The 'promontory,' 'the bay,' 'the brake,' 'the pebbles,' are all here; and to enliven the scene, there was an old man who might have been Allan Bane, playing wildly on a flute; and he gave us some fine old Scotch airs, which were quite a treat. We had a thunder-shower, too, and taking shelter in a cave, we heard 'heaven's artillery' echoed through these mighty mountains, with most impressive grandeur. On our return, with much exertion, I at length achieved the summit of one of the minor heights, and was amply repaid by the prospect therefrom. It was at sunset; and the whole of the three Lochs Katrine, Achray, and Vennachar, with the snow-capped Grampians on the north, and the distant ocean on the west, were distinctly seen. The cattle on the nearest mountains appeared not larger that cats. * * * * * INVERARY, HEAD OF LOCH FINE, SATURDAY, 11 P. M.--With the moon-lit lake under my window, I resume my disjointed narrative. Yesterday we had seen the Trosachs in the clearest atmosphere, but to-day they were encircled with the mists which rolled majestically along their sides, while their summits were 'bright with the beams of the morning sun.' Our hostess at Loch Achray provided us with a boat and oarsmen, and we proceeded through the pass from which 'Loch Katrine lay beneath us roll'd-- In all her length far winding lay, With promontory, creek, and bay, And islands that empurpled bright, Floated amid the livelier light; And mountains that like giants stand To sentinel enchanted land.' How accurate and graphic the picture! This lake is about seven miles long, and perhaps half a mile wide. We sailed over its smooth and brilliantly-dark, transparent surface, and touched the banks of Ellen's Isle: 'The stranger view'd the shore around, 'Twas all so close with copse-wood bound, Nor track, nor path-way might declare That human foot frequented there.' Our boatmen here gave us a specimen of the wonderful echoes.[3] His shrill call was answered _three times_, with perfect distinctness, and apparently from a great distance. He had a pithy way of talking, this rower. 'Do the sun's rays,' I asked, 'ever reach that glen under Ben An?' who here 'Lifts high his forehead bare.' 'Yes,' he said; 'they just give it a peep, to say 'How-dye-do?' and are off again.' 'Is it five _English_ miles across the next pass?' 'English miles, but a _Scotch road_.'