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GLASGOW and PAISLEY, although situated some seven miles
or so apart, are, by the facilities of steam transit, now placed, so far
as regards time, in almost immediate juxtaposition to each other. A
quarter of an hour now suffices to transport the traveller, on business
bent, from the Broomielaw to the Sneddon—from the smoky domains of our
beloved Sanct Mungo to those of his venerable brother in the "odour of
sanctity," Mirrinus. So far as speedy communication is concerned, the
railway has left us almost nothing to wish. The country which lies between
the great industrial centres of the Clyde and the Cart, however, is of the
most beautiful and fertile description, and contains, moreover, several
objects of historical and sentimental interest, the due inspection of
which requires a more leisurely mode of progression than that of the iron
way. Our readers will therefore be pleased to accompany us in our present
ramble, as on former occasions, a la pied. We may hint,
however, for their encouragement, that there is a probability of our being
driven to the rail by fatigue on our return, as we propose leading them
round a pretty considerable circuit, and into digressions innumerable.
Our favourite route to Paisley is, of course, the
longest one, which is that by the margin of the Canal. Taking our start
from Fort-Eglinton, a short walk brings us to Shields Bridge, at which
point, on the south side of the water, the picturesque little village of
Pollokshields has recently sprung into existence, with a degree of
rapidity which fairly rivals the go-a-head Yankee system of town
development. This miniature community is composed of elegant cottages and
villas, each edifice having its own belt of garden ground walled in, and
tastefully planted in front with flowers and shrubs, and in the rear with
kitchen vegetables. The greatest variety of architectural taste, moreover,
seems to prevail in this rising suburban settlement. Some two score or so
of tenements are already erected, or are in process of erection, and
scarcely two of them are similar in design or construction. Each
individual proprietor seems to have had his own ideal in "stone and lime,"
and every man’s house is as unlike his neighbour’s as possible. Should the
same determined diversity of style continue to prevail, Loudon’s
Encyclopcedia of Cottage Architecture must soon become a dead letter,
so far as Glasgow is concerned, as a walk through Pollokshields will be as
instructive to the student as a perusal of that ponderous though valuable
volume, with its endless disquisitions on projecting porches, ornamental
chimney-stalks, peaked gables, rustic arcades, and mullioned windows. It
must be admitted, however, that so far as it has gone, this variety has,
on the whole, an exceedingly pleasing and picturesque effect, and that we
know few places in the vicinity of our city where we would more readily
wish for a snug cottage home, if "the lamp of Alladin" were for a brief
period ours.
The banks of the canal between Glasgow and Paisley,
artificial though they be, are as rich in natural beauty as the winding
margin of many a river. In various places they are finely wooded, while
throughout their entire length they are fringed with a profusion of our
sweetest wild flowers. Every here and there, also, glimpses of the
surrounding country are obtained—in some cases extending for many miles
around, and embracing scenes of great fertility and loveliness. As we pass
along, the reapers in picturesque groups are busy in the bright yellow
fields. Occasionally, also, the voices of juvenile strollers from the
purlieus of the city are heard on the tangled and bosky banks, where they
come in search of the hips and haws and the blackboyds, which, however,
have scarcely yet attained the necessary degree of ripeness. At intervals,
"few and far between," one of the Company’s boats passes lazily to its
destination; while every now and again a solitary angler gazes
despairingly at his float, and mutters "Nothing doing" to our passing
inquiries concerning his piscatorial success. About four miles from the
city, the Cart approaches within a few feet of the canal. At this point of
the stream we find the yellow water-lily (nuphar lutea) growing
abundantly, with its broad cordate leaves and bright golden flowers
covering the surface of the water. A number of other fine plants also are
thickly strewn along the alluvial margin. Among these are the handsome
wood crane’s-bill (geranium sylvaticum), several stately species of
thistle, flinging their snowy locks to the passing breeze, and the rough
burr-reed with its green sword-like leaves guarding the shallows of the
streamlet, and forming an impervious shade for the water-hen. A dense wood
on the opposite side of the Cart at this place, forming part of the
extensive estates of Sir John Maxwell of Pollok, seems to be well stocked
with game and other wild birds, and we have often heard with delight their
peculiar cries and notes while lingering at the spot during the spring and
summer gloamings. Here, too, we have observed for several successive
seasons a pair of those sweet, though in this part of the country somewhat
rare songsters, the black-cap warblers (curruca atricapilla), which
seem to have bred in the vicinity, although with all our skill (and in our
school-days it was famous) we have failed to discover the well screened
nest.
About half-a-mile farther on we pass the spot where, on
a green bank of the Cart, stood for several centuries the picturesque
castle of Cardonald. This venerable relic of other times has, however,
been demolished within these few years, and a neat modern farm-steading
has been erected on its site. This was at an early period a seat of the
Stewart family, who held extensive possessions for a lengthened series of
years in Renfrewshire. In the reign of James the Sixth, Walter Stewart,
Prior of Blantyre, was lord of Cardonald. From him it passed into the
hands of Lord Blantyre, his heir, in whose family it has continued ever
since. Crawfurd, in his
History of Renfrewshire,
mentions that in his day the lands of
Cardonald were well planted and "beautiful with pleasant gardens." The
remains of these are still in existence. On the fine green lawn which lies
between the modern edifice and the canal, and which is thickly strewn with
cowslips in the early summer, are a number of stately old forest trees,
while the garden still contains several fruit-trees of great age and
considerable size. In front of the present house is a stone taken from the
walls of its more venerable predecessor, on which is carved the figure of
a casque or helmet, with the motto "Toujours avant" (always forward), and
the initials J. S., date 1565. At a short distance to the north, on a bend
of the Cart, are the extensive meal mills of Cardonald, with a group of
cottages and kail-yards, occupied apparently by the operatives engaged in
the establishment. A more delightful locality altogether it were difficult
to imagine. Wood, water, and variety of surface, are here to be seen in
beautiful combination; and we can only regret that it has been divested to
a considerable extent of the charm of historic association, by the removal
of the "howlet-haunted biggin" ‘which for so many generations graced the
scene with its presence.
Immediately alter passing Cardonald the ruins of
Crookston Castle are seen on a rising ground to the west, towering proudly
over the intervening woods. Crossing the canal at this point, and passing
along a somewhat circuitous route, we find our way, after a walk of about
a mile, to this interesting and highly romantic spot, which, from its
connection with the name and memory of the unfortunate Mary, must ever be
dear to the sentimental rambler. In the time of Crawfurd this venerable
building, which is situated on a bold bank of the Levern (which joins the
Cart at a short distance to the north), consisted of "a large keep and two
lofty towers with battlemented wings." Since that period a considerably
greater portion of its walls have owned the crumbling influences of time
and the elements. Only one shattered tower has kept its original altitude,
and even it has been in a great degree indebted for its preservation to
the considerate attention of Sir John Maxwell, on whose property it
stands, and who has caused its rent sides to be secured and bound together
by strong iron bars. The same gentleman has also, within the past few
years, procured the removal of the
debris which in the course of centuries
had accumulated around the base of the edifice, and by that means has
brought to light a number of antique doors, windows, and staircases, with
several other curious architectural features, which had been long hid from
the gaze of the antiquary. A couple of vaulted chambers—one of which is in
total darkness, and the other only lighted by a narrow loop-hole—are all
that now remain in anything like a state of entirety. One is almost afraid
to surmise to what vile uses such dreary dungeons may have been put in the
rude days of old, when a lordling’s caprice was cause sufficient for
imprisonment or even death to the helpless and haply unoffending serf: On
climbing with some difficulty the narrow and decayed staircase, and gazing
on the thick darkness which reigns in one of these cheerless cells, we can
almost fancy that we hear the sigh of some hopeless captive floating
through the gloomy and stifling air; and we must admit that we are fain to
return to the blessed light of day, while a feeling of pride and gratitude
springs up in our heart, to think that in our land not even the vilest
criminal can now be condemned to such a loathsome and unwholesome den. The
rampart and moat of the castle, which are of considerable extent, and
convey a vivid idea of the magnitude and grandeur of the edifice in its
days of pride and power, may still be distinctly traced.
The barony and castle of
Crookston seem to have derived their name from Robert de Croe, a gentleman
of Norman extraction, who held
extensive possessions here in the twelfth century. In the following
century the heiress of this individual was married into the illustrious
family of Stuart, who thereby became lords of the extensive baronies of
Crookston, Darnley, Inchinnan, Neilston, and Tarbolton. Every student of
Scottish history is aware that Henry Darnley, the heir of this ancient and
noble house, having won the affections of his Queen, the beautiful but
unfortunate Mary, was married to her in the year 1565. Tradition asserts
that it was at Crookston, one of the seats of the handsome though foolish
young lord, that the brief courtship of the ill-fated lovers took place;
and an old and beautiful yew-tree, which stood in the garden a little to
the east of the castle, was said to have been a favourite haunt of the
royal lovers in the hours of gentle dalliance which preceded their
ill-assorted and ultimately tragical union. The remains of this fine old
tree were removed in 1817 by Sir John Maxwell, it having been sadly
destroyed previously by the depredations of ruthless relic-hunters. A
portion of the timber, we may mention, has been appropriately formed into
a model of Crookston Castle. This interesting object is preserved at
Pollok House, where the visitor is also shown three large sections of the
yew, which seems to have been a tree of considerable age and size. The
number of snuff-boxes, drinking-cups, and ornaments of various kinds, said
to be formed out of Queen Mary’s tree, is almost incredible. Every
curiosity-collector, from the Land’s End to John o’ Groat’s, can boast one
or more fragments of it although it must be admitted that, like the wood
of the "true Cross" which was so extensively diffused during the Middle
Ages, the genuineness of the article is, to say the least of it, in many
instances extremely problematical.
Sir Walter Scott has made a sad
blunder in his novel of The Abbot, by representing Mary as
witnessing at Crookston the battle of Langside. It is well known that the
unfortunate Queen stood on an
eminence near Cathcart during
that decisive engagement, which occurred at least four miles to the east
of.Crookston. The intervening ground, also, is of such a nature as to
render Langside invisible from this locality. On being informed of the
error which he had thus made, Sir Walter at once admitted the fact, in a
note to the revised edition of the Waverley Novels, but he refused
to alter the text, as he considered that by so doing the dramatic interest
of the romance would be considerably diminished. Another error regarding
the stream which flows past the castle has been perpetuated by many who
have written concerning Crookston. This fine rivulet is the Levern, and
not the White Cart, as has been generally believed. The fact that the
junction of these two streams occurs in a beautiful spot about half-a-mile
to the northward of the ruins has probably led to this confusion of their
names.
The memory of Scotia’s unfortunate
Queen—a memory steeped in tears—has been associated with many a lovely
scene, but with none more so than Crookston. Pennant, who visited the spot
in 1772, truly says,—"The situation is delicious, commanding a view of a
well-cultivated tract, divided into a multitude of fertile little hills
;" and Scott has made Queen Mary
remark, that the castle commands a prospect as wide almost as that which
is seen from the peaked summit of Schehallion. Alike rich in material
beauty and sentimental interest, it is no wonder that Crookston is
annually visited by thousands of pilgrims, or that it has ever been a
favourite haunt of the poetic brotherhood. The author of "The Clyde," to
whom we have been previously indebted for several apt quotations, thus
describes the spot:—
"Here raised upon a verdant
mount sublime,
To heaven complaining of the
wrongs of time,
And ruthless force of sacrilegious hands,
Crookston, their ancient seat, in ruin stands;
Nor Clyde’s whole course an ampler prospect yields
Of spacious plains and well-improven fields,
Which here the gently rising hills surround,
And there the cloud-supporting mountains bound."
Tannahill alludes to the
ruins in one of his sweet lyrics—
"Through Crookston castle’s
lonely wa’s
The wintry wind howls wild and dreary?
And our own Motherwell, who many a
time and oft lingered in pensive mood by the time-honoured pile, has
celebrated its charms in one of his most elegant compositions, of which
the following are the concluding lines:—
"Tis past—she rests—the scaffold hath
been swept,
The headsman’s guilty axe to rust consigned-
But Crookston, while thine aged towers remain,
And thy green umbrage woos the evening wind—.
By noblest natures shall her woes be wept,
Who shone the glory of thy festal day:
Whilst aught is left of these thy ruins gray,
They will arouse remembrance of the stain
Queen Mary’s doom hath left on history's page—
Remembrance laden with reproach and pain,
To those who make like me this pilgrimage!"
Many an anonymous bard also has
endeavoured to express in verse the feelings which the shattered and
dreary tower, with its wall-flowers scenting the dewy air, and its
clamorous train of daws startling the echoes with their hoarse cries, has
excited in his breast. One of these nameless voices of the heart we must
give,—
"Thou proud memorial of a former age,
Time-ruined Crookston; not in all our land,—
Romantic with a noble heritage
Of feudal halls in ruin sternly grand,—
More beautiful doth tower or castle stand
Than thou! as oft the lingering traveller tells,
And none more varied sympathies command;
Though where the warrior dwelt the raven dwells:
With tenderness thy tale the rudest bosom swells.
"Along the soul that pleasing sadness steals
Which trembles from a wild harp’s dying fall,
When fancy’s recreative eye reveals
To him lone musing by that mouldering wall,
What warriors thronged, what Joy rung through thy hall,
When royal Mary—yet unstained by crime,
And with love’s golden sceptre ruling all—
Made thee her bridal home. ‘There seems to shine'
Still o’er thee splendour shed at that
high gorgeous times
How dark a moral shades and chills the heart
When gazing on thy dreary deep decayl"
A favourite haunt withal of Flora is
Crookston, and the botanist will find in its shady moat a number of our
Most beautifull, and several of our most rare indigenous plants. Among
these are the cuckowpint (aram maculatum), with its curiously
formed flowers in spring, and its spikes of bright scarlet berries in the
autumn months; the tuberous moschatell (adoxa moschatellina), and a
rich variety of others.
The trailing bramble, the brier with
its soft-folding blossom, the sloe, the hazel, the rowan-tree, and the
haw, are strewn in the most picturesque profusion around the spot—a very
girdle of arborescent beauty to the hoary tower. It would almost seem as
if Nature loved especially to adorn the scene which had been hallowed by
the presence, in a long past age, of the fairest and the most unfortunate
that ever bore the sceptre and crown of regal dignity. How often must the
fond fancy of the exiled Queen have flown from the gloom of her dreary
prison-walls to this fair spot, which every season decks with a beauty of
its own! Burns has put words of lamentation into the mouth of Mary; and it
would almost seem that the scenery of Crookston was in his mind’s eye when
he penned the following verse, so true is it to the character of its
spring landscape:—
"Now blooms the lily by the bank,
The primrose down the brae,
The hawthorn’s budding in the glen,
And milkwhite is the slae,
The meanest hind in fair Scotland
May rove their sweets amang,
But l, the Queen of a’ Scotland,
Maun lie in prison strang."
Crookston is lovely at all
times and seasons; but we feel, while musing by its hoary towers, that the
period most appropriate to wander by the "lonely mansion of the dead" is
indeed that in which we have made our rambling pilgrimage to the locality.
The primrose and the violet of spring have long been numbered among the
things that were; the last rose of summer has fallen from the leafy brier;
the lark is silent in the meadow, and the merle in his noontide bower. The
gathering harvest in the whitened fields, the woodland falling into the
sear and yellow leaf, the harebell hanging its head as if in woe, and even
the liquid pipings of the red-breast telling of approaching decay to
everything of bloom, are all suggestive of pensive feeling, and
appropriately harmonize with that "luxury of woe" in which one loves to
indulge beneath the shattered wall, around which, as with the ivy,
melancholy memories are entwined.
Before leaving
Crookston, we may mention that after the tragical death of Darnley
the estates and honours of Lennox were bestowed upon Charles Stuart,
second son of the Earl of Lennox. This individual, however, dying without
issue, they were resigned to the crown by Robert Stuart, Bishop of
Caithness, the next in lineal succession. After this the lands and castle
of Crookston passed through a variety of hands, until they were finally
purchased from the Montrose family, in 1757, by Sir John Maxwell, the
ancestor of the present proprietor, who, as we have previously remarked,
has exhibited his respect for the memory of her whose brief residence here
has for ever hallowed the locality, by the judicious measures he has
adopted for the preservation of the mouldering edifice. But for the
attention which he has thus manifested, the stately remains of Crookston
Castle must soon have been levelled with the dust, and the place which has
known its pomp and grandeur for many a long century should have known them
"no more for ever." The antiquary, and he who loves to drop the tear of
sympathy over the dark fate of the unfortunate Mary, will have reason for
many years to feel grateful to him who has thus preserved from impending
destruction such an interesting memorial of "what has been." We may also
mention that there is a fine portrait of the beauteous Queen of Scots
preserved at Pollok House, as also authentic portraits of her not less
ill-fated grandson, Charles the First, and the Infanta of Spain, who, it
will be remembered, was at one period destined to be his bride.
Retracing our steps to the canal, we
pursue our devious way by its margin toward Paisley, which is still some
three miles to the northward. On either hand, as we pass, a succession of
fertile fields in all the brightness of autumnal gold, and many of them
already shorn or in process of being speedily so, present a series of
those rural pictures which the famous American reaping machine threatens
soon to banish from our land. In an age of change, while steam is jostling
us in every direction, the hairst-rig remained unaltered in all its
primitive simplicity, a picturesque relic of other times, even as it was
when the fair gleaner Ruth
"Stood In tears amid the alien corn."
How our poets and our painters,
those dreamy worshippers of the beautiful, have revelled in the cheerful
groups of autumn, weaving in immortal verse or tracing on the living
canvas those combinations of the graceful in form and the pleasing in
colour, which, once seen, become unto the heart "a joy for ever!" Listen
to one who first saw the light in the city of our own habitation, the
author of "The Sabbath," and who looked with an attentive and a loving eye
on all the "shows and forms" of ever-varying nature,—
"At sultry hour of noon the
reaper band
Rest from their toil, and in the lusty stook
Their sickles hang. Around their simple fare,
Upon the stubble spread, blythsome they form
A circling group, while humbly waits behind,
The wistful dog, and with expressive look
And pawing foot, implores his attic share."
A delicious picture in
words, which some of our artistic
friends might well translate into the language of the glowing canvas. Or
what say they to the following from the same pen, "alike, but oh how
sweetly different!"
"The short repast, seasoned with
simple mirth,
And not without the song, gives place to sleep;
With sheaf beneath his head, the rustic youth
Enjoys sweet slumbers, while the maid he loves
Steals to his side, and screens him from the sun."
About a mile to the
north-west of Crookston, and on the south side of the White Cart, are the
spacious mansion and grounds of Hawkhead, one of the seats of the Earl of
Glasgow. This fine old house, which is screened in every direction by
extensive and beautiful woods, is somewhat irregular in its appearance.
According to Crawfurd, "it is built in the form of a court, and consists
of a large old tower, to which there were lower buildings added in the
reign of Charles the First by James Lord Ross and Dame Margaret Scott, his
lady, and adorned with large orchards, fine gardens, and pretty terraces,
with regular and stately
avenues fronting the said castle, and almost
surrounded with woods and enclosures, which add much to the beauty of this
scat." This was, we understand, the first instance in Renfrewshire in
which the formal and stiff style of Dutch gardening was introduced. The
house, too, was among the earliest in which modern comfort was combined
with the strength of former times. In 1782 the Countess-Dowager of Glasgow
made considerable improvements on this favourite estate, and formed a new
garden, four acres in extent, and more in accordance with the taste of our
day than its stately but quaint and old-fashioned predecessor. We have
seldom seen finer masses of foliage than the bosky banks of the Cart
present at this place; while in spring and early summer—
"The spot is
wild, the banks are steep,
With eglantine and hawthorn
blossomed o’er,
Lychnis and daffodils, and crow-flowers blue."
The Duke of York—the persecuting
Duke whose name still stinks in the nostrils of the Presbyterian peasantry
of Scotland—when in the plenitude of his power in 1681, "dined at the
Halcat with my Lord Ross," as we learn from an ancient chronicler, who
records the event as one of a memorable nature.
The Hawkhead woods seem to furnish a
favourite haunt for the rook. As we pass we are amused to see an immense
flock of these sagacious birds flying about a neighbouring field,
intermingled with vast numbers of starlings—a kindred species which of
late years has increased to an almost incredible extent in the districts
around Glasgow and Paisley. In our bird-nesting days a starling was indeed
a rare avis.
We had a tradition in our
school that a few starlings from time immemorial had haunted the creviced
walls of Bothwell Castle and the shattered towers of Crookston; but for
miles around the country, as every disciple of Gilbert White in this
neighbourhood well knew, such a thing as a bird of this species was seldom
seen. Another proof of their scarcity, if such were wanted, was the
handsome prices which they could always command in that most curious of
marts, the bird-market. Some seven or eight years ago, however, they began
to increase in numbers around Paisley, where they were treated with the
utmost kindness and consideration; breeding-boxes for their special
accommodation being suspended on every second tree and chimney-top. Under
these fostering influences the starlings "multiplied and replenished,"
until at present they are almost as common in that town as the
house-sparrow; More recently they have begun to congregate in and around
our city; and so plentiful have they already become, that a fine young
specimen can be purchased in the season, by the juvenile ornithologist, at
the price of an old song; while those who, like ourselves, are in the
habit of perambulating the country, must have been startled by the vast
flocks, often consisting of many thousands, which assemble in the autumn
and winter months in the neighbouring fields.
About half-a-mile from Paisley the
canal is carried over the Cart by a handsome aqueduct bridge. This
structure, from which a fine view of the town is obtained, is 210 feet in
length, 27 in breadth, and 30 in height. The span of the arch is not less
than 84 feet. At a short distance to the west of this, and quite adjacent
to the canal, are the remains of the ancient castellated mansion of
Blackhall, in bygone times a seat of the Ardgowan family. Crawfurd
mentions that in his day the grounds of Blackhall "were adorned with
beautiful planting." The glory, however, has now departed from the
locality. The gardens and shrubbery are no more, while the edifice itself
has a blackened and exceedingly dreary aspect. A few minutes’ walk from
this hoary relic of the past brings us into the bustling centre of
Paisley, where, in the meantime, we shall leave the reader to make the
acquaintance of the "bodies" as he best may. |
