Immediately in front of you is Inchmurrin, the longest of the islands, fully half-a-mile long, which the Duke of Montrose uses as a deer park. It is beautifully wooded. Brown seems the most becoming colour for this season of the year. The summer dies gloriously in leafy places with such a splendour of beauty that it is difficult to recognise it as decay. The golden and brown leaves, mingling with the greens that still retain their colour, are pleasant accompaniments of the season. But we need not look so far away for autumnal tints. They are all round us. The golden brown hues of the pheasant hang in every leaf; the bird itself, wonderfully protected by nature, stands among herbage, wearing his colours and eyeing the wayfarer as he passes. And what can look warmer and more comfortable than those brown brackens which are everywhere? And are they really brown? They look so in the distance, but near they are yellow as well as brown; and some are a beautiful bronze, and in sheltered spots the lady ferns are just as green and fresh as they were in July and early August.
But once more for the loch and its islands. Inchmurrin has at its west end the ruins of an old castle which was inhabited in former times by the family of Lennox. The Duchess of Albany resided here after the execution at Stirling, in 1425, and within sight of their own castle at Doune, of her husband, father, and two sons, on the restoration of James First. She herself was for some time confined in Tantallon Castle, but on her release she resided here. Passing over the two smaller islands of Creinge and Torinch, you have to the right Inchcailliach, the largest and probably the most lovely of all, notable as being the burial-place of the Macgregors. “Upon the halidom of him that sleeps beneath the grey stone at Inchcailliach!” was a favourite oath among the members of this warlike clan. Rob Roy used it when promising the Bailie payment of his money. It is sometimes called the Nun’s Island, or “the Island of Old Women,” from a nunnery which once stood there; and when seen from the direction of the Endrick its outline resembles that of a dead human body, from which it is called sometimes the corpse of Loch Lomond. To the east of it is the small island of Clairinch, from which the Clan Buchanan took their slogan or battle cry, “Clair Inch.” To the west of it is Inchfad, or the Long Island, close to which, and in a dry season, within wadeable distance of it, is Darroch Eilan, the general lunching rendezvous. Here, also, there is a mighty oak, which has sheltered generations of anglers, and of poachers too, for even to this day the “otter” is here used in spite of honour or law. To the west of Inchfad is Inchcruin, or the Round Island, an island which for many years formed an asylum for insane boarders; it is also the unwilling resort of those who “cannot take a little without taking too much,” and therefore it has the sadly significant cognomen of “the Drunken Island.”
To the west of this is Inchmoan, or the Peat Island, which is covered with moss. It is sometimes called “the Gull Island,” and in the spring one has to be very careful how he walks, as nests with one, two, or more eggs are scattered everywhere. To the south-west of this there is a small island, Inchgalbraith, with a ruin which at one time must have been a place of considerable strength, but to visit which is sometimes resented by the jackdaws who have taken possession of it, and, like the crofters, refuse to quit. North of Inchmoan is the large island of Inchconachan, or Dog’s Isle, a Colquhoun’s island, covered with oak and fir, but quite uninhabited. To the west of those two is Inch Tavannach, or Monks’ Island, so called from its having been the site of a monastery. This island has also frequently been converted into a kind of sanatorium for dipsomaniacs, and is celebrated for having many of our finest British ferns. There is a narrow strait between these last two, near the northern entrance of which a stone is visible at low water, from which tradition says that the Gospel used to be preached to audiences on both islands, and this stone is still called “The Minister’s Stone.” A little to the north of those is Inch Lonaig, “the Yew Island,” remarkable for its old yew trees, some of which are said to have been planted by the Bruces.
Turning now from the loch to its surroundings, from the waterscape to the many landscapes that as a frame enclose the picture, you have close at hand the beautifully-wooded conical hill of Duncruin, with Ross Priory projecting into the loch, a favourite place with Sir Walter Scott, who wrote “Rob Roy” while living here as the guest of Mr. Hector Macdonald, an Edinburgh advocate of that time. It is not difficult, apart from his friendship with the master of the place, to understand Scott’s attraction to the house. He was keenly alive to the beauty of woodland and loch; and the district around was teeming with memories—every glen the home of a romance. We find the influence of these upon him in some of the most famous episodes in “Rob Roy” and “The Lady of the Lake.” The Priory has, however, a much sadder story to tell—that of the betrayal of the Marquis of Tullibardine, eldest son of the Duke of Athole, who after Culloden took refuge with his former friend, Buchanan of the Ross. Buchanan, however, betrayed him, the Marquis hurling out the imprecation as he was taken prisoner, “There’ll be Murrays on the Braes of Athole when there’s ne’er a Buchanan at the Ross,” and the prophecy has been fulfilled. Beyond this we have the fertile valley and the mouth of the Endrick, with Buchanan House, the seat of the Duke of Montrose. The valley of the Endrick is celebrated in the old song of “The Gallant Graham” as “Sweet Enerdale,” stretching far up to the hills at Killearn, which, with its monument to George Buchanan, “the father of modern Liberalism,” we easily recognise.
Though in his time Lord Privy Seal of Scotland, Moderator of the Kirk, and tutor to James VI. of Scotland and I. of England, Buchanan openly advocated tyrannicide, maintaining that “tyrants should be ranked amongst the most ferocious beasts.” Professor Morley, in his eighth volume of “English Writers,” has devoted a large space to this great yet simple-minded man. The picture of the great scholar—the greatest, perhaps, in the Europe of his day—teaching his serving-man in his death-chamber “a-b, ab—e-b, eb,” &c., and defying the “British Solomon” and “all his kin” in the same breath, is surely worthy of the brush of some one of the numerous artists to whom Scotland has given birth. We charge nothing for the suggestion.
And there is the steamer on her upward trip going into Balmaha, where there is the famous pass along which the Highland clans were accustomed when on the “war path” to direct their march into the Lowlands. Rob Roy often took this route, and, in the words of Scott—
Kept our stoutest kernes in awe,
Even at the Pass of Beal’maha.
Above this you see Conie Hill, 1175 feet high, with the huge Ben Lomond in the distance. You can see, standing between Drymen Station and Kilmaronock Church, Catter House, near which the Lennox family had a castle, that stood on the Moot Hill, a large artificial mound, where justice was administered in former times, and on which stood the earl’s gallows, a necessary appendage to a feudal court, especially on the borders of the Highlands.