Exquisite are the islands--about thirty in number and lying chiefly in the southern part--that dot the surface, such as Inch Cailliach, the Isle of Women, or Place of the Nuns; Inch Tarranach, or Monk’s Isle; Inch Fad, or Long Island; Inch Cruin, or Round Island. One of the largest of these is a nobleman’s deer park. Inch Loanig, or Yew Isle, where Robert the Bruce planted yew trees for his bowmen, and where the wood of the fiery cross was grown, and others that have associated with their names ancient romance or modern utility, possess a double charm. Geologically, the loch is the remnant of an (amputated) arm of the sea, and usually but a few feet above the level of the great deep. One of the dales near Loch Lomond, at whose entrance are the ruins of an old castle, is Glen Fruin, the Glen of Sorrow. Here a terrible battle was fought between the Macgregors and the partisans of the Laird of Luss, the head of the family of Colquhon, in which the Macgregors were victorious and the Colquhons almost annihilated. There is also a Holy Pool of St. Fillan known, where incantations used to be made to secure the influence of the saint for the recovery of insane persons. It seems a literary outrage not to read, as a preparation, Scott’s “Lady of the Lake,” before going through the Trossachs, or riding over the ridge from Loch Lomond to Loch Katrine. This romantic defile, whose Gaelic name means the “Bristled Country,” in allusion to its shaggy physical features, is very narrow and beautifully wooded. Properly speaking, the Trossachs extend from Loch Achray to Loch Katrine. They are continued thence, by a strip on the northeastern shore to a point above the now submerged Silver Strand, opposite to Ellen’s Isle, a distance of less than three miles. A stage-coach was waiting for us at Inversnaid, and we were so fortunate as to get a seat in front on the top near the driver, who was very intelligent, and showed us among other places the woods in which Roderick Dhu’s men are supposed to have retired for their coronach, or wailing over the loss of their great leader. On one side are the steep green slopes of Ben Venue to the southwest, while on the northeast are the precipitous crags of Ben A’an. Wood, water, rock, and hill make a harmonious blending of lovely scenery. It was Sir Walter, the “Wizard of the North,” who made this ravine the Mecca of tourists. In his day there was no easy entrance or exit. The only access to the lake was by means of a ladder, formed out of the branches of trees and roots. Scott’s lines tell that “No pathway meets the wanderer’s view, Unless he climb with footing nice A far projecting precipice. The broom’s tough roots his ladder made, The hazel saplings lent their aid.”