the castle on the south side.  A soldier conducted us through a narrow cleft, overhung with crags, to the summit.  Here, from the remains of a round building, called Wallace’s Tower, from its having been used as a look-out station by that chieftain, we had a beautiful view of the whole of Leven Vale to Loch Lomond, Ben Lomond and the Highlands, and on the other hand, the Clyde and the Isle of Bute.  In the soft and still balminess of the morning, it was a lovely picture.  In the armory, I lifted the sword of Wallace, a two-handed weapon, five feet in length.  We were also shown a Lochaber battle-axe, from Bannockburn, and several ancient claymores.

We lingered long upon the summit before we forsook the stern fortress for the sweet vale spread out before us.  It was indeed a glorious walk, from Dumbarton to Loch Lomond, through this enchanting valley.  The air was mild and clear; a few light clouds occasionally crossing the sun, chequered the hills with sun and shade.  I have as yet seen nothing that in pastoral beauty can compare with its glassy winding stream, its mossy old woods, and guarding hills—­and the ivy-grown, castellated towers embosomed in its forests, or standing on the banks of the Leven—­the purest of rivers.  At a little village called Renton, is a monument to Smollett, but the inhabitants seem to neglect his memory, as one of the tablets on the pedestal is broken and half fallen away.  Further up the vale a farmer showed us an old mansion in the midst of a group of trees on the bank of the Leven, which he said belonged to Smollett—­or Roderick Random, as he called him.  Two or three old pear trees were still standing where the garden had formerly been, under which he was accustomed to play in his childhood.

At the head of Leven Vale, we set off in the steamer “Water Witch” over the crystal waters of Loch Lomond, passing Inch Murrin, the deer-park of the Duke of Montrose, and Inch Caillach,

    ——­“where gray pines wave
    Their shadows o’er Clan Alpine’s grave.”

Under the clear sky and golden light of the declining sun, we entered the Highlands, and heard on every side names we had learned long ago in the lays of Scott.  Here were Glen Fruin and Bannochar, Ross Dhu and the pass of Beal-ma-na.  Further still, we passed Rob Roy’s rock, where the lake is locked in by lofty mountains.  The cone-like peak of Ben Lomond rises far above on the right, Ben Voirlich stands in front, and the jagged crest of Ben Arthur looks over the shoulders of the western hills.  A Scotchman on board pointed out to us the remarkable places, and related many interesting legends.  Above Inversnaid, where there is a beautiful waterfall, leaping over the rock and glancing out from the overhanging birches, we passed McFarland’s Island, concerning the origin of which name, he gave a history.  A nephew of one of the old Earls of Lennox, the ruins of whose castle we saw on Inch Murrin, having murdered his uncle’s cook in a quarrel, was obliged to