Clyde to Carmyle and Kenmuir. Leaving the precincts of
the Green at Allan’s Pen, we speedily find ourselves at Rutherglen Bridge.
This structure, which was erected in 1776, connects the city by its
south-eastern boundary with Rutherglen and the adjacent towns and
villages. it is a narrow and rather high-backed affair, barely affording
scope for a couple of sour-milk carts to pass each other in safety; and
must be rather trying to the nerves of outside passengers on the omnibuses
which now cross it at frequent intervals, as the slightest collision with
any passing body would infallibly send them "right slick" into the water.
The municipality, with praiseworthy spirit, is now setting its other
bridges in order, and we really think that something might be done to
render this one more safe and commodious. Passing the extensive dye-works
of Messrs. Henry Monteith & Co. at Barrowfield, and those of Messrs.
Bartholomew at Dalmarnock, we next come, about a quarter of a mile farther
up, to the fine mansion of the late Dr. Cleghorn, embowered in trees, and
situated on a gentle acclivity on the south bank of the river. Nearly
opposite this are the works of the Cranston-hill Water Company, surrounded
by a strong earthen embankment, which effectually conceals and preserves
from encroachment the various reservoirs and filters of the establishment.
The Clyde, it is said, was formerly
navigable to this point, and Rutherglen, which here forms a fine feature
in the landscape, with its beautiful new spire, still boasts a quay for
the accommodation of that commerce which has long deserted her. Not a
single cock-boat has she now to countenance the effigy of a ship in her
burghal coat of arms. We have the authority of Dr. Ure, the historian of
the burgh, however, for saying that up till a comparatively recent period
coal gabberts of considerable burthen piled almost everyday, from the quay
of Rutherglen to Greenock, with cargoes of the "diamond."
Passing Dalmarnock Bridge, an
elegant structure of timber, and following the windings of the river, we
shortly arrive at the Glasgow Water-works, the mighty engines of which are
employed night and day, like a great heart, in propelling the crystal
fluid throughout the miles and miles of pipes that extend through the
labyrinths of the city. [These extensive works will soon be completely
superseded and rendered useless, as the Corporation is about to supply the
citizens with the limpid waters of Ioch Katrine.] The Clyde in the
vicinity of the works has recently made sad havoc on the bank. A
considerable portion of the soil has been carried away, trees have been
undermined and levelled, and the path has, indeed, been rendered all but
impassable. To make matters worse, a neighbouring proprietor, who would
seem to be somewhat of a churl, has driven a pallisade of stobs along the
front of his property, close almost to the water-edge, so that passengers
have considerable difficulty in getting along. Fortunately the lordship of
this gentleman is not of very great extent, and his forbidden territory is
soon left behind.
The famous "Harvie’s Dyke" next
attracts our attention. This wall, as is well known, was erected about
thirty years ago by Thomas Harvie, then proprietor of Westthorn, for the
purpose of blocking up the footpath along the margin of the Clyde, from
Glasgow to Carmyle, which had previously been in possession of the public
from time immemorial. Great indignation was of course excited at the time
by this encroachment upon popular rights. Indignant articles, letters, and
pasquinades appeared in the local journals, until at length, in the summer
of 1823, the ire of the citizens was roused to such a degree, that a
numerous party, principally composed of weavers and other operatives from
Bridgeton and Parkhead, armed with piekaxes and crow-bars, laid siege to
the obnoxious barrier, and levelled it with the dust. Passing afterwards
in triumph to the opposite extremity of the Westthorn estate, which was
likewise defended by a strong wooden pallisade, they continued the work of
destruction by setting it on fire.
While engaged in this patriotic
though certainly illegal operations intelligence was brought to the
excited crowd that a party of dragoons who had been sent for were
approaching, when an immediate dispersion ensued. Several of the
ringleaders were afterwards apprehended, and sentenced to various periods
of imprisonment for their share in the transaction. The wall was speedily
rebuilt, and for several years thereafter the thoroughfare was completely
suspended. Thanks, however, to the public spirit of certain gentlemen
connected with the city, among whom were the late Mr. George Rodger of
Barrowfield Printworks, "Sandie Rodger" the poet, and Mr. Adam Ferrie, now
in Canada, the warfare was resumed in the courts of law. Subscriptions in
support of the popular cause were liberally furnished by all classes of
citizens and, after a lengthened litigation, the case was finally
terminated by a decision of the House of Lords in favour of the right of
passage. The estate has now passed into other hands, and the present
proprietor, with praiseworthy liberality, permits the people to enjoy
without let or hindrance the beautiful bank by which the amble portion of
his land is encompassed.
The scenery around Westthorn is of
the most delightful description. The bank, sloping gently to the river, is
clothed with fine plantations, the haunts of birds innumerable, which as
we pass are joyously piping their most mellifluous strains. The swallow
and the more rare sandpiper are flitting over the stream (which in its
windings here rivals the linky Forth), haply disturbed by the wading
angler, who, as usual, on the Clyde, is threshing the water in vain. Nor
is the background less fair, as from almost every point fine views are
obtained of the richly-wooded braes of Cathkin or the green slopes of
Dychmont, with. the spires of Rutherglen and Cambuslang lending beauty to
the middle distance.
Immediately above the lands of
Westthorn, is Dalbeth, the finely-situated mansion of which is now
occupied as a conventual establishment in connection with the Romish
Church. Morning, noon, and evening, the rambler by the river-side bears
the tinkling of bells at this spot, warning the sisterhood to their
frequently recurring exercises of devotion. The curious may also, on a
sunny forenoon, espy the veiled forms of the nuns, walking with measured
pace on the green sward in front of the edifice, or lingering in pensive
attitudes in the shadow of the surrounding trees. In this quiet and
secluded locality there is nothing to disturb the contemplations of the
fair devotees more harsh than the murmurings of the Clyde or the songs of
the summer birds among the rustling foliage. They seem, indeed, to live a
peaceful and a harmless life in their beautiful solitude, yet to our
presbyterian prejudices a nunnery seems anything but a pleasant feature in
a Scottish landscape. A small chapel has recently been erected in
connection with the establishment and a cemetery for the reception of
deceased Catholics has been formed in the neighbourhood.
In the bed of the stream at this
place there was for many years a numerous colony of the large fresh-water
mussel. In seasons of thought we have seen these bivalves exposed in
myriads. Some of the shells contained pearls of considerable value and we
have known a Cambuslang weaver, to realize a couple of pounds by the sale
of a forenoon’s gathering. A friend of ours, on one occasion, picked up a
shell here which was thickly studded with smell pearls. None of them,
however, were very pure, and we suspect this is the case with the greater
portion of those found in the Clyde. Be this as it may, their
pearl-bearing character has proved fatal to the poor mussels, which are
now nearly extirpated. Small particles of native gold have also been found
in the sands opposite Dalbeth.
About half-a-mile farther up we
arrive at the Clyde Ironworks, associated with the respected name of the
late Mr. Colin Dunlop, formerly one of the representatives of Glasgow in
Parliament. They are merrily blazing as we pass. The nightly glare of
these smelting furnaces is familiar to every denizen of Sanct Mungo’s;
many it lights home when "owre late out at e’en," and to many it serves
all the purposes of a barometer, as, immediately before rain, from a very
obvious cause, its brilliancy is materially increased. As an ingenious and
witty poet of the west observed, in certain humorous verses addressed to
the late proprietor of this extensive establishment,—
"The moon does fu’ weel when the
moon’s in the lift,
But oh, the loose limmer takes mony a shift,
Whiles here and whiles there, and whiles under a hap—
But yours is the steady licht, Colin Dulap !
"Na, mair—Iike true friendship, the
marker the nicht,
The mair you let out your vast columns o’ licht;
When sackcloth and sadness the heavens enwrap
‘Tis then you’re maist kind to us, Colin Dulap !"
An elegant iron bridge erected by
the proprietor of the works spans the Clyde at this point, and is
principally used for the transmission of coal and minerals, for smelting
purposes, from Eastfield, which lies about half-a-mile southward, and is
famed for the abundance and quality of its carboniferous productions. The
ordinary traffic across the river, however, is at the "Bogle-hole" ford, a
short distance farther up, where not only horses and carts, but men, and
occasionally bonnie lasses even, with their drapery highkilted, may be
seen in langsyne fashion wading from bank to bank through the amber
waters. On passing the bridge we would advise our botanical friends to
follow our example, and keep a sharp look out for the wild flowers which
here spring forth on bank and bras in the most charming profusion. For a
couple of miles or so above this, the Clyde is fringed with beautiful
trees of every variety, and at this season (May) of every shade of green;
while at every step the landscape assumes new features of loveliness, and
every sunny nook has its own floral decorations. Among the saughs at the
water edge lurks the graceful meadow rue (thalictrurn flavum); the
broad leaved waterburs (petasites vulgaris) wave on the alluvial
flats; while the dog violet, the primrose, cowslip, white saxifrage
(saxifraga granulate),
starworts of several species, and countless other
things of bloom and of fragrance peep from the verdant banks, or cluster
in sweet groups round the mossy stems of the overshadowIng trees.
After a delightful sylvan walk or
saunter of about an hour’s duration from the "Bogle-hole," we arrive at
the village or clachan—for we are puzzled to say which is its proper
designation—of Carmyle, with its old-fashioned meal-mills and diasome
dams, over which the foamy Clyde incessantly pours, as if murmuring with
its voice of many waters at the restriction attempted to be placed on its
liberty. Imagine some score or so of houses—pleasant though humble
dwelling-places every one—straggling upward from the river-side,
intermingled with garden-plots and trees, and a picture of the little
community is before you—the inhabitants, as we learn, being principally
millers, cartwrights, sawyers, and such like. There is at present only a
couple of places where refreshment for the weary rambler may be obtained;
and in one of these, with the reader’s leave, we shall "take our ease" for
a short time, and discuss a thimbleful of the landlord’s Glenlivet and a "crumpie
farl" of the goodwife’s cake, with a slice of prime cheese from Mr. Drew’s
dairy, which is hard by, and the produce of which has deservedly attained
a more than local fame.
On visiting Carmyle for the first
time, a goodly number of years since, we were conducted to a waste spot in
the vicinity, which in bygone days was the scene of a melancholy tragedy.
The story, as told to us, was briefly as follows:- In the olden time there
lived—the one at Carmyle, the other at Kenmuir—two young men who had been
from boyhood bosom friends. Similar in tastes and dispositions, nothing
ever happened to mar the harmony of their intercourse; and, in weal or in
woe, they seemed destined to continue all in all to each other throughout
life. At length, however, a stranger maiden came to reside in the village,
and, as fate would have it, the youths fell simultaneously in love with
her. The friends were rivals. One was preferred; the other of course
rejected. The unfortunate suitor, from an affecionate friend, became all
at once—"such power has slighted love"—transformed into the most bitter of
enemies. Meeting by accident one day at the spot alluded to, angry words
passed between the two who lately would have died for each other. Swords
were ultimately drawn, and one fell mortally wounded. Filled with remorse
at what, in his blind passion, he had done, the other in a fit of anguish
laid violent hands upon himself, and both were found lying dead among the
summer flowers, which were stained with their mingled life-blood. What
afterwards befell the fair and innocent cause of all their woe, tradition
sayeth not; but the friends, who had been so unfortunately and fatally
estranged, were laid by their mourning relatives at peace in one grave,
dug at the place where they fell, which has ever since been known as the "Bluidy
Neuk." A ferruginous spring in the neighbourhood was long looked upon with
horror by the good folks of the village, who saw in the red oxydized earth
around it a mysterious connection with the blood which had there been
shed. An old lady who was born in Carmyle informed us that the spot was
reckoned "no canny," and that in her youth he would have been considered a
bold individual who would have ventured there alone after nightfall. So
regardless of such matters, however, have modern agriculturists become,
that within the last few years the plough has been driven over the spot,
and at the time of our visit there is a fine fresh braird waving green
over the "Bluidy Neuk."
The walk, from Carmyle to Kenmuir
bank, which is about three-quarters of a mile higher up the stream, is of
the most pleasing description. Both banks of the river are clothed with
dense masses of foliage, which are now tinted with the rich variety of
shades which renders the woods of early summer almost equal in picturesque
effect to those of the fall. The intensely firesh green of the beech—the
leaves with "silver lining" of the saugh—the almost olive-hued elm—the
leafy luxuriance of the lady-birch—the golden-budded oak—the bird-cherry
or geen, one mass of snowy bloom, with the mourning robes of the pine,
insensibly intermingling and softly blending one with another, produce
altogether an effect which the painter may admire, but must in vain
attempt to imitate. The attentive ornithologist may here see occasionally
that curious and amusing bird the creeper (certhia familiaris),
climbing the trees perpendicularly the sandpiper dabbling on the brown
sand, or flying with its peculiar cry across the stream; or the lone
waterousel sitting on a projecting stone among the gurgling waves, and
quietly swatching for the minnows and sticklebacks, which form its
ordinary prey.
Kenmuir bank is a steep acclivity
which rises directly from the margin of the Clyde to the height of some
sixty or seventy feet. It is a wild and bosky scene, covered with a
picturesque profusion of timber, and is the habitat of flowers
innumerable. The weaver herbalists of Camlachie and Farkhead find it a
perfect storehouse of medicinal rarities; and on Sundays they may be seen
in sickly groups prying into every green recess in search of plants which
old Culpepper would have loved for their rare qualities, or carrying them
home in odorous bundles, confident of having obtained a mastery over "all
the ills that flesh is heir to." The botanist may also occasionally be
seen lurking here, vasculum in hand, or on beaded knee examining the
structure of some strange flower. But even the mere general lover of
flowers will here find much to reward his attention. At present the
May-flower (caitha palustris), the wild hyacinth, the craw-flower
of Tannahill, the red campion (lychnis dioica), the odorous
woodruff (asperula oderata), the globe-flower or lucken gowan (trollius
europceus), and many others are in full bloom, and so thickly strewn
that even as the poet says. At the foot of the bank, near its upper
extremity, there is a fine spring, which is known by the name of the
"Marriage Well," from a couple of curiously united trees which rise at its
side and fling their shadows over its breast. To this spot, in other days,
came wedding parties, on the day after marriage, to drink of the crystal
water, and, in a cup of the mountain-dew, to pledge long life and
happiness to the loving pair whom, on the previous day, old Hymen had made
one in the bands which death alone can sever. After imbibing a draught of
the sacred fluid from the cup of Diogenes, we rest a brief space on the
margin of the well, and while we are listening to its faint trickling
voice, let us recall a name or two from the many with which it is
associated in our memory. Many, indeed, have been the friends with whom we
have here held communion sweet. Most gentle and single-minded of botanists
was our old and venerable companion, poor Tom Murphy, who, for many and
many a year, made loving pilgrimage to Kenmuir. Well he knew each floral
inhabitant that lent its odour to the green gloamin’ of this tangled nook.
From earliest spring to latest autumn he knew their times and seasons. It
was his pride to busk with stranger beauties the haunts of his love. Many
a germ and many a root he brought from distant glens and lonely burnsides
to enrich this fairy spot with their bloom. Flowers of his planting are
still here, but the good old man will return no more for ever—
"By Kenmuir steep, or sweet Carmyle,
Or Blantyre’s auld monk-haunted pile,
A-wooing Flora’s early smile.
Nae mair he’ll tread;
Nature’s lone pilgrim ‘a left his toil—
Tom Murphy’s dead."
Here also came poor George Allan,
one of the Harvie’s Dyke heroes, to spend his summer Sundays after the
irksome toils of the week. He also was a botanist in a humble way. With
the long-winded and crabbed names of the science he had but a limited
acquaintance. Yet well he knew the majority of our indigenous plants by
their good old Saxon names, the most musical of all, and deep was his
knowledge of their medicinal virtues, real or imaginary. With all that
Gerarde or Culpepper taught he was perfectly familiar, and he loved to
tell of the planets by which the various herbs were influenced, and the
mystic hours in which each kind required to be gathered. Many a time and
oft we have met him, with a group of delighted auditors, expounding, in
green and flowery nooks of the Clyde, his wondrous lore. On one occasion
(a Sacramental Fast day) we found him criticising the exquisite song of
"The Posie," by the bard of Coila. "I’ll no deny," he said, "that, as a
thing of fancy and sentiment, Burns’ lilt is no sae far wrang; but then he
has jumilt the flowers of spring, summer, and hairst a' into ae bab, a
thing that’s clean contrar’ to nature. Yell never find ‘the primrose, the
firstling o’ the year’ (as Burns ca’s it, although it’s no the firstling),
in the same walk as the budding rose; and yet our favourite poet bauldy
said he ‘wad gather them together and twine them wi’ ither flowers a’ to
be a posie to his ain dear May.’ Tak’ my word for’t," he continued, "Rab
was nae botanist, or he wadna ha’e made sic a mistak’; but if ye'll jist
be quiet for a wee, I’ll sing ye a genuine botanical sang, written by a
friend o’ mine, and ye’ll no think it the less sweet, I opine, because the
mavis and the laverock, as ye hear, are chanting the accompaniments." With
these preliminary remarks, and after wetting his whistle by a draught from
a small pocket flask, he made the echoes of Kenmuir ring with the
following, which he sung to the old Gaelic air, "I am asleep, do not waken
me:"-
"When spring frae the blue lift in
beauty comes smiling,
And stem icy winter gangs frowning away;
While blythe singe the mavis the bright hours begulling,
And woods a’ are basking in leafy array;
Coltsfoot and celandine
Wee gowden starnies shine.
And sweetly the primrose and violet blow;
Forth over hill and glen,
Far frau the haunts of men,
Joyously wandering, we flower-lovers go.
"When sweet simmers smile sets the
braes a’ a-blooming,
And swallows return frae their haunts war the sea,
While rosebud and hawthorn their dens are perfuming,
And speedwells are bright, as a Sir maiden’s e’e;
Kingcups and daisies fair
Spangle cur meadows rare—
Lillies are glancing where clear streamlets flow;
Forth over hill and glen,
Far frae the haunts of men,
Joyously wandering, we flower-lovers go.
"When sere-leaved decay o’er the
woodlands is stealing,
And bell-flowers are waving their pennons of blue,
While hairst a’ her treasures in rich fields revealing
Brings plenty and joy to the blythe reapa’s view;
Clamb’ring o’er bank and brae
Schoolboys are wandering gay,
Plundering the hazel, the bramble, and sloe;
Forth over hill and glen,
Far frae the haunts of men,
Joyously wandering, we flower-lovers go.
"Though winter in storms oar the dark
earth is flying,
And flowers smile use mair on the cauld cheerless day,
Yet nature has charms ‘mong the lone woods lying,
Dear to the soul which delights In her sway;
O’er ruin’s crumbling wall
Green hangs the ivy pall,
Rich coral gems deck the rude holly bough
Where over hills and glen,
Far frae the haunts of men,
Joyously wandering, we flower-lover’s go.
"We grudge not the worldling his
pomp, power, and pleasure,
Tho’ nameless and poor, down life’s rough coarse we steer,
Each field-path and hedgerow to us yields a treasure,
And ours are the beauties encircling the year;
Bird, beast, and flowery lea,
Rock, stream, and leafy tree,
Rich tendrills of love round our hearts seem to throw,
When forth over hill and glen,
Far free the haunts of men,
Joyously wandering, we flower-lovers go."
Poor Allan concluded his song amidst
the plaudits of his humble compeers. Many springs and many summers have
passed since last we saw him at Kenmuir. He is now a tenant of the narrow
house. The flowers he loved so well return with the returning seasons, but
never again shall he rejoice in the beauty of their presence.
Numerous, indeed, are the forms and faces which
haunt our fancy as we linger by the Marriage Well—
"Memories grow around it thick as
flowers."
But some have died at home among
their own people; some on distant shores have found a stranger’s grave;
and among those who are still in the land of the living, time and chance
have wrought a sad dispersion.
Ascending to the brow of the bank, a
prospect of great beauty meets our gaze. Far below, the Clyde is seen
between the ivied trunks which bristle the steep, quivering in a sunny
ripple, or stretching in wandering loveliness around the green
tree-studded haughs of Daldowie on the one hand, and towards the
wood-fringed banks of Carmyle on the other. That spacious mansion to the
left, couching upon its own verdant lawn, is the residence of Mr. M’Call
of Daldowie, and certainly a more desirable place of abode it would be
difficult to imagine. In the middle distance, in the same direction, the
red tower of Bothwell Church meets the eye—the Castle is lost in foliage;
while, far beyond and faintly visible on the horizon, looms the dim form
of Tintoe, the conical giant of the Upper Ward. To the right Cambuslang is
sleeping in the sun, with the Dychmont and Cathkin hills forming a fine
background to the picture which it presents. Turning to the right about,
we behold, over a level and fertile expanse, thickly dotted with houses,
the mighty cloud of smoke, which ever indicates the city of our
habitation, with the dark outline of the old Cathedral, "St. Rollox Lum,"
and other prominent features of Sanct Mungo’s town peering duskily through
the veil. In the distance to the right, the range of the Campsie Fells is
seen stretching from Kilsyth to Dungoyne, while the Kilpatrick braes form
the horizontal line to the left,. and through the gap of the Lennox,
Benlomond shows his ample shoulders and snow-enveloped brow. Of a truth,
sweet Kenmuir! thou commandest a magnificent panorama; and we have often
marvelled that, lying within the scope of a forenoon’s walk from yon vast
maze of industry, thou hast not won at least a hundred pilgrims for each
one who has hitherto come to thy shrine.
As this is the turning point of our
ramble, it now remains for us to decide whether we shall retrace our steps
by the margin of the Clyde, a distance we should imagine of some six or
seven miles, or by making an inland cut to the Glasgow and Hamilton road,
find our way home by a route of about half that length. As the day is
somewhat advanced, and ourselves somewhat tired withal, we conclude that
the latter course is on the whole the most advisable. Striking therefore
into a footpath through the green corn, we speedily find Her Majesty’s
highway, and passing through Tollcross and Parkhead (commonplace villages
both), arrive once more, in about an hour and a-half from the time we
leave Kenmuir, at the comfortable fireside from whence, some half-dozen of
hours previously, we had taken our start. Recalling our ramble, we exclaim
with Wordsworth,—
"How fair appears the rural scene,
For thou, O Clyde, hast ever been
Beneficent as strong;
Pleased in refreshing dews to steep
The little trembling flowers that peep
Thy shelving rocks among!"
