Loch Katrine.

We need scarcely remind the tourist, that the scene of Sir Walter Scott’s “Lady of the Lake” is laid in this spot.  The following description is from the pen of Dr. Graham, the minister of the parish:—­“When you enter the Trosachs there is such an assemblage of wildness and of rude grandeur, as fills the mind with the most sublime conceptions.  It seems as if a whole mountain had been torn in pieces, and frittered down by a convulsion of the earth, and the huge fragments of rocks, woods, and hills scattered in confusion at the east end, and on the sides of Loch Katrine.  The access to the lake is through a narrow pass of half a mile in length.  The rocks are of stupendous height, and seem ready to close above the traveller’s head, and to fall down and bury him in the ruins.  A huge column of these rocks was, some years ago, torn with lightning, and lies in very large blocks near the road.  Where there is any soil, their sides are covered with aged weeping birches, which hang down their venerable locks in waving ringlets, as if to cover the nakedness of the rocks.”

“Travellers who wish to see all they can of this singular phenomenon, generally sail westward, on the south side of the lake, to the Rock and Den of the Ghost, whose dark recesses, from their gloomy appearance, the imagination of superstition conceived to be the habitation of supernatural beings.  In sailing, you discover many arms of the lake;—­here, a bold headland, where black rocks dip into unfathomable water;—­there, the white sand in the bottom of a bay, bleached for ages by the waves.  In walking on the north side, the road is sometimes cut through the face of a solid rock, which rises upwards of 200 feet perpendicular above the lake.  Sometimes the view of the lake is lost, then it bursts suddenly on the eye, and a cluster of islands and capes appear at different distances, which give them an apparent motion, of different degrees of velocity, as the spectator rides along the opposite beach.  At other times his road is at the foot of rugged and stupendous cliffs, and trees are growing where no earth is to be seen.  Every rock has its echo; every grove is vocal, by the melodious harmony of birds, or by the sweet airs of women and children gathering filberts in their season.  Down the side of the mountain, after a shower of rain, flow a hundred white streams, which rush with incredible velocity and noise into the lake, and spread their froth upon its surface.  On one side, the water-eagle sits in majesty, undisturbed, on his well-known rock, in sight of his nest, on the face of Ben Venue; the heron stalks among the reeds in search of his prey; and the sportive ducks gambol on the waters or dive below.  On the other, the wild goats climb, where they have scarce ground for the soles of their feet; and the wild fowl, perched on the trees, or on the pinnacle of a rock, look down with composed defiance at man.  In a word, both by land and water, there