Summer at the Lake of Monteith

180 The Lake of Monteith.
We reach Rowerdennan just as the sun is sinking behind
the hills, and day beginning to wane in the glens of the
country of Rob Roy; and, after refreshing ourselves on the
good things of the inn, we stroll along the shore, to muse
on Nature's glories, and inhale the balmy breeze of loch
and hill. Slowly we tread the rugged beach, and examine
the rocks smoothed by the waves of a thousand years, and
grooved by the surge of icebergs of countless ages. All is
still in the Highland glen, but ever and anon we are startled
by the dismal wail of the owl, as it floats down the pass, or
the cry of the sea-bird, as it returns from the feeding haunts
away to its young on yonder island. By -and -by, night
throws her sable garb around the hills, and the mist wades
among the stinted hazels and creeps over the morass; while
the moon, like an ill-washed face, peeps over the heathery
knowe. We retire to rest; — and at the first streak of day
we are at the window peering through the gloom. But,
alas! the mist is far down on the mighty object of our am-
bition, the winds howl, and the window -curtains rattle;
while the loch, like an angry beast, with breath of hate and
tongue of foam, growling laps the shore, and, dull and dis-
appointed, we creep back to our couch, and spend an hour
or two more in dreamy repose.
By-and-by, we hear the old Highland clock strike three,
when we again start to our feet, and rush towards the win-
dow. Now we find that the wind has stopped its raving, the
curtains ceased to rattle, and the loch, no longer angry,
playfully kisses the pebbles on the beach; while far between
us and the blue vaulted heavens, Ben-Lomond, with clear
head and frownless brow, looks down on the scene be-