ott's description. Two or
three blackened beams are all that remain of it, having been burned down
some years ago, by the carelessness of a traveler.

The mountains stand all around, like giants, to "sentinel this enchanted
land." On leaving the island, we saw the Goblin's Cave, in the side of
Benvenue, called by the Gaels, "Coirnan-Uriskin." Near it is
Beal-nam-bo, the pass of cattle, overhung with grey weeping birch trees.
Here the boatmen stopped to let us hear the fine echo, and the names of
"Rob Roy," and "Roderick Dhu," were sent back to us apparently as loud
as they were given. The description of Scott is wonderfully exact,
though the forest that feathered o'er the sides of Benvenue, has since
been cut down and sold by the Duke of Montrose. When we reached the end
of the lake it commenced raining, and we hastened on through the pass of
Beal-an-Duine, scarcely taking time to glance at the scenery, till Loch
Achray appeared through the trees, and on its banks the ivy-grown front
of the inn of Ardcheancrochan, with its unpronounceable name.

CHAPTER IV.

THE BURNS FESTIVAL.

We passed a glorious summer morning on the banks of Loch Katrine. The
air was pure, fresh and balmy, and the warm sunshine glowed upon forest
and lake, upon dark crag and purple mountain-top. The lake was a scene
in fairy-land. Returning over the rugged battle-plain in the jaws of the
Trosachs, we passed the wild, lonely valley of Glenfinlas and Lanric
Mead, at the head of Loch Vennachar, rounding the foot of Ben Ledi to
Coilantogle Ford. We saw the desolate hills of Uam-var over which the
stag fled from his lair in Glenartney, and keeping on through Callander,
stopped for the night at a little inn on the banks of the Teith. The
next day we walked through Doune, over the lowlands to Stirling.
Crossing Allan Water and the Forth, we climbed Stirling Castle and
looked on the purple peaks of the Ochill Mountains, the far Grampians,
and the battle-fields of Bannockburn and Sheriff Muir. Our German
comrade, feeling little interest in the memory of the poet-ploughman,
left in the steamboat for Edinburg; we mounted an English coach and rode
to Falkirk, where we took the cars for Glasgow in order to attend the
Burns Festival, on the 6th of August.

This was a great day for Scotland--the assembling of all classes to do
honor to the memory of her peasant-bard. And right fitting was it, too,
that such a meeting should be hold on the banks of th