LETTER III. 



LOCH GOIL — THE SAGA OF CLAN CAMPBELL. 



Oban, June 5, 1856. 



I have seldom enjoyed anything so much as our journey, 

 yesterday. Getting clear at last of the smells, smoke, noise, 

 and squalor of Greenock, to plunge into the very heart of the 

 Highland hills, robed as they were in the sunshine of a beau- 

 tiful summer day, was enough to make one beside oneself 

 with delight ; and the Icelander enjoyed it as much as I did. 

 Having crossed the Clyde, alive with innumerable vessels, its 

 waves dancing and sparkling in the sunlight, we suddenly 

 shot into the still and solemn Loch Goil, whose waters, dark 

 with mountain shadows, seemed almost to belong to a dif- 

 ferent element from that of the yellow T , rushing, ship-laden 

 river we had left. In fact, in the space of ten minutes we 

 had got into another world, centuries remote from the steam- 

 ing, weaving, delving Britain, south of Clyde. 



After a sail of about three hours, we reached the head of 

 the loch, and then took coach along the worst mountain road 

 in Europe, towards the country of the world-invading Camp- 

 bells. A steady pull of three hours more, up a wild bare 

 glen, brought us to the top of the mica-slate ridge which 

 pens up Loch Fyne, on its western side, and disclosed what 

 I have always thought the loveliest scene in Scotland. 

 1 Far below at our feet, and stretching away on either hand 

 among the mountains, lay the blue waters of the lake. 



On its other side, encompassed by a level belt of pasture- 

 land and corn-fields, the white little town of Inverary glit- 

 tered like a gem on the sea-shore ; while to the right, amid 

 lawns and gardens, and gleaming banks of wood, that hung 

 down into the water, rose the dark towers of the Castle ; the 



