A pretty stiff ascent of about a mile, and you are over the summit of the Black Hill, looking down on Helens-burgh, up at the heavens, and straight forward across a moor, through which the road winds onwards to Lochlomond. If the day is hot, you long to keep company with the herd of black cattle standing knee-deep in the pond, or the sheep sheltered beneath the long heather; for the sun pours down mercilessly on your shelterless head, and glows on you as only on the moor the sun can glow and burn. But if the wind stirs from any point of the compass, you gratefully feel it here. Even when the firth below is calm and unruffled, and the white gull “floats double” on its bosom, the bog cotton is nodding its head, and the tall grasses rustling their spears together to the passing zephyr, on this high table-land. By the time you have reached the summit of the ascent, you are fain to rest and look before you, unless bent on a more lengthened walk. The blue heavens overhead, the purpling heath beneath and everywhere around you, the distant Grampians range in front, with a little peep of Lochlomond, like a glittering stone, shining somewhere between the wooded knolls below you; the air made musical with unnumbered songs, from the chirp of the grasshopper at your side to the wail of the circling plover above you. How pleasant to rest and feel the glow of life and beauty that flows from God’s works, and seems to fill, and purify as it fills, the thirsting soul! A broken moor, flanked by hills, and embracing the valley of the Fruin, stretches from this point away down to the shores of Lochlomond, some five miles distant. Very much the same aspect must this unreclaimed bog and meadow have borne long centuries ago, when the tourists who frequented it were not young ladies botanising, or young gentlemen rambling with kit or creel, but kilted caterans of the Clan Farlane, Gregour, or Colquhoun, who loved nature best when in her darkest moods, and the road best when the stocking of a Sassenach byre was marching on before them.

Past a clump of wood, past corn-fields, then out into more waste moor, dotted over with little stacks of peat, with the peewit wheeling in the air, and the snipe starting from the ditch at your feet; past low-lying, sheltered farm homesteads, that the winter wind, as it howls down the glen, never in its maddest fury reaches—where bee-hives are planted thickly in the garden, and the honeysuckle climbs about the door, and the colley basks sleepily in the porch; past a dark shady glen, the haunt of the roe-deer and rabbit, in whose recesses the pigeon chants its mournful song—

“Where the denser grove receives
No sunlight from above;
But the dark foliage interweaves
In one unbroken roof of leaves,
Underneath whose sloping eaves
The shadows hardly move.”

Past a sparkling stream, making melody to the wild flowers and woods, as it dances and leaps on its way to the lake beneath; past another ascent, up a little hill, not so difficult or so long as the first, with a high primrose-covered bank on each side, and then suddenly before you stretches out a noble prospect. The lower waters of the loch is seen, and a wide range of hill and dale, meadow and moor, are spread out before you,—such a view as the eye cannot take in at a glance, but returns to again and again, gathering fresh pleasures at each fresh discovery of its beauties, till the gazer is tempted to give utterance to the feelings awakened, in words of deepest and delighted wonder.

A long dead wall, which encloses the policies of Rossdhu, now prevents the pedestrian from seeing much that is interesting, continuing for above a mile, and then Lochlomond is seen in its beauty and grandeur, with the island of Inchtavannach opposite. It bursts upon you at once; you seem to breathe the fresh atmosphere of liberty; your eyes dwell upon a vision of loveliness, and you draw an involuntary inspiration of delight. You have been wondering, for half an hour past, how it looked on close approach, and vainly conjecturing the beauties that might be visible were you on t’ other side of that endless wall; but now, all this is forgotten, and you revel in the unexpected panorama of sylvan and romantic beauty that lies before you.

“A dewy freshness fills the silent air;
No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain
Breaks the serene of heaven.”

The islands, and their o’erhanging woods, seem to sleep upon the tranquil waters, whose stainless bosom reflects their beauties, and mirrors the blue sky, and each broken white cloud, on its placid depths. Each step reveals new features, and brings to light new points in the landscape, more lovely, if possible, where all is lovely. With slackened pace and enraptured sight, the spectator leisurely lingers, and notes every fresh object of interest that the windings of the road reveals to him. “The courting tree,” a wide-spreading and densely-leaved monarch of the wood, familiar in the dreams of Luss lads and lasses for many generations, attracts attention to itself as you pass, and little glimpses of the lake and mountains obtained through long tunnels of interweaving branches, stereoscopic in minute beauties and effects, arrest your steps at almost every turn. Less than half an hour brings you to the old village of Luss, situated almost on the banks of the loch, and picturesque from its position and age. It is little else than a cluster of rustic ruinous hamlets, wearing a poverty stricken aspect, and inhabited by labourers and dependants on the estate. Some modern cottages have, of late years, been erected by Sir James Colquhoun, much superior in appearance to the old houses, but rather incongruous in effect beside the moss-clad, thatched cabins by which they are surrounded. Luss contains one inn, at a little distance from the village, a respectable and commodious house, and favourite resort of anglers and tourists, commanding a lovely and uninterrupted view of its islands and opposite shores, with the dark shadow of Benlomond rising almost in front, like a giant. The parish church stands a little to the right, embowered among trees, a plain building, about a century old; but, judging from the dates of the tombstones in the churchyard, erected near the site of an older church. In summer, when the neighbourhood is thronged with visitors, it is found rather small for the accommodation of the worshippers; but otherwise sufficiently large. Its appearance is in keeping with the locality.

The tourist to Luss should not neglect obtaining two of the best views of Lochlomond and its scenery that can be had. One of these is from the rising ground in the opposite island of Inchtavannach; the other, from Stronehill, behind the village. Both are within easy access; and from either point, on a clear summer day, a landscape spreads out before the eye which scarcely any parallel can be found to in the scenery of earth’s fairest gardens, and which will leave its impress on the memory of the spectator through coming years. Luss, like almost every old parish of note, had, in former days, its tutelary saint—one St Keasog,3 who is said to have suffered martyrdom in the sixth century. History and tradition seem alike silent in regard to his life; for, so far as we can learn, none of his deeds have survived the lapse of years since his decease. His memory only is perpetuated by the remains of a large cairn of stones in the neighbourhood— the place of his reputed burial—called Cairn-na-Cheasoig. During the thirteenth century, Haco of Norway, better known than the tutelary saint, ravaged the islands of Lochlomond and Luss, and put most of the Celtic inhabitants to death. Probably then these islands were inhabited by numbers of savage freebooting Highlanders, who found in them protection and comparative immunity from danger, till the undaunted Norwegians rooted them out. Since that time they have been tenanted only by deer and game. The two largest of them, Inchmurrin and Inchtavannach, each of them extending upwards of a mile in length, and several of the smaller ones—such as Inchlonaig and Inchfad—would be capable of supporting a considerable population. They are generally fertile, and, if cultivated, would yield luxuriant crops; but then their sylvan beauty would be lost, and that romantic attraction which they possess, arising, as it does, to a considerable extent, from their natural luxuriousness, would be lost for ever. The most utilitarian spirit of this age could hardly desire to see them clothed with corn instead of the dark yew, the oak, heath, and fern, or trimmed into grassy slopes, pasturing sheep in place of the timid deer and rabbit. The Colquhouns acquired the lands of Luss, and certain of the islands, from the Lennox family, in the fourteenth century, and have since retained them, adding to the original estates many other properties on the shores of Lochlomond, and adjacent to it, and, at this date, the present Sir James Colquhoun is one of the most extensive landowners in Scotland: many parts of his estates are daily increasing in value to an extent which, half a century since, would have been deemed fabulous. Rossdhu House, the beautiful residence of the Colquhoun family, stands close by the shore of the loch, about a mile below Luss. An older castle stood here, part of the ruins of which are still preserved, and lend considerable attraction to the view. One of the finest views of Lochlomond and the Ben, not so extensive as those alluded to, but, if possible, more lovely, is obtainable from Rossdhu Bay. The Colquhoun family trace descent from a younger sort of one of the old Earls of Lennox, who is said to have obtained a grant of the lands and barony of Colquhoun for military service, in the reign of Alexander II., in 1230-50. The names of the descendants of the first Colquhoun appear in a succession of charters from that period down to 1465; shortly after which, Sir John Colquhoun, one of the most distinguished men of his age, obtained a grant of the lands of Kilmardinny, Roseneath, Strone, &c. Subsequent history connects the representative heads of the family with various feuds of the M‘Farlanes and M‘Gregors. These turbulent clans were at last, however, subdued, and ample compensation given to the Colquhouns for the injuries they had sustained by repeated plunderings and oppressions they had been the victims of. There have been many very distinguished men in the long succession traceable downwards of this family, which occupies a prominent and honourable position in Scottish history.

The Luss men of modern times have somewhat forfeited their ancient prestige. They used to be memorable as cattle-lifters, and, after the age of that rather questionable occupation had passed away, and the distinctions of meum and tuum had begun to be more clearly understood even here, their young men sought less ambitious distinction in the ancient game of “shinty,” and in aquatic sports. But whatever renown they acquired in these last pastimes is sadly tarnished; they have been, of late years, so often conquered on their own fields and on their own waters, that Luss shinty players and Luss oarsmen are almost passing into bywords. A little steamer, with holiday crowd on board, comes gliding across the lake—a white puff, and a roar from the steam-pipe, a little bustle on deck, and it is moored to the pier at the end of the village; the bell rings. Fellow-traveller, who has rambled about so long with us—if as pleasantly to thee hitherto as to us, we rejoice—wilt shake hands, and step on board’? We could gladly accompany thee, but our holiday is ended, and our gossip must cease; and as the moorings are unloosened, and the pilot takes his stand at the wheel, with one last wave of the hand we bid you farewell.