LOCH MARIE. Ill 



lake, beautiful in itself, but reflecting, like the mirror of 

 a homely female, the tame and unlovely features that 

 hung over it. At its upper end we found the ruins of a 

 solitary cottage, the only vestige of man in the valley. 

 We then began to descend into a deep narrow glen or 

 ravine, through which there runs a little brattling stream- 

 let, the first we saw falling towards the Atlantic. The 

 hills rise to a great height on either hand, bare, rocky, 

 stripped into long furrows, mottled over with debris and 

 huge fragments of stone, and nearly destitute of even 

 heather. The day had become clear and pleasant, but 

 the voice of a bird was not to be heard in this dismal 

 place, nor sheep nor goat to be seen among the cliffs. I 

 wish my favourite John Bunyan had passed a night in it 

 at the season when the heath-fires of the shepherds are 

 flaming on the heights above, were it but to enable 

 him to impart more tangibility to the hills which border 

 the dark valley of the shadow of death. Through the 

 gloomy vista of the ravine a little paradise seemed 

 opening before us, a paradise like that which Mirza 

 contemplated from the heights of Bagdad, of smooth 

 water and green islands. " There," said my comrade, 

 "is Loch Marie; we have to sail over it for about 

 fourteen miles, as there is no path on which we could 

 bring the cart with the baggage; but the horse and 

 his master must push onward on foot/' The carter 

 growled like an angry bear, but said nothing we could 

 understand. Emerging from the ravine our road ran 

 through a little moory plain, bordered with hills which 

 seemed to have at one time formed the shores of the 

 lake. A few patches of corn and potatoes, that, sur- 

 rounded by the brown heath, reminded me of openings 

 in a dark sky, together with half a dozen miserable- 



