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THE boy-life of town and country are
often compared, when conclusions are generally drawn very much to the
disadvantage of the former. On the one hand, we are shown narrow lanes and
filthy closes, noisome streets and evil influences without number; on the
other, are enchantingly depicted green fields and sunny braes, clear
gushing streams, and the sweet fellowship of birds and flowers. In the one
picture there is a sad predominance of shadow; in the other there is a
decided "excess of bright." "What a dreary waste," we have heard remarked,
"must be the memory of a town-bred man !" He has no langsyne recollections
of paidlins in the burn, or gowan-gatherings on the bloomy braes; he
cannot boast an old acquaintance in the belted bee, nor tell of joyous
associations linked with the wild bird’s song. Now, while admitting that
there is too much truth in the contrast thus presented to us, we feel
convinced, after looking "on this picture and on that," that the
condemnation of town "raising," as Jonathan might call it, has been by far
too sweeping. Nor are we prejudiced in the matter either way, having been
ourselves, as we may say, neither a town nor a country boy, but a partaker
to a considerable extent in the character of both—our early home having
been in a suburban situation.
"Stone walls do not a prison make,"
nor does a residence in the city
necessarily imply confinement within its boundaries. Town boys are
continually making raids into the surrounding country. They know well when
the first flowers begin to blow, and when the birds commence to build
their nests. There are but few schoolboys, for instance, even in the very
heart of our own wide-spreading town, who do not know the season when the
blaeberry assumes the purple die of ripeness, or who could not guide you
where the blackboyd hangs in autumn its jetty fruit. Every individual
accustomed to walk in the outskirts of our city must have observed
numerous bands of these tiny adventurers going or returning from their
devious expeditions, loaded with
"Scarlet hips and stony hairs,
Or blushing crabs, or berries that emboss
The bramble, black as jet, or sloes austere;
Hard fare! but such as boyish appetite
Disdains not"
So strong indeed, and so
general, is this rambling propensity in the boyhood of our city, that we
know of spots even at five or six miles’ distance from the Cross, which,
in the time of nests, and at the period when the wild fruit is ripe, are
perfectly thronged with the little pale-faced vagabonds. To gamekeepers
and farmers far and wide these outpourings of urban juvenility are
peculiarly ventious, from their destructive effects on woods and fences;
yet the lover of his kind will look with a charitable eye on their
occasional depredations, and the philosopher will even see a wise
provision of Nature in the yearning which prompts the young heart to leave
its city home and wander forth to taste the freshness and beauty of the
green fields. Grudge not, therefore, we say to our country friends, the
little townling his harvest of hips and haws. The evil he causes in the
collection of it cannot be of material consequence to you, while the sweet
memories which he insensibly gleans along with the ruddy fruit, and the
healing influences which the merest contact with nature produces on the
spirit, are of immense importance to him, and may render him, in his
after-life, amidst the irksomeness and the temptations of the crowded
haunt of men, both a happier and a purer being. Dreary indeed must be the
memory of the man whose boyhood has been
entirely spent in the verdureless mazes
of the city; but we would fain hope, and indeed feel persuaded, that there
are comparatively few who have been so utterly unfortunate.
It was in our own haw-gathering and
bird-nesting days that we first visited Cambuslang and its romantic
environs, in a ramble to which we now solicit the company of our readers.
We have a decided antipathy to direct roads, and generally when business
is out of the question, instead of proceeding in a straight line to our
destination, endeavour if possible to reach it by some species of zig-zag
or circumbendibus. In accordance with this penchant for the eccentric, we
determine to make our way to Cambuslang along the south bank of the Clyde,
which is perhaps a mile or two longer than the ordinary way, but which
compensates for extra length by a considerably greater degree of beauty.
Leaving the city by the suburb of Bridgeton, we cross the river by the
elegant timber bridge at Dalmarnock, which leads to the coalpit of Farme.
From the vicinity of the bridge a fine view is obtained of the ancient and
castellated mansion of Farme, the seat of James Farie, Esq., which, half
seen within its girdle of trees, is situated a few hundred yards to the
south of the road. The period in which this edifice was erected is
unknown, but from its architectural features it is evidently of great
antiquity. In recent times considerable additions have been made to it,
but as these have been studiously kept subordinate to the old fabric, and
are in strict harmony with its characteristics, it still preserves its
original air of hoary cud, and is altogether one of the most complete
models of the baronial dwelling-place of other days in the West of
Scotland. In 1792 the proprietor of that day had occasion to make some
alterations in the interior of the house. In one room a ceiling of stucco
was removed, when another of wood was discovered, with a number of curious
inscriptions upon it, generally inculcating the practice of temperance and
morality. These were written in the old English character, and were
evidently of very ancient date. One of them contains a lesson which may be
studied with advantage even in our own more civilized though perhaps not
more sincere age. It is as follows:—
"Fair speech in presence,
with good report In absence,
And manners even to fellowship
Obtains great reverence."
"Written in the year 1325."
The estate of Farme is
principally composed of an extensive and fertile haugh, which stretches
out into a kind of peninsula formed by a bold sweep of the Clyde. It is
said to have been for a considerable period a private property of the
royal Stuarts. It afterwards passed through various hands; a family named
Crawford held possession of it for many years; and about 1645 it belonged
to Sir Walter Stewart of Minto. Ultimately, however, it fell into the
possession of the Hamilton family, from whom it was purchased by the
grandfather of the present proprietor. About a hundred yards above
Dalmarnock Bridge we leave the course of the Clyde, and by a road which
cuts right across a sort of isthmus, after a walk of a quarter of a mile
or so, arrive again on the bank, at a point some two miles farther up the
stream. At this place there is a fine row of trees on either side of the
way, the leafy boughs of which meeting and intertwining overhead, form a
shady arch, through which in a picturesque vista is seen the village of
Cambuslang, with its elegant church spire relieved against the green brow
of Dychmont. Proceeding along the verdant margin of the Clyde, we soon
arrive at the estate of Hamilton Farme, which consists of rich alluvial
meadows, at present bearing splendid cereal coverings, and protected from
the ravages of the river in its occasional "spates" by lengthened lines of
embankment, which for solidity and strength would do credit even to a
Dutch landscape. Opposite the promontory of Westthorn, a small streamlet
called "Hamilton Farme Burn" runs into the Clyde. We would recommend our
botanical friends to frace its meanderings for a short dis tance.
Running through an almost level tract of land, there is little to engage
the attention of the rambler in its appearance; yet to the student of
vegetation its fertile banks will abundantly repay a careful
investigation. We find the white convolvulus (convolvulra sepium),
the woody nightshade (solanum dulcamara), common valerian (valeriana
officinalis) two species of willow-herb, and a numerous variety of
others. The channel seems to be a favourite haunt of the graceful wagtail
tribe, and we well remember some half-dozen years ago having discovered
the nest of a pair of kingfishers in a hole in one of the banks. This
beautiful bird is well known to be exceedingly rare in the country round
Glasgow, and even in Scotland. We therefore prided ourselves very much on
our discovery, and anticipated great pleasure in watching its motions and
habits. But, alas!
"The best laid schemes of mice and
men
Gang aft agley."
Some colliers in the neighbourhood
had also observed the glittering plumage of the poor birds, and "on deadly
thoughts intent" were speedily out in pursuit of them. For several weeks
there was a constant series of lurking sportsmen hovering about. We never
learned whether they had actually managed to kill the poor things or not,
but we know that the nest was shortly afterwards deserted, and that the
kingfisher has not again appeared at the spot. We are sorry to say that a
similar course of extermination seems to be pursued wherever a rare bird
makes its appearance amongst us. Every now and again we see triumphant
paragraphs in provincial newspapers narrating the destruction of
ornithological curiosities as if it were a matter on which we should
congratulate ourselves that these innocent and beautiful creatures are
thus prevented from brightening with their presence our woods and fields.
We have no sympathy with these ruthless collectors of specimens, and would
much rather hear of one living addition to our country’s fauna than
of twenty names added to the catalogue of a museum. Many well-meaning
people complain of our game-laws, and it must
be admitted that in various respects they are
productive of evil; but we feel persuaded that, were they once abolished,
a very brief period indeed would see the utter extinction of many species
of wild animals which at present enliven and adorn our rural landscapes.
The hare would not much longer be seen " hirplin’ doon the furr," the
glittering pheasant would speedily be banished from the greenwood, and the
evening call of the partridge among the dewy corn would, ere a few years
were gone, glad no more the ear of the gloainin’ wanderer. In France,
where there are no restrictions on the destruction of "vermin," as friend
Bright calls the protected animals, there is now no vermin to kill; they
have all disappeared, and you may travel for days in that country and
scarcely see or hear a solitary bird. The same thing has occurred in the
more densely populated States of America. There every man has a gun, and
unbounded liberty to use it. The result of this system, however, has been
that the feræ naturaæ have been almost totally extirpated. A friend
of ours, who travelled lately through a considerable portion of the New
England States, assures us that he has wandered about for weeks without
seeing a single bird, unless perhaps an occasional crow, the shyness of
which abundantly manifested its acute perception of the danger which
continually impended over it in the deadly Yankee rifle. Surely this is a
consummation which no individual of taste would wish to see effected in
our own land. Even the most zealous foe of class legislation, we should
imagine, rather than see our woods and meadows altogether deprived of
their beautiful feathered inhabitants, would willingly give up his use of
gunship, and admit that in such a case the end was an ample justification
of the means.
Passing along the green
banks of Hamilton Farme, a pleasant walk of about a mile and a-half brings
us to Rose-bank, the seat of the
late David Dale, Esq. The house is plain and somewhat old-fashioned,
telling of times when architectural taste had not attained such a
respectable level among Glasgow merchants as it has in our own day. The
situation, however—a sloping bank which rises gradually from the winding
Clyde—is truly delicious, while the house is perfectly embowered among its
fine old trees and spacious gardens. The property of Rosebank is now, as
we understand, in the possession of the Caledonian Railway Company; and
the place has altogether a somewhat dreary and neglected aspect. [More
recently some kind of public work has been erected immediately adjacent.
This adjunct, we need scarcely remark, does not by any means tend to
increase the amenity of the locality.]
David Dale, as is well known, was one of the most eminent and most
venerated merchants of our city during the last century. He was born of
humble parentage at Stewarton, in Ayrshire, about the year 1739, and was
for some time engaged as herd-boy to a farmer in that neighbourhood. He
afterwards served an apprenticeship to the weaving trade in Paisley, from
whence he removed to Hamilton, where he wrought for some time at the loom
in the capacity of journeyman. From this humble beginning, Mr. Dale
gradually raised himself by his industry and perseverance, to the
condition of a merchant prince in the manufacturing capital of the west.
He was the founder of the extensive cotton-works at Lanark and Blantyre,
in both of which places, but more especially the former, he made abundant
provision for the physical, moral, and religious improvement of his
operatives. Thither he transplanted also, from time to time, numerous
orphans and other poor children from the city, instilling into them habits
of industry, and attending faithfully to their educational necessities. He
was thus instrumental in preserving many from the contamination of those
vices which ever lurk in the recesses of our large towns, and which find
such a plenteous and dark harvest among the unfortunate children of
neglect. In his latter days he became a magistrate in our city, in which
character, as well as in that of employer, he gained golden opinions from
all classes of men. Among the working people he was generally known as
"the benevolent bailie." Mr. Dale died in 1806, leaving behind him a
princely fortune to be divided among his five daughters, and a name which
is still, after the lapse of half-a-century, venerated among his townsmen.
Immediately adjacent to Rosebank are
the house and fine grounds of Morriston, the property of John Bain, Esq.
The house is a plain quadrangular edifice of considerable extent. It is
situated on a gentle eminence, about three hundred yards from the river;
the space in front, with the exception of a small patch of green sward,
being at present under cultivation. Everything about the place has an
exceedingly tasteful and tidy appearance. The hedgerows are neatly
trimmed, while the various kinds of crop are unusually luxuriant, and bear
evident symptoms of attention and care. Altogether, we should imagine,
from appearances around his domicile, that Mr. Bain must have the
phrenological bump of "order" pretty largely developed. On the bank of the
Clyde below the house we find the snakeweed (polygonum bistorta),
the yellow goat’s-beard, and a profusion of the white convolvulus.
At the eastern extremity of the
Morriston estate the Kirk-burn of Cambuslang falls into the Clyde, at a
spot called "the fliers Ford," and at which, according to tradition, Mary
Queen of Scots crossed the river in her flight from Langside. This little
streamlet has its origin at Easterhill, on the borders of Carmunnock,
about two miles and a-half to the south. From its devious tendencies,
however, it has in reality a much longer course to travel than this
distance would seem to indicate. It is indeed the very model of a Scottish
burn, and does not seem to know its own mind two consecutive minutes. To
it might well be applied the verses in which our poor friend, Peter Still,
the late Buchan poet, has so exquisitely described the wayward character
of a nameless north country rivulet,—
"Mark the wee bit nameless burnie
Jumpin’—joukin’—slidin’ slee,
Deek’d wi’ flowers at ilka turnie,
Shaded wi’ the willow tree.
"Whiles it seems to sink in terra,
Whiles it seems to lose its way,
Whiles it seems o’ercome wi’ sorrow
Shrinkin’ frae the licht of day.
"Whiles it seems fu’ blythe and
rantin’,
Whiles it seems to turn again
Backward to its flowery fountain,
Laith to lea’ the lovely glen."
Partly by the meanderings of the
burn, and partly by a flower-fringed road, we now proceed towards the
village of Cambuslang, which lies about half-a-mile to the south of the
Clyde at this point. On the one side of this way are the fertile lands of
Morriston, on the other the finely-wooded grounds of Westburn. On the one
hand neatness and order, on the other neglect and comparative desolation.
The estate of Westburn is the property of John Graham, Esq., of
Craigallion, who, not being a resident on the spot, has apparently left it
very much for several years to the freedom of its own will, or in other
words, to "hang as it grows." The pleasure grounds, which have at one
period been of the most elegant description, and which are still very
beautiful, are overrun with weeds, while the fine old trees are sadly in
lack of a tasteful pruning. The burn also, which winds in picturesque
curves through the park, is, in some places nearly choked with sedges and
rushes, among which one could almost fancy it was murmuring over better
days.
Cambuslang is rather a cluster of
villages than one united township. It is divided into two portions by a
deep ravine, down which the waters of the burn pursue their course towards
the Clyde. On the south-eastern side are Kirkhill, Vicarton, and
Sauchiebog; on the other, Bushiehill, Silver-bank, and Westcoats. From the
elevated and uneven nature of the ground on which it is built, Cambuslang
presents from many points of view a highly romantic appearance. It has no
pretension to architectural elegance, the houses being, with very few
exceptions, of the plainest description. Most of them, however, have kail-yards
attached to them; and we are pleased to see, that besides the necessary
kitchen vegetables, a considerable proportion have small plots devoted to
the culture of flowers. The population is principally composed of weavers
and colliers, with a sprinkling of masons and agricultural labourers.
Near Sauchiebog, where we enter the
village, and immediately on the edge of the ravine or glen, we are shown
the place where a chapel, dedicated to the Virgin Mary, once stood. This
edifice, which was founded and endowed in 1379, by William Monypenny,
rector of Cambuslang, has long been removed, not the slightest vestige of
it being now in existence. Four acres of land, which were attached to the
establishment, are still, however, called "the Chapel Croft." The railway
from Glasgow to Hamilton passes almost over the site of the chapel. We
would recommend ramblers, at least such of them as are not overly dainty
about the brilliancy of their boots, to take the bed of the burn at this
place, and follow its course to the vicinity of the church, which lies
about the third of a mile farther up. This is our route, and although we
have considerable difficulty in making our way, by leaping from stone to
stone, we are amply repaid for our labour by the wild beauty of the
scenery. The sides of the ravine are of the most rugged and tangled
description. In some places they are quite precipitous, and from fifty to
sixty feet in height, being composed of stratified rocks of sandstone and
shale, which will be found well worthy the attention of the geological
student. The vegetation also is unusually profuse. Among the more
remarkable specimens are the enchanter’s nightshade
(circœa lutetiana),
fool’s parsley (æthusa cynapium), hemlock,
woodsage, and a variety of our most handsome indigenous grasses, among
which are the elegant single-flowered melic grass, and the graceful
aira cæspitosa. There are several fine springs in the glen, at which
groups of girls from the village, with their water pitchers, are generally
congregated, lending an additional charm to the landscape, which is
altogether of the most picturesque nature. One of these springs, called
"the Borgie well," is famous for the quality of its water, which, it is
jocularly said, has a deteriorating influence on the wits of those who
habitually use it. Those who drink of the "Borgie," we were informed by a
gash old fellow who once helped us to a draught of it, are sure to turn "half.daft,"
and will never leave Cambuslang if they can help it. However this may be,
we can assure such of our readers as may venture to taste it that they
will find a bicker of it a treat of no ordinary kind, more especially if
they have threaded the mazes of the glen, as we have been doing, under the
vertical radiance of a July sun.
The parish church of Cambuslang is
finely situated on a natural terrace which rises to a considerable height
above the burn, which meanders in graceful curves around its base. A more
beautiful site for the "house of God" cannot well be imagined, and we
really think that the burying-ground, with its fine old elms and quiet
secluded aspect, is one of the most pleasing specimens of the "country
church-yard" which we have ever witnessed. It recalls to our minds the
picture which Gray has so exquisitely drawn, and we cannot refrain, while
resting on one of the unassuming headstones, from repeating to ourselves
his inimitable lines,—
"Beneath these rugged elms, the yew
tree’s shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep."
We find nothing remarkable among the
gravestones. They are generally of the plainest and most unpretending
description, being perhaps in this respect more truly appropriate to the
quiet "city of the dead" than the monumental pomp now so common in our
fashionable cemeteries. Pride is surely sadly out of place in the
church-yard.
The church of Cambuslang is an
exceedingly elegant structure of
modern erection, forming with its beautiful spire a
fine feature in the landscape for miles around. In the vicinity of the
church is a manse, a handsome building surrounded by an extensive and
tastefully-arranged garden, and the parish school, a commodious and
tidy-looking establishment. Besides this, we understand there is another
large school-house in the village, so that there seems to be no lack of
provision for the educational wants of the juvenile population.
A little to the east of the church
there is a spacious natural amphitheatre, formed on the green side of the
ravine which we have previously described. This was the scene of an
extraordinary religious excitement in 1742. Mr. M’Culloch, then minister
of the parish, was in the habit, for a considerable time previously, of
conducting public worship in this beautiful spot, and so effectual were
his ministrations that crowds began to flock from all parts of the
surrounding country to hear him, under the impression that a special
outpouring of the Divine Spirit had there been vouchsafed. Many who had
hitherto been indifferent to religious matters became inspired with the
greatest devotional zeal and enthusiasm. Meetings for prayer and praise
were for a considerable time held daily, and symptoms of an extraordinary
kind began to be manifested. In the New Statistical Account we find
the following description of this curious affair, which is known as "the
Cambuslang wark."
"The first prominent effects of
these multiplied services occurred on the 8th of February. Soon after, the
sacrament was given twice in the space of five weeks, on the 11th of July
and on the 15th of August. Mr. Whitfield had arrived from England in June,
and many of the most popular preachers of the day hastened to join him at
Cambuslang—such as Messrs. Wilson of Dundee, Webster of Edinburgh,
M’Knight of Irvine, M’Laurin of Glasgow, Currie of Kinglaasie, &c. The
sacrament on the 15th August was very numerously attended. One tent was
placed at the lower extremity of the amphitheatre above alluded to, near
the joining of the two rivulets, and here the sacrament was administered.
A second tent was erected in the church-yard, and a third in a green field
a little to the west of the first tent. Each of these was attended with
great congregations, and it has been estimated that not less than 80,000
people attended on that occasion. Four ministers preached on the Fast-day,
four on Saturday, fourteen or fifteen on Sunday, and five on Monday. There
were 25 tables, about 120 at each, in all 8,000 communicants. Many of
these came from Glasgow, about 200 from Edinburgh, as many from Kilmarnock
and from Irvine and Stewarton, and also some from England and Ireland. The
‘Cambuslang wark’ continued for six months, from 8th February to 15th
August, 1742. The number of persons converted at this period cannot be
ascertained. Mr. M’Culloch, in a letter to Mr. Robb, dated 80th April,
1751, rates them at 400, of which number 70 were inhabitants of Cambuslang."—A
couple of old hawthorn trees near the margin of the burn are pointed out
as marking the position where Whitfield, the famous preacher, stood on
this occasion, and marvellous stories are told of his powerful voice,
which according to tradition was heard for miles around. In 1642, the
centenary of the strange occurrence we have described, sermons were
preached on this spot; and more recently the echoes of the glen have been
awakened by the potent eloquence of Chalmers, who preached here (on what
special occasion we do not recollect) to an immense auditory. By all
accounts the Cambuslang people would be nothing the worse of another
revival. We are assured they are anything but a kirk going people
now-a-days. The parish minister has too often to complain of indifferently
filled pews while a large Dissenting meeting-house, at the west end of the
village, has actually been closed for lack of support.
While we linger at this place,
groups of happy boys are paidlin’ in the burn which flows sweetly past.
Two ambitious urchins are seated among the branches of the old thorn
trees, plucking the green haws and shouting in very lightsomeness of
heart—a fair-haired lassie is herding cattle on the preaching brae—and the
place altogether has an air of peaceful and tranquil beauty, in the
highest degree pleasing, and forcibly suggesting a contrast with the wild
scenes of enthusiasm which it witnessed in the past, and which busy fancy
endeavours to recall.
South of the village of Cambuslang,
the ground gradually rises through a succession of gentle undulations to
the hills of Turnlaw and Dychmont, the latter of which was long used by
our Druidical forefathers as a station for their blazing beltane fires.
Towards this fine hill, which is about a mile and a-half or so from
Kirkhill, we now proceed by a very pleasant path, passing Cairns and
Gilbertfield. The old castellated house of Gilbertfield stands in a
commanding situation near the foot of Dychmont. It is a picturesque old
edifice, with peaked gables and a couple of small turrets. There are
several armorial carvings over the windows, and it appears to have been
erected in 1607, as that date is still distinctly legible on the eastern
wall. Gilbertfield, to the sentimental rambler, is rendered a place of
more than ordinary interest from its associations with the memory of
Lieut. William Hamilton, a Scottish poet of some distinction, who resided
within its walls for many years. He was a contemporary and correspondent
of the celebrated Allan Ramsay, who says, in a rhyming epistle which he
addressed to Hamilton—
"When I begoud first to converse
And could your ‘Airdrle whins' rehearse,
Where bonny Heck ran fast and fierce,
It warmed my breast;
Then emulation did me pierce,
Whilk since ne'er ceast"
In another stanza of the same
production, Ramsay expresses his admiration of Hamilton’s poetical
effusions, in a style of verse which is certainly more remarkable for
strength than elegance. We give it as a curiosity,—
"May I be licket wt’ a bittle
Gin of your numbers I think little;
Ye’re never raggit, than, nor little,
But blythe and gabby,
And hit the spirit to a little
Of standart Habby."
Some of our readers, we dare say,
will be of opinion that the inspired wigmaker richly deserved a severe
thumping with the "bittle" aforesaid, for perpetrating such a "raggit,
shan, and kittle" piece of flattery. In the common editions of Ramsay’s
works three epistles by Hamilton are generally to be found, wherein honest
Allan is freely repaid in kind, and those who choose to study the "claw
me, claw you" style of criticism, will find capital specimens in their
jingling correspondence. Several compositions by Hamilton, of considerable
merit, are to be found in all collections of old Scottish poetry. Of
these, an Elegy on Habby Simson, the famous piper of Kilbarchan, is
generally considered the best. From a line in this curious production, it
would appear that it was formerly customary in Scotland to have a bagpiper
playing to the reapers while they were engaged on the harvest field. In
lamenting the loss of Habby, with his skirling pipes, the author says,—
"Wha will gar our shearers shear?
Wha will bend up the brags of weir?"
What will our agricultural friends
say to this practice of the olden time? or what would they think were
their reapers to refuse to work unless to a musical accompaniment? In 1722
Hamilton published a translation from the ancient into the modern Scottish
dialect, of Henry the Minstrel’s Metrical Life of Wallace. This production
has not added to his fame. It is generally admitted to be much inferior in
vigour and gracefulness of expression to the original. It has, however,
rendered this interesting work familiar to many who might otherwise have
been scared from its perusal by the difficulties of an almost obsolete
tongue.
Towards the termination of his life,
Hamilton resided at Letterick, on the south of Dychmont, where he died in
1751, at an advanced age. The readers of Burns will remember that in one
of his finest epistles he alludes to Hamilton, in company with Allan
Ramsay and Ferguson, as occupying a position on the Parnassian’ heights to
which he could never hope to climb. We give the verse in which the
allusion occurs, -
"My senses wad be in a creel
Should I but dare a hope to speel
Wi’ Allan or wi' Gllbertfield
The braes o' fame,
Or Ferguson, the writer chiel,
A deathless name."
Now the name of Gilbertfield is
seldom heard, while that of the unknown ploughman has become a household
word wherever the English language is spoken.
The house of Gilbertfield is fast
falling into a ruinous state. It was last inhabited by a gamekeeper in the
employment of the Duke of Hamilton. This individual, a stalwart
Englishman, as some of our readers may remember, was accidentally shot by
a young man belonging to this city a few years since. After this
melancholy occurrence it was deserted, and is now only used as a kind of
storehouse by Mr. Weir, a neighbouring farmer. With the permission of this
gentleman we examined the interior of the edifice with considerable
interest, but discovered nothing worthy of special remark. A number of the
apartments are entire, and might yet be rendered habitable; the winds,
however, have free entrance by the shattered windows, and the walls have
already begun to manifest symptoms of dilapidation, while the swallow and
the starling have taken possession of its deserted chambers. The prospect
from the turret windows is extensive and beautiful.
We may remark, however, en
peasant, that besides having been the residence of the above
bard, Cambuslang parish has given birth to several individuals who have
attained distinction in the world of letters. It was the birth-place of
Mr. Loudon, the celebrated horticultural writer, although, so far as we
have learned, there is nothing remembered of him on the spot; and of Dr.
Claudius Buchanan, the author of Asiatic Researches and other
works. Relations of the latter, we believe, are still residing in the
village. It is also whispered, sub rosa, that the clever authoress
of Rose Douglas, a recent meritorious work of fiction, was born not
quite a hundred miles from the manse of Cambuslang, and gleaned a number
of the characters introduced into that production from real personages who
lived, or are still living within no very great distance of that locality.
Setting "a stout heart to a stey
brae," we now leave the dreary abode of the old poet, which we commend to
the attention of our local artists, and commence the ascent of Dychmont. A
short though somewhat wearisome walk brings us to its brow, which is 600
feet above the ocean level. There were formerly traces of ancient
buildings at this place, but they are now almost totally obliterated. The
common nettle, however, grows abundantly in some spots, and it is well
known that this plant seldom grows unless in the vicinity of human
habitations, or near places where they have once been. In the depopulated
Highland glens, the sites of the ancient clachans are generally marked by
a profuse growth of the nettle. It is said that about fifty years ago
ruinous remains were very extensive on Dychmont, but that they have been
gradually removed for the purpose of building walls and constructing
roads. Spirit of Oldbuck, what a desecration! But reverence for the
antique does not seem to be a Cambuslang virtue. The Lady Chapel, as we
have already remarked, exists but in name; and the ancient castle of
Drumsargard, which stood about a mile to the east of the church, has
totally vanished, the plough having long ago passed over its site. About
sixty years since it remained a stately ruin, but it too was pulled down
by ruthless hands for the mere sake of its building materials, and that in
a district where excellent sandstone is to be had almost for the lifting!
The prospect from the summit of Dychmont is of the most
extensive and varied description, embracing the vale of Clyde from Tintoc
to Dumbuck. To the east are seen towering in pride Bothwell Castle’s
ruined walls, the church of Bothwell, with the extensive woods of
Hamilton, and far away on the horizon the Tweeddale and Pentland hills. To
the north and north-west the spectator sees Cambuslang, Rutherglen, and
Glasgow, with towns, villages, gentlemen’s seats, and comfortable farm-steadings
innumerable, while the serrated ramparts of the Highland mountains bound
with their wild beauty the far-stretching line of vision. To the south are
the woods of Crossbasket and the romantic glen of the Calder, with the
dreary moorlands beyond Kilbride. Altogether the circle of scenery visible
from this "coigne of vantage" is of the most rich and varied description,
and would of itself amply reward a summer day’s journey. Dychmont, we may
mention, is the subject of a descriptive poem of considerable merit by the
late John Struthers, author of the "Poor Man’s Sabbath," who resided for
some time in this vicinity.
Having now reached the boundary
which prudence allows to our ramble (after resting our somewhat wearied
shanks for a brief space), we commence our homeward walk. Instead of
returning by Cambuslang, however, we cross the hill in a south-west
direction, and by a country path make our way to the Greenlees Toll on the
Glasgow and Muirkirk road. From this a smart walk of an hour and a-half's
duration brings us by Rutherglen to our own good town.
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