ned to get ourselves
ready as soon as we saw the party approach, but had longer to wait than
we expected, the lake being wider than it appears to be. As they drew
near we could distinguish men in tartan plaids, women in scarlet cloaks,
and green umbrellas by the half-dozen. The landing was as pretty a sight
as ever I saw. The bay, which had been so quiet two days before, was all
in motion with small waves, while the swoln waterfall roared in our ears.
The boat came steadily up, being pressed almost to the water's edge by
the weight of its cargo; perhaps twenty people landed, one after another.
It did not rain much, but the women held up their umbrellas; they were
dressed in all the colours of the rainbow, and, with their scarlet
cardinals, the tartan plaids of the men, and Scotch bonnets, made a gay
appearance. There was a joyous bustle surrounding the boat, which even
imparted something of the same character to the waterfall in its tumult,
and the restless grey waves; the young men laughed and shouted, the
lasses laughed, and the elder folks seemed to be in a bustle to be away.
I remember well with what haste the mistress of the house where we were
ran up to seek after her child, and seeing us, how anxiously and kindly
she inquired how we had fared, if we had had a good fire, had been well
waited upon, etc. etc. All this in three minutes--for the boatman had
another party to bring from the other side and hurried us off.

The hospitality we had met with at the two cottages and Mr. Macfarlane's
gave us very favourable impressions on this our first entrance into the
Highlands, and at this day the innocent merriment of the girls, with
their kindness to us, and the beautiful figure and face of the elder,
come to my mind whenever I think of the ferry-house and waterfall of Loch
Lomond, and I never think of the two girls but the whole image of that
romantic spot is before me, a living image, as it will be to my dying
day. The following poem {113} was written by William not long after our
return from Scotland:--

Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower
Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
Twice seven consenting years have shed
Their utmost bounty on thy head:
And these grey rocks; this household lawn;
These trees, a veil just half withdrawn;
This fall of water, that doth make
A murmur near the silent Lake;
This little Bay, a quiet road
That holds in shelter thy abode;
In truth together ye do s