In addition to all these attractions, that morning when I awoke it seemed as if all the birds of the country, with their merry voices and bright plumage, had assembled to hold their spring carnival. One of their number was unlike any of the feathered tribe I had seen before. It had a dove-colored breast; night and morning were delicately interwoven in its wings, and it sang “as if every tiny bone in its body were a golden flute.” A good old lady living there told me that when Dr. Thomas Chalmers stood where I was standing that morning, and saw and heard what then greeted my eyes and ears, he exclaimed: “I wonder if there will be such scenery and music as this in heaven!” Ah! this is Scotland, “Bonnie Scotland,” whose picturesque scenery has waked the harp of so many bards, and has often set the artist’s eye “in fine frenzy rolling.” I am not surprised that the mantle of poesy fell upon Burns while following the plow; my only wonder is that all Scotchmen are not poets. In fact, when I awoke that morning and found myself in that terrestrial heaven, I did not know what was the matter with me. There was a fluttering underneath my ribs. It was a deep and strong, yet a pleasing and delightful sensation. I thought it was a poet’s soul in me! Rushing to the desk with hair uncombed, I arranged my stationery, and sat with pen in hand waiting for the light to break in upon me—but—but—the spell passed off before I could get hold of the first rhyme. What a pity! After being here a short time, Johnson and I decide to take a trip through the mountains and visit Loch Long, a few miles west. We are not at all disappointed when we arrive at the Loch. The scenery is wild, savage, grand! Beyond the lake, or loch, we see the Cobbler, a towering mountain, covered with snow. The mountain is apparently not far off, seemingly about two hours’ walk. Now this, the Cobbler, is not the highest mountain in Scotland, but is said to be the hardest one in the whole country to climb.