Returning to the hotel, we started in a drosky (I do not know whether
this is the right name of the vehicle, or whether it has a right name,
but it is a carriage in which four persons sit back to back, two before
and two behind) for Aberfoyle. The mountain-side ascends very steeply
from the inn door, and, not to damp the horse's courage in the outset, we
went up on foot. The guide-book says that the prospect from the summit
of the ascent is very fine; but I really believe we forgot to turn round
and look at it. All through our drive, however, we had mountain views in
plenty, especially of great Ben Lomond, with his snow-covered head, round
which, since our entrance into the Highlands, we had been making a
circuit. Nothing can possibly be drearier than the mountains at this
season; bare, barren, and bleak, with black patches of withered heath
variegating the dead brown of the herbage on their sides; and as regards
trees the hills are perfectly naked. There were no frightful precipices,
no boldly picturesque features, along our road; but high, weary slopes,
showing miles and miles of heavy solitude, with here and there a highland
hut, built of stone and thatched; and, in one place, an old gray, ruinous
fortress, a station of the English troops after the rebellion of 1715;
and once or twice a village of hills, the inhabitants of which, old and
young, ran to their doors to stare at us. For several miles after we
left Inversnaid, the mountain-stream which makes the waterfall brawled
along the roadside.
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