the abode of
the war chief of other days. We see the pine- covered
glens and barren mountain gorges, where, in days long
gone by, the Macfarlane, Macaulay, and Colquhoun rushed
forth, like their native torrents, to rob the plain, their faces
tatooed with the scars of a hundred battles, and their limbs
red with blood, as they mingled in fray and foray, and
wreaked vengeance on the Buchanan.