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. All the hills are sheep-pastures, and I never saw
such wild, rough, ragged-looking creatures as the sheep, with their black
faces and tattered wool. The little lambs were very numerous, poor
things, coming so early in the season into this inclement region; and it
was laughable to see how invariably, when startled by our approach, they
scampered to their mothers, and immediately began to suck. It would seem
as if they sought a draught from the maternal udder, wherewith to fortify
and encourage their poor little hearts; but I suppose their instinct
merely drove them close to their dams, and, being there, they took
advantage of their opportunity.
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