Many of these peaks and cliffs are separated only by narrow and gloomy glens hundreds of feet deep. The glen may be ten, fifteen, or twenty-five feet wide at the bottom, but the rough and irregular sides tower up so high, and come so near closing at the top, that the rocky chasm is dark and gloomy. I have, I think, very little superstition about me; yet I confess that while walking through these silent halls, where the sun has never shone, I felt half inclined to look around me for hissing serpents, for hobgoblins and rats. While in one of these unseemingly—I had almost said unearthly—places, a dreamy, far-away spell came over me. I fell into an absent-minded mood. Just as I reached a dark, horrible-looking place, I paused. I stood still, my eyes resting upon the stone floor; I was thinking about—I do not know what. All at once I heard a furious noise; and, turning suddenly around, I beheld a huge wildcat rushing down the glen, with eyes glaring like balls of fire. By this time he was within five feet of me, and gave the most unearthly yell that I have ever heard. It seemed as if it would rend the very rocks. Every hair on my head was a goose-quill, and they were all on ends. For a moment I was still as death, and pulseless as a statue, while the noise that startled me was rolling, ringing, and reverberating down the glen like the mutterings of distant thunder. As John Bunyan would say, “I departed, and was seen, there no more.” Having gotten out of the glen, I went back upon Ben Lomond and enjoyed the picture. I said it was a grand sight, and so it was. Turn my eyes as I would, I could see mountain streams fed by melting snow, the water being churned into madness as it leaped from rock to rock, until it was lost in the abyss below. Looking beneath me, I could see several of the Scottish lakes, which were as beautiful as the mountains were grand. I saw Loch Lomond, on whose calm bosom many islands float, winding around like a silver thread among the mountains for twenty miles. All this made a picture that I can never forget. It is indelibly stamped on the imperishable tablets of memory; and there it will remain, an object of interest and admiration, until the flood-gates of life are shut in eternal rest. We visited Rob Roy’s cave, the land of the Macgregors, the house in which Helen Macgregor was born, Loch Katrine where Scott wrote “The Lady of the Lake,” and many other places known to history and to song.