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In the coarse of a "twa-handed crack" which we had with
the late celebrated Christopher North, some half-dozen years ago, in his
own sanctum, Glo’ster Place, Edinburgh, the "old man eloquent" of Maga,
while discoursing lovingly on the scenery of the western districts of
Scotland, alluded to that curious natural phenomenon, "the Whangie," in
high terms of admiration. In answer to our inquiry as to the nature and
locality of this strangely named wonder of the "west countrie" (for, to
our chagrin, we were compelled to admit our previous ignorance of its
existence), he described it as a deep and rugged cleft or gulley,
evidently "of sudden and portentous birth," in the side of the hill at the
northeastern termination of the Kilpatrick range, and apparently the
production, in a bygone epoch, of some extraordinary terrene convulsion.
He descanted rapturously, at the same time, on the wild and grizzly
features of the spot, and on the magnificent prospect of mountain and
flood which it commanded. Our curiosity thus excited, we shortly
afterwards made a pilgrimage to the scene, and, contrary to what usually
occurs when wizard fancy anticipates reality, we found that in beauty
stern and wild the Whangie itself far exceeded our expectations, while the
far-stretching landscape around more than justified the matchless poetic
prose in which the author of the Lights and Shadows, while seated
in his ain muckle chair, had depicted its infinite variety of feature.
Since that period we have again and again, on days of sunshine and on days
of gloom, visited the locality. Increased familiarity, in spite of the
musty old adverse proverb, has only produced additional admiration in our
mind; and, craving the company of our courteous reader for a long day of
June, we shall once more, with willing steps, wend our way to its craggy
precincts.
Taking time by the forelock, we start at an early hour,
and emerge to the northward from the mazes of the city by the Garscube
Road. The morning is gray and lowering, but as the barometer has been
doggedly pointing to rain for the last twenty-four hours, and never a drop
falling, we have every reason to expect a day of fair weather. There are
gulfs of blue, besides, intersecting the general murkiness of the sky—a
capital sign and, better still, the swallow is describing his airy circles
at a very considerable elevation overhead. So we proceed resolutely,
strengthened with the reflection that should it even come to the worst, we
are neither "saut nor sugar," as the old wives sagely remark, and can bear
without melting the pattering of a summer shower. Just as we have got
outside the city, we pass a heap of stones by the wayside, which is
popularly known as the "Smuggler’s Cairn." In the days when illicit
distillation was more common than it is at present, it is said that a
party of the "wee still" folk, while making a midnight run with the
produce of their unlawful labours, were intercepted at this place by a
detachment of "gaugers." A severe struggle ensued, in the course of which
one of the smugglers was killed. The scene of this tragedy (in which the
popular sympathy was, as a matter of course, in favour of the defrauders
of the Excise) has ever since been marked by the cairn to which we have
alluded; and every person passing the spot is expected to contribute a
stone to the heap. At what period this deed of blood occurred we have
never been able to learn, but its stony memorial has been in existence for
a lengthened period, and even yet manifests no symptoms of diminution. The
rapid extension of the city in a north-west direction, however, will
probably ere long obliterate this among other more important landmarks.
From this point to Maryhill, the Fort-Dundas branch of
the Forth and Clyde Canal runs for a considerable distance nearly parallel
to the highway; and the traveller, as he jogs along, sees stately vessels
which seem to have deserted their "native clement," journeying overland by
his side. To quote once more the venerable author of "The Clyde,"—
"Through Carron’s channel, now with Kelvin joined,
The wondering barks a ready passage find;
The ships on swelling billows wont to rise,
On solid mountains climb to scale the skies.
Old Ocean sees the fleets forsake his floods,
Sail the firm land, the mountains, and the woods,
And safely thus conveyed, they dread no more
Rough northern seas which round the Orkneys roar."
We have become more familiar with the wonders of human
industry and skill since the days of good old John Wilson; yet there are
few sights more interesting, even in this age of marvels, than the passage
of a large vessel up or down the watery staircase of a canal. This process
may be witnessed to perfection in the vicinity of Maryhill. We find the
canal there, within the compass of a few hundred yards, passing by a
viaduct over the highway, next by a succession, of locks proceeding down a
considerable declivity, and immediately thereafter crossing with a
magnificent span the deep valley of the Kelvin. Vessels of various sizes,
laden and unladen, are continually passing and repassing at this place,
exhibiting the whole machinery of artificial water transit in full
operation. The banks of the canal in the neighbourhood are, besides, of
the most beautiful description, presenting rather the romantic features of
a natural stream than the formal lineaments of a channel made with hands.
The village of Maryhill itself presents but few
features of attraction. The houses are, for the most part, of the plainest
order; and, with the exception of those in the principal street, are
scattered about in the most irregular manner. There are a number of public
works in the vicinity also, which, however conducive to its prosperity,
certainly do not tend to increase the amenity of the locality. Until
recently there was only one church in Maryhill. There are now three; one
in connection with the Establishment, a Free Church, and a Roman Catholic
Chapel. These are all neat, but, in an architectural sense, rather
unpretending edifices, and none of them contribute materially to the
adornment of the village.
Scenes of considerable natural beauty abound in the
environs of the village. Among these is Dalsholm, a little to the west,
where the Kelvin, issuing from the fine policies of Garscube, rushes over
its rocky bed with a soft murmuring sound, bordered on the one side by a
bold precipitous bank, and on the other by gently swelling slopes and
fertile meads. In some places the water is overhung by a profusion of
foliage, while it is fretted into foam at others by projecting channel
stones, among which the wagtail and chaffinch are flitting about while we
linger on the bridge gazing upon the sweet secluded landscape around. A
paper-mill on the margin of the stream, and several cottages on the rising
grounds, some of them half-concealed by trees through which the blue smoke
is ever curling, lend a human interest to the spot, without detracting
materially from its natural loveliness. The farm of Dalsholm is remarkable
for an ancient tumulus, which was long known by the appellation of the "Courthill,"
and was supposed to have formed in bygone times the judgment-seat of some
feudal potentate. Some score or so of years ago, the farmer, who probably
had but a limited degree of reverence for feudality or its remains, set
about removing the "knowe," partly as a cumberer of the ground, and partly
with the utilitarian view of applying the soil of which it was composed as
a topdressing to a neighbouring field. A small portion of
the mound, however, had only been removed when the workmen discovered a
narrow flight of steps leading towards the interior of the eminence.
Following this subterranean staircase for a few paces, it was found to
terminate in a flagstone, on which were strewn a quantity of ashes or
cinders. On striking this stone it sounded hollow, when they immediately
proceeded to have it removed. On accomplishing this, a small cell or
chamber was discovered underneath, lined with stone, and containing a
number of curious relics. Among these were the visor of a helmet composed
of copper, with the head of a spear, and the blade of a sword, the
accoutrements probably of some distinguished warrior of the olden time.
Several other articles. were also found of a nondescript nature, or so
much decayed that the purposes for which they had originally been formed
could not be ascertained. No human remains were found in the cavity, nor
any inscription to indicate the intention with which the erection had been
constructed. Such tumuli are generally regarded by students of the
antique, however, as funereal mementoes of departed greatness; and the
fact that human bones have frequently been found in them seems to
countenance the supposition. In the present instance the dust of mortality
had so effectually returned to its kindred dust that not one coherent
fragment remained to indicate that "a proud one of the earth" had there
been laid at rest. Oblivion, that inexorable creditor, had irrecoverably
taken possession of his "pound of flesh." On bringing these things to
light, the farmer of Dalsholm desisted from the work of demolition, and a
considerable portion of the mound still remains intact for the examination
of future antiquaries.
Returning to the highway, from our brief digression to
Dalsholm, we resume our northerly course, and, after a pleasant walk of
about a mile, arrive at the little village or hamlet of Garscube, which
consists of a mill, and some half-dozen houses. The road at this point
crosses the Kelvin by a commodious bridge, as it flows from the soft
sylvan banks of Killermont into the wild magnificence of the Garscube
grounds. Unlike the majority of Scottish streams, the Kelvin, in the upper
part of its course, is dull, sluggish, and canal-like. Rising in the
parish of Kilsyth, it flows in a south-westerly direction, placidly and
slow, until it arrives at Garscube, when it completely changes character,
and tumbles and dances as merrily as a mountain brook, while its banks
become bold, precipitous, and highly picturesque. The Kelvin in both its
aspects is seen to great advantage from the spot where we now stand. Above
the bridge it is overhung by the umbrageous woods of Killermont, which are
reflected as in a mirror on its unruffled surface, while along its margin
the long rank marsh grasses, mingled with May-flowers and other plants
that love alluvial richness of soil, are waving gracefully, and the
broad-leaved water-lily is floating lazily on its breast. Passing the
bridge, however, the waters seem to become instinct with new life, and
murmur sweetly among the channel stones as they pass with a line sweep
into the verdant recesses of the Garscube policies, giving and receiving
beauty.
Killermont House, the seat of John Campbell Colquhoun,
Esq., an extensive and elegant mansion, is situated on the Kelvin a short
distance above our present position while Garscube house, the residence of
Sir Archibald Campbell, Bart., a handsome edifice, in the style of the old
English manor-house, lies screened in foliage about half-a-mile below. The
pleasure grounds surrounding the latter structure are of great extent and
beauty, being richly adorned with a profusion of the finest timber, while
they embrace a variety of landscape features of the most attractive
nature.
Passing on, we soon arrive at Canniesburn, where the
road diverges into two branches—one leading by Milngavie to Balfron, and
the other, which is our route, forms the highway to Drymen. There is a
toll-house and a number of scattered cottages at Canniesburn. One of these
is of course a small shop, the window of which is garnished with the usual
display of "parleys," scones, tape, and the other miscellaneous articles
which indicate the habitation of the "Jenny-a’-things" of the village. We
are rather amused with the humble signboard of the Canniesburn huckstress.
Originally it seems to have borne on its honest front a list of the
commodities forming the stock in trade of the proprietrix, such as teas,
tobacco, &c.; but from some cause or other the various items have been
successively effaced, until at present the sole inscription is composed of
the somewhat significant words, "JANET MUNRO TO SELL." Had we met with
such an ominous announcement in the columns of a Yankee newspaper it might
have excited but little astonishment in our mind; but we must confess that
seeing it on the front of a Scottish cottage, it rather took us aback.
Being otherwise provided for in that line, we did not venture to speir
Janet’s price. For the benefit of our bachelor friends, we think it
proper, however, to give a more extended currency to the notice of sale.
Some of them might really do worse than give honest Janet a call.
A short distance to the west of Canniesburn we pass a
small sheet of water, occupying a low-lying position a little to the left
of the highway. This is the Chapelton Loch, which is chiefly remarkable as
the habitat of various interesting acquatic plants, in search of which it
is occasionally visited by the wandering botanist. The water-hen and snipe
frequent the sedgy shallows of this diminutive lochlet, and it is said to
contain abundance of fine pike and eels, in pursuit of which the rustic
angler may frequently be observed, rod in hand, lingering on its rushy
margin. Contenting ourselves with a passing glance from the road at its
dark waters, over which the swallows are sporting merrily in the glimpse
of sunshine which now breaks from the sky, we speedily find ourselves at
the beautiful little "kirk-toun" of New Kilpatrick. This is indeed a
lovely locality, and somehow it is ever associated in our mind, since
first we gazed upon it on a bright spring day some dozen years ago, with
sunshine, and opening leaves, and singing birds. In our memory, to use the
words of an old song, "It shines where it stands." We can never think of
it under a wintry aspect. Often, amidst the turmoil and din of the city,
does our fancy wander to that quiet and secluded church-yard; while in our
"mind’s ear" we seem to listen to the rustling of the wind among the
waving boughs, or the lonesome murmur of the passing burn which ever
singeth around the green mansions of the dead.
New Kilpatrick is a very tiny hamlet. We should suppose
that there cannot be more than a dozen or so of humble cottages in it
altogether, if there are even so many. These, however, have been set down
with an admirable irregularity, and with their patches of garden, well
stocked with apple trees, gooseberry bushes, and kitchen vegetables, make
altogether a most agreeable rural picture. Then there is the burn wimpling
along its own little vale of flowers, with generally a group of
fair-headed urchins paidlin’ about in its waters, pursuing the minnow, the
eel, or the beardie, while their gleeful voices fall with a fitful music
on the ear. Beyond the burn, but half enclosed by one of its links, is the
neat little church, plain, unpretending, but elegant withal, and begirt
with a kirk-yard so green and quiet that one could almost wish to lie down
in its verdant lap, and be at rest. In the immediate vicinity of the
church (on the summit of a gentle declivity sloping down to the margin of
the burn, and with a fine spring at its foot) is the manse, a neat little
edifice of modern erection, in the English cottage style, presenting, with
its well-stocked garden and sheltering trees, an extremely pleasing aspect
of elegance and comfort. There is also a handsome parish school in the
village, with a diminutive hostelry, and a post-office in miniature. How
enviable must be the langsyne recollections of children brought up in such
a spot, when compared with those of the unfortunate little ones whose
lines of early life have fallen in the noisome purlieus of the city, and
whose first impressions of the world have been formed amid far other
influences than those of leaves, or flowers, or the sweet voices that
haunt the summer trees!
New Kilpatrick, we may mention, is situated directly on
the line of the ancient wall of Antoninus Pius. A little to the eastward
of the village a cultivated field is pointed out as the site of an
extensive Roman fort. All traces of the works are now obliterated by the
plough; but up to a comparatively recent period the outlines of the
entrenchments were distinctly visible. The area enclosed within the
interior valla measured, it is said, about 480 by 330 feet, while
the fortifications covered a considerably greater space of ground. The
great military way passed through the fort, and vast quantities of the
stones of which it was composed have at various times been removed for
building purposes by persons in the neighbourhood. One farmer remarked,
indeed, that the Roman works "had proved a perfect quarry for the parish."
Tradition still points to a spot called the "Bear’s Den" as the
burial-place of the garrison; and a well, long surrounded by sedges and
rushes, the outlet of which has been removed by means of a drain to the
edge of the field whereon the rampart stood, was supposed, from certain
remains of mason-work found about it, to have ministered to the
necessities of the Roman soldiers. Carved stones, fragments of pottery,
ancient coins, and other relies of antiquity, have also been found at
various periods in the vicinity of New Kilpatrick, indicating the presence
at some distant epoch of the self-styled "masters of the world."
Resuming our northerly course, we are speedily on
ground where the foot of the conqueror never trod. "Hitherto we came, but
no farther," is the legend of the great wall. If it was a mark of
conquest, it was likewise an acknowledgment of weakness.
"The wave of Forth was joined to Clyde,
When Rome’s broad rampart stretched from
tide to tide,
With bulwarks strong, with towers sublimely crowned,
While winding tubes conveyed each martial sound.
To guard the legions from their painted foes,
By vast unwearied toil the structure rose,
When fierce in arms, the Scot, by Carron’s shore,
Resigned for war, the chase and mountain boar,
As the chafed lion, on his homeward way
Returns for vengeance, and forgets his prey."
A beautiful tract of country now lies before us, and
our path is amid fertile fields, wide-spreading pastures, and shadowy
woods. On one hand we have the Kilpatrick range of hills approaching close
to the road; on the other, over wooded knolls and picturesque straths, the
romantic Campsie Fells, stretching away to Dungoyne and the "Earl’s Seat."
Passing in succession the mansions of Mains, Balvie, and Craigton, we
approach the eastern shoulder of the Kilpatrick range, with its finely
marked terraces of trap, and rich variations of outline. At one corner we
observe a numerous series of basaltic columns of perfect prismatic form,
and arranged in the most regular order, both in a transverse and vertical
direction. It is well known that many geological features of a highly
interesting nature are to be found upon the rugged surface of these hills,
and that the scientific "stoneknappers" of our city frequently visit their
recesses, hammer in hand, in pursuit of their favourite studies. Various
botanical rarities are also to be found nestling in their sunny nooks.
Among these are the orange-coloured hawk-weed (hieracium aurantiacum),
the long-leaved water hemlock (cicuta virosa), the serrated
winter green (pyrola secuada), and, according to Hopkirk, the
woolly yarrow. Some doubts having been expressed by Hooker as to whether
the latter species really existed in this habitat or not, a number of our
field botanists, some years since, instituted a most rigorous search for
the dubious plant, with the view of securing immortality for themselves by
having their names inserted in the next edition of the "Flora." There
labours were all in vain, however, as the plant, if it ever really existed
there, had either been extirpated, or seemed determined
"To bloom unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air."
Among those who thus ranged the glens and the wild
woods so dreary, was an old friend of our own, who, hoping against hope,
persevered in his search after all others had given up in despair. Month
after month, and season after season, with true botanical patience, he was
to be found pursuing his devious course with downcast eyes among the
everlasting hills, and still the yellow-flowered yarrow evaded his prying
gaze. At length one of his companions, a pawky old earle, determined that
his wish should be gratified. He accordingly procured some specimens of
the plant from a garden, and hieing to the braes, stuck them into the
earth at a spot where the enthusiast was almost certain to pass. The bait
at once took—the gudgeon was caught. No one saw the discovery; but a few
days thereafter the yarrow-hunter appeared among his associates, shouting,
"Eureka! Eureka!" and proudly exhibited to his conscious associates what
he fondly fancied the reward of all his toils. He would "write immediately
to Sir William;" he would "send him the choicest specimens;" and a happy
man indeed was he, as in fancy he saw his own name in "gude black prent,"
associated for ever with Achilioea tomentosa and the Kilpatrick
Hills. His triumph, we need scarcely add, was but short-lived. Some
busybody informed him of the trick, and at once took the wind out of the
bellying sails of his vanity. His disappointment was beyond expression
severe. He was never heard to mention the genus Achilioea again,
and we may add, he never forgave the perpetration of this most cruel of
practical jokes.
We now cross the Allander, a dark moss-coloured
rivulet, which has its origin a short distance to the left in the "Baker’s
Loch," among the neighbouring moors. This stream, after a winding course
of ten miles or so, finds its way into the Kelvin, through the channels of
which, in seasons of drought, it furnishes a supply of water to the
Partick Mills. The woods of Carbeth-Guthrie are next passed, when we
arrive at what may appropriately be denominated the great portal of the
Highlands. The Kilpatrick and Campsie ranges, which have been gradually
approximating, are here separated by a gap about four miles in breadth, on
one side of which, like huge guardians of the pass, tower Dungoyne and the
Earl’s Seat, and on the other the swelling heights of Auchineden, while
immediately in front, over a downward sloping expanse of wild moorland,
variegated by dumps of wood and fertile fields, Lochlomond is seen
reposing in quiet beauty with its sleeping isles, and the mighty Ben lifts
his proud crest to the sky over a stormy horizon of rugged peaks and
ridges frowning in the distance. We now bid farewell to the highway, and
by a rough field-path, bordered with heather, tormentil, and a rich
profusion of desert vegetation, direct our steps to the beautifully
situated and elegant cottage of our friend the gamekeeper of John Wilson,
Esq., of Auchineden. Our intrusion on the moor is fiercely resisted,
however, by sundry ill-natured peeseweeps, which keep flying round our
head with their shrill querulous cries, as if persuaded we have come to
justify the old boyish rhyme,
"Peeweep! peeweep!
Ye’l harry my nest,
And awe wit"
Nothing can be farther from our intention, however; and
passing the wee trickling burn, fringed with the bloom of lady’s-mantle,
broom, and hyacinth, and through the planting, where there is a weeping
willow reared from a sprig taken from Napoleon’s grave at St. Helena, we
soon arrived at the hospitable domicile, a neat little one-storeyed
edifice, with an outlook which a palace might well envy. A green and sunny
spot—an oasis in the bleak waste—is in truth the lodge of Auchineden. The
columbine blooms on the very doorstep, and the "appleringy" almost peeps
in at the gable window, while the swallow rears his young in the eaves
without fear of molestation, and the wee hedge-sparrow sits on her blue
egglets undisturbed within a few yards of the house-end. Such confidence
betokens kindness of heart in the inmates of the snowy biggin’. Yet mercy
is not unmingled with stern justice. Vermin of all kinds and degrees are
here treated with well-merited rigour. The toad that plunders the
hen-roost, the sleeky weazel, and the stoat—eggsuckers by habit and repute
from time immemorial,—with the hoodie-craw, the hawk, and the owl—all
birds of evil omen to the game,—are here sacrificed by our stalwart friend
with the shortest possible shrift. Look at these relics of the departed
reivers nailed in terrorem on the rafters of the kennel, and think
what a salvation of innocent patridges and grouse has been effected by
their destruction! Of our kind reception in-doors we will not venture to
speak. Suffice it to say that we have no occasion to regret. "the comforts
of the Sautmarket," and that we shall not soon forget the plain good sense
of our host, nor the furthy frankness and welcome-beaming countenance of
the gudewife.
Immediately behind the cottage rise the heights, on the
opposite side of which the Whangie is situated; and after a reasonable
period of rest, and a most unreasonable administration to the cravings of
the inner man, we set a stout heart to a steep brae, and proceed on our
pilgrimage. Our foot is now upon our native heather, and around us
stretches a bleak moor,
"Where pesewepes, plovers, and whaups cry dreary,"
and the tufted cannach waves its snowy crest among the
dark brown hags. Now we are startled by the whirr of a rising covey—now a
mosscheeper goes fluttering and chirping from our path—and anon our
attention is attracted by the beauty of some wilding flower, "born to
blush unseen" in the untrodden waste, yet fairer than the fairest bloomers
of the gay parterre. With Robert Nicol we can heartily exclaim, while
lingering over the solitary dwelling-places of the peerless grass of
Parnassus, the purple orchis, and the blaeberry bush with its red waxen
bells,—
"Beautiful children of the woods and fields!
That bloom by mountain streamlets ‘mid the heather,
Or into clusters ‘neath the hazels gather—
Or where by hoary rocks yon make your bields,
And sweetly flourish on through summer weather—
I love ye all!"
Ere reaching the brow of the hill, up which we have
been toiling, we cast a backward glance on the landscape we are leaving
behind us. The straths of the Blane and the Allander are seen stretching
far away, in all their garniture of woods and fields and swelling knolls,
with lofty ridges of hills on either side, and the high grounds beyond our
own city on the dim horizon. ‘Tis indeed a lovely Lowland scene. A few
steps farther, however, and we have the Highlands before us. The crown of
the eminence is passed, and the grandeur of flood and fell bursts upon our
gaze. The transition is magnificent; and the spectator, looking upon "this
picture and on that," is in truth at a loss to say which is the most
attractive in its peculiar features of loveliness. Descending the farther
side of the hill, we soon descry the gray storm-beaten rocks of the
Whangie. On approaching the spot the first thing that strikes the visitor
is an immense confused heap of jagged trap, piled against the hillside,
and threatening in various places to topple over, while countless
fragments of every size and shape are strewn about in the wildest
irregularity, as if a congregation of demons had been, in some past epoch,
engaged here in a diabolical stone-battle. On closer inspection, however,
it is seen that a vast section of the hill has been by some means or other
wrenched asunder, leaving a lengthened and deep chasm yawning along the
line of separation, and that the shattered appearance of the external
surface has been produced by the violence of the convulsion which caused
the original disunion. Entering the narrow ravine, we proceed as it were
into the bowels of the firm-fixed earth. The passage is tortuous and
uneven, the projections of one side corresponding with singular exactness
to the hollows on the other. In width the Whangie, as this terrible
fissure is called, varies from 2½ to 10 feet; its medium depth being about
40 feet, while its length is 346 feet. The external wall, if we may use
the term, is fearfully fractured in several places, and on peeping through
the crevices and beholding the apparently tottering masses overhanging the
steep below, the spectator involuntarily shrinks back as if his touch
would send them thundering down. Save a stunted rowan-tree or two,
projecting from the rifted summit of the chasm, the Whangie is utterly
devoid of sylvan adornment. There are a variety of wild flowers and ferns,
however, strewn over its lichened and hoary surface, among which we
observe the wood-sorrel and wood-rush both in bloom. Does the presence of
these plants indicate that trees at one period grew on the spot? or have
they been fostered by the genial shade produced by the impending cliffs.
Strange to say, tradition has preserved almost nothing in her budget
regarding this remarkable production of nature. When the Highlanders were
in the habit of ravaging the Lennox, it is said that cattle were
occasionally concealed in its recesses, for which purpose, however, they
do not now seem very well adapted. It is also said, traditionally, that
after the overthrow of the Highlanders at Culloden, some of the proscribed
Jacobites found shelter from the bloodhounds of Cumberland in this
solitary den. Nothing definite, however, is remembered of the event; and
the Whangie, like Canning’s knife-grinder—we love a congruous
comparison—has really "no tale to tell."
On a green declivity below the rocky steep, and
contrasting agreeably with its hoary front, there is a delicious spring,
cool in the noon of summer as the winter snow. Let us rest ourselves for a
"blink" by its verdant margin, and, while quaffing a bicker of its icy
crystal, scan the prospect which seems spread for our special delectation.
"It is the land of beauty and of grandeur,
Where looks the cottage out on a domain
The palace cannot boast of. Seas of lakes,
And hills of forests! Torrents here
Are bounding floods! And there the tempest roams
At large, in all the terrors of its glory."
How beautiful is the lake, half in sun and half in
shadow, with its scattered islands and its guardian hills, the immense
soul-filling Ben, tallest and proudest of the mountain brotherhood! Yon
bold promontory marks the pass of Balmaha, associated with memories of Rob
Roy and Highland foray; that white speck, begirt with miles of forest, is
Buchanan House, the seat of the Montrose dukedom; and this conical bosky
hill is Duncruin, a celebrated haunt of the green-coated fairies ere the
daylight of modern civilization had driven them for ever away. Now
"Seek the brake and seek the dell,
The haunted glen, the swelling river;
And seek the fountain and the rill—
But all are gone, and gone for ever."
It would take a summer day, indeed, to read the wide
landscape before us—to tell of the towns, the villages, the mansions, and
the "moors and mosses many, O," that the eye at one circling glance
commands. It is a scene, in brief, to brood over rather than to describe;
so pulling forth our "pocket pistol" (we always carry arms), and borrowing
the necessary dilution from the bonnie wee well at our feet, let us, with
all the honours and upstanding, devote one lipping cup to the
"Land of the mountain and the flood!"
What a stramash that hearty hurrah has kicked up among
the peeseweeps and plovers! There they go in myriads, wheepwheeping, as if
they had never heard a cheer at the Whangie well in the whole course of
their lives. Yet many a merry scene have these gray cliffs looked down
upon. This is a favourite rendezvous, be it known, of the moorland
rangers, when, in the golden Autumn afternoons, their work of death is
over. Here the sun-browned sportsman, with the produce of his gun and his
weary canine companions, loves to rest. Landseer would "gi’e his lugs" to
witness the picturesque groups that oft assemble here, while birds and
dogs and guns are strewn in rich confusion round, and the echoes of the
old Whangie ring to the huntsman’s cheery chorus.
But "nae man can tether time or tide," and we must be
moving. We have still a long walk before us, and the clouds are beginning
to look sour. That conical hill to the westward is Duncombe, and our
intention is to place our foot upon its crest. There is no road, so we
must make a royal one for ourselves over the intervening moor, a distance
of some three or four miles as the crow flies. Unfortunately, as we are
steering our way among the "mosses, slaps, moors, hags, and stiles," now
leaping some marshy tract from rush-tuft to stone, now tripping lightly
over some heath-clad hillock, and anon pausing to calculate our saltatory
powers on the edge of some yawning gully, an unmistakeable Scotch mist
envelops the landscape. Benlomond wraps himself up in his gray plaid, the
loch, in sporting phraseology, is "nowhere," and even Duncombe is cloud-capt
and frowning. How dreary, bleak, and gruesome the waste has suddenly
become! The very flowers are hanging their little heads as if in fear,
while the cannach nods disconsolately to the passing blast, and the long
grasses are whispering together. Dark as night are the lonely tarns, and
the whiteness of the sea-bird’s wing, as it flits athwart the inky water,
but deepens the universal gloom. Duncombe, it is too obvious, must for the
present remain unsealed. Were we to sped it now, instead of a prospect
stretching from Ailsa and Goatfell to Tintoe, we should have our circle of
vision "cabined, cribbed, confined," to the diameter of an ellwand, with
the chance of breaking our neck as a reward for our temerity. Pushing by
the most direct route, therefore, for Duntocher (and anything but a direct
route in all conscience we find it), we arrive, in somewhat more than two
hours from the time we leave the Whangie, at that village of cotton-mills
and Roman antiquities. Passing thence, without calling a halt, to Old
Kilpatrick, we get at once on board the "Eagle," a genuine Clyde clipper,
which speedily gives us our discharge at the Broomielaw, droukit to the
skin, and, it must be admitted, pretty considerably "used up." |
