Such a poet as Edgar Poe would have revelled in that place,--and well he might! There is a new and grand mansion, on higher ground, in the park; but the ancient house, almost abandoned now, is a thousand times more characteristic and interesting than the new one. Both are approached through a long, winding avenue, overhung with great trees that interlace their branches above it and make a cathedral aisle; but soon the pathway to the older house turns aside into a grove of chestnuts, birches, and yews,--winding under vast dark boughs that bend like serpents completely to the earth and then ascend once more,--and so goes onward, through sombre glades and through groves of rhododendron, to the levels of Loch Ederline and the front of the mansion, now desolate and half in ruins. It was an old house a hundred years ago. It is covered with ivy and buried among the trees, and on its surface and on the tree-trunks around it the lichen and the yellow moss have gathered, in rank luxuriance. The waters of the lake ripple upon a rocky landing almost at its door. Here once lived as proud a Campbell as ever breathed in Scotland, and here his haughty spirit wrought out for itself the doom of a lonely age and a broken heart. His grave is on a little island in the lake,--a family burying-ground,[49] such as may often be found on ancient, sequestered estates in the Highlands,--where the tall trees wave above it and the weeds are growing thick upon its surface, while over it the rooks caw and clamour and the idle winds career, in heedless indifference that is sadder even than neglect. So destiny vindicates its inexorable edict and the great law of retribution is fulfilled. A stranger sits in his seat and rules in his hall, and of all the followers that once waited on his lightest word there remains but a single one,--aged, infirm, and nearing the end of the long journey,--to scrape the moss from his forgotten gravestone and to think sometimes of his ancient greatness and splendour, forever passed away. We rowed around Loch Ederline and looked down into its black waters, that in some parts have never been sounded, and are fabled to reach through to the other side of the world, and, as our oars dipped and plashed, the timid moor-fowl scurried into the bushes and the white swans sailed away in haughty wrath, while, warned by gathering storm-clouds, multitudes of old rooks, that long have haunted the place, came flying overhead, with many a querulous croak, toward their nests in Ederline grove. [Illustration: LOCH AWE]