THE MOUNTAIN. 115 



much as myself in exploring the works of Nature, 

 I started from Glasgow, in one of the small 

 steamers which ply on the Clyde, and sailed down 

 the river to Dunbarton, distant about seventeen 

 miles. I was told that, if I completed my short 

 tour without more than one exposure to soaking 

 rain, I might consider myself very fortunate. In 

 addition, therefore, to my usual botanical appa- 

 ratus, which consisted of a large tin box slung 

 across my back for collecting specimens of plants, 

 a stout knife to answer the double purpose of cut- 

 ting and digging, a stock of blotting-paper and 

 boards for drying, at the close of each day, what- 

 ever plants I might find, I furnished myself with 

 that most unromantic appendage, an umbrella. 

 You may well imagine that I set out in high 

 spirits, anticipating the greatest possible pleasure 

 from seeing new scenery of the grandest and most 

 beautiful description, observing and examining in 

 their native haunts whole tribes of plants, which 

 I had only read of, or seen in a dried state ; and 

 all this in a district made interesting by a thousand 

 associations. I was accompanied, too, by a friend, 

 who, though he was familiar with every spot that 

 we intended to visit, was as anxious to renew his 

 acquaintance with them as I was to commence 

 mine, and was prepared to go wherever he thought 

 I should be most gratified, and to do anything that 

 would give me pleasure. 



About half-past eight we reached Dunbarton, an 

 uninteresting town to hasty visitors such as we 

 were, and immediately took our places in a sort of 

 omnibus for Loch Lomond, on the shores of which 

 we arrived about ten o'clock. I was not prepared 

 for being so speedily on the long wished-for 



