INVERARY.: 7 
remote from the steaming, 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 Campbells. 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. 
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 glittered 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 whole environed by an amphi¬ 
theatre of tumbled porphyry hills, beyond whose fir- 
crowned crags rose the bare blue mountain tops of 
Lorn. 
It was a perfect picture of peace and seclusion, and 
