It is not often that we have a sheet of water on or near the summit of our Scottish hills; but this is something that Ben Ledi can boast of. On its shoulder, a little way below us, there is a small and dark tarn, only a few yards in width, which yet was made the unwilling witness, nay, worse, participator in a terrible tragedy. The tarn is called Loch-an-nan-corp—“the small lake of dead bodies,” a name the origin of which tradition ascribes to the calamity which “once upon a time,” not to be too particular, overtook a funeral procession there. Two hundred persons journeying from Glenfinlas to a churchyard on the pass of Leny, found this lake frozen over and covered with snow, and attempted to cross it, but the ice gave way and they were all drowned. An interesting writer in the _Illustrated News_, a year or two back, a writer who, we are pleased to hear, belongs to Glasgow, says, writing on this point, “No tablet on that wind-swept moor records the half-forgotten disaster; only the eerie lapping of the lochlet’s waves fill the discoverer with strange forebodings, and at dusk, it is said, the lonely ptarmigan may be seen, like souls of the departed, haunting the fatal spot.” Those who, instead of retracing their steps, and coming down again by Coilantogle, prefer to make for the Pass of Leny, will find at the foot of the mountain a little mound, close to where the river leaves Loch Lubnaig, the burying-ground to which the clansmen were carrying their dead friend. There is now only a low scone wall around this diminutive grave-yard, but here once stood the small chapel of St. Bride, “which,” according to Sir Walter Scott, “stood in a small and romantic knoll in the middle of the valley,” from the Gothic arch of whose doorway, we read in the _Lady of the Lake_, the happy marriage company were coming out when Roderick Dhu’s messenger rushed up to the principal one of the party and thrust into his hands the fiery cross of the Macgregors. After rounding this knoll we arrive, about a mile farther on, within sight of Loch Lubnaig, or the “Crooked Lake,” which is some 5 miles in length, overhung on both sides by rugged hills, and surrounded by groves of birch, pine, and hazel. We do not know a better position than the farmhouse of Ardchullary for getting a good view of the loch. Unless you have provided yourself with a very liberal allowance of the biscuits and cheese to which we have already referred, you will be glad to get near to some such kindly and hospitable place. And if you are a little tired and done up with your day’s travels, additional interest will attach, in your eyes, to this house, from its having been the favourite summer quarters of Bruce of Kinnaird, the Abyssinian traveller, who retired to these solitudes for the purpose of arranging the materials for the publication of his travels.