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The people of Scotland unquestionably owe a deep debt
of gratitude to their Covenanting forefathers; to those brave men who, in
defiance of a persecuting government, nobly, and ultimately with entire
success, asserted their right to worship the God of their fathers
according to the dictates of their individual consciences.
Narrow-mindedness, bigotry, and superstition—the errors of the age in
which they lived— to a certain extent, it may be admitted, existed among
them; but it is unquestionable that it was to their stubborn and
long-continued resistance to the aggressions of a dissolute and
overbearing court that we are, in a great measure, indebted for the civil
and religious liberty which, happily, we are now privileged to enjoy. It
has latterly become fashionable in certain literary circles to underrate
the character and services of these hardy and perhaps somewhat rude
pioneers of spiritual freedom. Scott, in his Old Mortality, and
Tales of a Grandfather, has rendered them but a scanty measure of
justice; while in the Lays of the Cavalien, a recent poetical
publication of merit, the heartless mercenary, Claverhouse, and his
merciless minions are exhibited as models of excellence; whereas rebel and
traitor are the best names which the writer has to bestow on his
Covenanting countrymen. Blind loyalty to a crowned rake finds, it would
seem, more favour with such parties than steadfast and honest adherence to
principle. It is satisfactory to know, however, that, despite these
attempts to throw a halo of false sentiment around their persecutors, the
memory of the Covenanters is still fresh and unfaded in the hearts of the
Scottish people. Old Mortality is at rest with his fathers. The clink of
the venerable man’s renovating hammer is no longer heard on the .lonely
moor, or in the green church-yard where the martyrs, after "life’s fitful
fever, sleep secure;" but the homely inscriptions on their memorial stones
are still religiously preserved from the effacing influences of time, and
the tale of their sufferings, their struggles, and their triumphs, is
still heard at the cottage-hearth. As the poet has well said, though
"The martyr’s hill ‘s forsaken
In simmer’s dusk sae calm,
And there’s nae gathering now, lassie,
To sing the e’ening psalm;
Yet the martyr’s grave will rise, lassie,
Aboon the warrior’s cairn,
Though the martyr sound may sleep, lassie,
Aaeath the waving fern."
Among the haunts of the Covenanters there are few which
are more interesting, or which are more frequently visited, than the
lonely farm-house of Lochgoin, situated in the moorlands of Fenwick, some
fourteen or fifteen miles to the south-west of Glasgow. In a pilgrimage
O’er moors end mosses mony, O,"
to this humble and sequestered domicile, which
we have long desired to visit, we now entreat, in imagination, at least,
the company of our gentle readers.
At an early hour on a fine morning of August we bid
adieu to the city, and proceed, by way of Cathcart, towards Eaglesham. The
newly arisen sun is shining brightly over the Cathkin Braes, while
"llka blade o’ grass wi' its ain drap o’ dew"
i s radiant with tints that might well "pale the
ineffectual fires" of the overly-vaunted Koh-i-noor; and the webs of the
field-spider, spread on the green hedgerows, and beaded with the tears of
the bygone night, would take the shine, we have no doubt, out of Queen
Isabella’s much talked of, and richly begemmed pair of bracelets. The
luxuriant wheat, a perfect wall of bread, with the first faint russet
tinge of autumn, is waving on the fertile fields, and contrasting sweetly
with the fresher verdure of the oat and the silken awns of the bearded
bere. The potato ridges are blooming as if such a thing as the destructive
aphis had never existed; while the bean, not yet denuded of its flowers,
lends a honeyed fragrance to the passing winds. Every now and again a
country girl with her sour-milk cart passes onward to the thirsty city; or
"gangrel bodies," such as wandering dealers in dew, packmen, and notaries
of the gaberlunzie profession, may be observed commencing their daily
rounds among the scattered farms and villages. It is really astonishing to
witness the numbers of these poor creatures who daily issue from our wynds
and vennels to pick up a precarious living beyond the police boundaries,
partly by charity and partly by the disposal of some humble description of
merchandise. One-half the world in reality does not know, and perhaps does
not much care, by what a variety of shifts the other half manages to gain
its meagre subsistence.
At a distance of some five or six miles from Glasgow we
pass the villages of Clarkston and Busby; the former a small cluster of
houses situated at the junction of four roads, one of which was formerly
the way from our city to Kilmarnock. The formation of the new line by
Pollokshaws and Newton of Mearns has, however, long diverted the traffic
from this route. There is nothing of particular note in or about the
village to interest or attract the rambler. Busby lies a short distance to
the east, on the banks of the Cart, which are here of the most picturesque
description. It is of considerable extent, the population being upwards of
one thousand in number, and principally engaged in manufacturing
operations. At the north end of the village, in a deep ravine, is an
extensive cotton-spinning establishment, belonging to Messrs. Crum
& Co.; while about half-a-mile farther up the stream are the printworks of
Messrs. Inglis & Wakefield. The houses in the village are generally of a
superior description, and the place altogether has a comfortable and tidy
appearance. There is a handsome dissenting meeting-house in the vicinity,
and we understand that there are also several seminaries for the education
of the rising generation. Busby, singularly enough, seems to form the
junction-point of three parishes, part of it being situated in Mearns,
part in East Kilbride, and a portion in Carmunnock, the church of which,
being the most convenient, is generally attended by that section of the
inhabitants who adhere to the national Establishment. The country around
Busby is of the most beautiful description, being composed of gentle
pastoral undulations and fertile slopes, while the steep winding banks of
the Cart, with their rich garniture of woods, present many scenes which
might well please the eye of the poet or the painter.
Leaving Busby and proceeding to the southward, at the
distance of about a mile, according to our reckoning, we arrive at
Waterfoot, where, the Earn, a fine stream which comes meandering westward
from the Mearns Moor, joins the Cart. A more lovely spot than that in
which the union of the Cart and the Earn is thus consummated it would be
difficult indeed to imagine. With Moore we might well say,—
"There is not in this wide world a valley so sweet,
As the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;"
but brightness is not, by any means, a characteristic
of either stream. They are both wanderers of the moors, with a rich brown
tinge in their bosoms that suggests ideas of liquid amber, or a pretty
strong infusion of tea. Immediately after the "meeting of the waters,"
they tumble lovingly together down a rocky steep that churns them into a
foamy whiteness, which rivals in fairness the breasts of the ducks and
geese that are swimming gracefully about in the dancing eddies. There are
broken grounds and trees, and cottages and bridges, and an old mill, with
picturesque wheel, strewn about in that beautiful confusion which the
artist so dearly loves, and which he so often transfers to his canvas. It
is just the very sort of place, in short, where a langsyne poet would have
expected to meet a water-kelpie, and where a modern naturalist, with
greater probability of success, we dare say, would linger lovingly in the
hope of discovering the lonely water-ouzel.
The Earn, (what a sweet name!) as some of our readers
will perhaps remember, was the stream of the celebrated Christopher
North’s boyhood. On its banks he first donned his world-famous
sporting-jacket. While living in the Mearns manse, as he did for several
happy years, he could almost hear its murmuring voice in his bed-chamber,
inviting him to its margin; "full many a time and oft," we need not doubt,
he listened to the call of the charmer, and leaving books and bookish
cares behind, stole forth, a truant Izaak Walton, to angle for the rich
red-speckled trout in its brown waters. The lonely angle catches more than
fish. He may not fill his creel, but he can hardly avoid filling his soul
with sweet memories. A burn-side is indeed "a joy for ever."
"The muse nae poet ever find her.
Till by himsel' he learned to wander
Adown some trottin' burn's meander,
And no think lang."
Nay, we feel persuaded that even the most prosaic of
mortals, if put on a proper regimen of burn-side wandering, might, by the
benign influence of the "cold water cure," be transformed, if not into a
veritable poet—for it seems he is born, not made—at least into a something
infinitely superior to the mere worldling.
But we must for the present bid adieu to the Earn and
proceed on our way to Eaglesham. We shall again meet the stream, however,
and find it nursing another genius, whose name also our country will "not
willingly let die." From Waterfoot to Eaglesham—a distance of some three
miles—the country becomes by gentle degrees more elevated. The road, which
is straight almost as an arrow’s flight, consequently presents what, in
the language of the rail, is denominated "a pretty steep gradient." A
marked change in the productive capabilities of the soil is also
observable here as the rambler passes along. From a richly agricultural,
it gradually assumes a decidedly pastoral character. The yellowing wheat
disappears altogether, and we find instead a predominance of somewhat
cold-looking pasture lands, relieved, at considerable intervals, with
patches of oats, barley, and potatoes—the former much greener and thinner
than in the warm lowlands which we are leaving behind. A straight road is
seldom much to our liking; but, although somewhat stiff, the walk from
Waterfoot to Eaglesham is really one of a very pleasant description. The
way is fringed on either side by some of our sweetest wild flowers, while
the surface of the country is of a fine undulating nature, with every here
and there a picturesque farm-steading surrounded with its straggling belt
of trees. It is somewhat provoking, however, to the sentimental traveller,
while he is thus hedged into a right onward path, to see the Cart, a
little to the left of him, at "its own sweet will," turning and winding
with ever - varying curve amidst its banks of
freshest green. What a contrast it presents in its playful gambollings
here to its staid and sober self "alike, but oh! how different"—in
the lower part of its course! It is really worth the while of our "Seestu"
friends to make a pilgrimage to this district for the express purpose of
witnessing the boyhood of their native stream. Not crabbed age and youth
are more essentially opposite in their characters. The dull, sluggish, and
withal filthy waters, which wash the shipping at the classic Sneddon, are
here sportive, joyous, and pure, while every link and turn presents a new
portraiture of sylvan or flowery loveliness. There is a deep moral in the
contrast, which we have no doubt our sagacious readers will expiscate for
themselves. Truth is said to have her habitation in a well; but the
pensive observer will occasionally find her bathing in the rippled flow of
the lonesome river.
The present village of Eaglesham is of comparatively
modern origin—an ancient hamlet of the same name having been demolished in
1769 by Alexander, tenth Earl of Eglinton, to make way for it, he having
some time previously drawn up a plan for its erection. It is consequently
regular in its appearance, and consists principally of two lengthened rows
of houses running from east to west, which are situated opposite each
other on the sides of a kind of shallow valley or glen, in the face of a
gentle declivity. At the upper end the rows of houses are 100, and at the
lower 250 yards apart. Each house has a plot of garden-ground in its rear;
while the space in front, down the middle of which a rapid streamlet
gushes, is partly wooded and partly of a smooth sward, interspersed with
trees, which forms the bleaching green and playground of the village.
Between the rows at the lower end are situated a meal-mill, the Eglinton
Arms Inn, and the parish school. Midway up, in a considerable hollow, lies
the extensive establishment of the Eaglesham Spinning Company. Half-hidden
from the eye, and with everything about them clean and orderly, these
important works, contrary to what might have been expected, do not in the
least detract from the rural aspect of the locality. The machinery is
driven by an immense water-wheel of iron, about 45 feet in diameter, and
of 50 horse-power. For the propulsion of this, 740 cubic feet of water per
minute are required; yet so ingeniously is the fluid conducted to and from
the wheel that it is neither heard nor seen within the walls of the
factory.
At the south-east corner of the village is the parish
church, a small octangular building of the most unpretending appearance.
This structure was erected in 1790, on the site of a still more diminutive
edifice of considerable antiquity, by Archibald, the eleventh Earl of
Eglinton. It is surrounded by an extensive burying-ground, in which, with
our usual penchant for "sermons in stones," we linger for some
time, to the sad discomfiture of a pretty numerous flock of sheep which
are nibbling the verdure from the grassy mounds of the dead. There are
differences of taste no doubt, among men, but, for our part, we should
really not like to have our mutton brought to us from the churchyard. We
know one place where the field of graves is reserved for the minister’s
cow, and we have more than once in our peregrinations come across a
clerical pony meditating among the tombs; but, in truth, we think this
custom of turning the fertilizing properties of decaying mortality into
profit would be considerably "more honoured in the breach than the
observance." Let the Eaglesham sexton endeavour to find perquisites
without violating the amenities of the grave; as for the professional
offenders we have alluded to, we shall not presume to interfere with their
proceedings. As Burns has said, and as doubtless he knew to his cost,
"Corbies and clergy are a shot richt kittle."
There are a considerable number of old memorial stones
in the Eaglesham burying-ground, but none which call for special remark,
with the exception of a monument erected to the memory of two individuals
who were put to death for their adherence to the Solemn League and
Covenant, in the reign of the Second Charles. The structure is of
comparatively recent erection, but the inscription is evidently old, and
has probably been transcribed from a more ancient headstone. It is as
follows:—
"Psalm cxil. 'The righteous shall be in everlasting
remembrance’
"Here lie Gabriel Thomson and Robert Lockhart, who were
killed for owning the covenanted testimony, by a party of Highlanders and
dragoons, under the command of Ardincaple, 1st May, 1885.
"Them men did search through moor and moss,
To find out all that had no pass;
These faithful witnesses were found,
And murdered upon the ground.
Their bodies in this grave do lie;
Their blood for vengeance yet doth cry;
This may a standing witness be
For Presbytery ‘gainst Prelacy."
Besides the parish church there are several other
places of worship in Eaglesham. The inhabitants are principally weavers
and factory workers; and as usual amongst a manufacturing population,
considerable diversity of opinion prevails. Free Church, United
Presbyterian, and Morisonian meeting-houses are pointed out to us, each
having its own little knot of adherents; while there is a sprinkling of
Roman Catholics, and also of those who, as our informant remarks, "care
for none of these things."
Altogether, the village, both in respect to situation
and arrangement is one of the most attractive that we have yet witnessed.
It is indeed a pleasant habitation. The children, who in noisy groups are
playing about as we pass, have a freshness and rosiness of complexion
which the parents of the city might well look upon with envy; while the
very weavers have a colour in their cheeks which tells of salutary sirs,
and a not overly close attendance on the loom. This is accounted for by
the circumstance that most of them have a patch of ground in the vicinity
of the village, which they cultivate at spare hours, and which not only
adds considerably to their domestic comfort, but administers to their
bodily health by the out-door exercise which it induces. It is this
combination of the manufacturing with the agricultural employments which,
in general, renders the country weaver a more comfortable as well as a
more robust and healthy individual than the webster of the town.
The barony of Eaglesham, which includes nearly the
entire parish, was for many generations the property of the Montgomeries,
who latterly became Earls of Eglinton. It came into their hands originally
through a Robert de Montgomery, in the twelfth century. For two hundred
years it continued the chief seat of this noble family, which has ever
been honourably distinguished in the annals of our country. In the
fourteenth century the baronies of Eglinton and Ardrossan were obtained by
the marriage of John de Montgomery with Elizabeth, daughter and heiress of
Sir Hugh Eglinton, by a sister of Robert II., King of Scotland. This
gentleman vanquished and took captive Harry Percy (the "Hotspur" of
Shakspeare) at Otterbourne, and afterwards received a handsome sum by way
of ransom for that gallant though unfortunate knight. Near Eaglesham the
vestiges of an ancient castle are still pointed out, which is said to have
been erected with the English gold obtained on that occasion. Some of our
readers, we daresay, will remember the old ballad wherein the exploits of
this doughty warrior are celebrated:-
"The Gordons good in English blood
They steeped their hose and shoon;
The Lyndsays flew like fire about,
Till all the fray was done.
"The Percy and Montgomerie met,
Of other they were richt fain,
They swakked swords until they swat,
And their red blude ran between.
"‘Yield thee, yield thee, Percy,’ he said,
‘Or I swear I’ll lay thee low!’
‘To whom shall I yield,’ said Earl Percy,
‘Since I see that it maim be so?’
‘As soon as he knew it was Montgomerie,
He stuck his sword-point in the ground;
But the Montgomerie was a courteous knight,
And quickly took him by the hand.
"This deed was done at Otterbourne
About the breaking of the day;
Earl Douglas was buried at the bracken bush,
And the Percy led captive away."
Sir Hugh Montgomery, the son of this hero, has also obtained a ballad
immortality. Those who are familiar with "Chevy Chase," (and who is not?)
will at once remember that this gallant knight was slain on that fatal
field by an arrow from the bow of a stout English yeoman,—
"The gray goose-wing that was thereon
In his heart-blood was wet"
In our own day the Eaglesham estate has departed from
the Montgomery family. It is now in possession of Allan Gilmour, Esq., a
merchant prince of our own good city, one of a class which, by the
peaceful conquests of industry and commerce, are, in modem times,
gradually stepping into the shoes of the ancient lords of the soil.
After a little rest and needful refreshment at
Eaglesham, we proceed towards Lochgoin, which is situated in a bleak moor,
some four or five miles to the south-west, For about one-third of this
distance there is an excellent country road, but after that the rambler
must plunge into the bowels of the moorland, and trust very much to
chance, or his own skill in regard to the cardinal points, as to whether
he shall ever reach his destination. In some places there are faint traces
of a footpath, but these are continually disappearing, or leading you
astray. Sometimes into a brown moss-water burn, at others into a fine
green spot that, siren-like, smiles in your face while luring you to wet
feet. There are several extensive lochs or reservoirs in the moor. After
passing in succession three of these, which are named respectively
Ficketlaw Loch, Mid Loch, and Dunwan Loch—the latter of which, a broad
sheet of water, supplies the Eaglesham mills—we fairly lose our reckoning.
It is in vain that we endeavour to recover ourselves by observation of the
sun, which is shining brilliantly in the zenith, so we resign the reins to
fortune, and determine to enjoy the wild beauty of the scenery. We are
surrounded by bleak hills and wide morasses, stretching far as the eye can
reach. In the words of a poet who spent his boyhood here, we are encircled
"By hills and streams,
And melancholy deserts, where the sun
Saw, as he passed a shepherd only, here
And there, watching his little flock."
The wild cry of the curlew or the plover alone breaks
the dreary silence, unless when the startled snipe springs from the rushy
brink of a mossy pool, with a whirr and a shrill alarm-note, as the
unwonted presence of man scares it from its solitary haunt. Yet Flora has
her favours for the botanist even here. The snowy tufts of the canach wave
gracefully in the breeze; the grass of Farnassus (Parnassia pulustris),
with its beautiful corolla; and the bog asphodel (nartheciurts
ossafragum), with their golden bloom, make the desert to rejoice Here
also are the sun-dew (drosera rotundifolia), with its beads of
pearl; the cinque-foil (commarum palustre), with its deep purple
petals; and numerous other cultureless inhabitants of the untrodden
wilds,—
"Born to blush unseen,
And waste their sweetness on the desert air."
While we are paying our devoirs to the goddess
of scent and bloom, a stranger luckily heaves in sight, whom we at once
hasten to meet. We have, he informs us, wandered considerably from the
right track, which he points out; and at the same time describes certain
landmarks, by observing which we shall be less likely to lose our course
in future. He also gives us directions where we shall find a celebrated
spring, the water of which he praises for all imaginable good qualities,
and which he advises us by all means to visit. Taking leave of our
obliging informant with a liberal outpouring of gratitude, we again
proceed on our way, which, as formerly, lies
"O’er mosses, slaps, moor hags, and stiles."
We do not again lose ourselves, however, and soon
arrive at the "Woofield well," to which we were so kindly directed, It is
a tiny springlet, which bubbles out of a green bank, fringed with
white-flowered water-cress, beneath a rocky declivity, near the east end
of Lochgoin. Time out of mind, as we are informed, it has been a favourite
rendezvous of the sportsmen on the Eaglesham moors. Nor do we wonder at
the circumstance, for more limpid water or more intensely cold we
certainly never tasted. It has apparently been designed by Nature as the
scene of a pic-nic. Behind is the towering trap-rock; before is the dark
placid waters of Lochgoin, unfretted by the shadow of bush or tree, with
the dreary expanse of the moor and a perfect wilderness of hills in the
distance. Puffing out our vasculum, which are starting we took the
precaution to charge with a liberal allowance of provender, we set to work
with an appetite which only a wanderer in such wilds can thoroughly
appreciate while a teetotaller would be delighted to witness our frequent
and deep potations of Nature’s own delicious brewing. It is questionable,
however, whether he would sympathize altogether with our audible
aspiration for a thimbleful of the forbidden dew at the termination of our
repast. Be that as it may, it is something to our regret that the
necessities of the locality enforce the iron rule of "touch not, taste
not, handle not." A kenning of the creature would have formed such a treat
in judicious combination with the almost gelid water!
We have scarce concluded our meal, al fresco,
when we observe two lads from a neighbouring farm-house unmooring a boat
on the loch below. One of them frankly accosts us, and offers us a
passage, if we choose, to the west end of the water, a distance of perhaps
two-thirds of a mile, where the farm of Lochgoin is situated. Closing with
the offer, a very short period sees us gliding over the glassy surface of
the lake to our destination.
The farm of Lochgoin is somewhat like an oasis in the
dreary waste. Around the house are a few patches of oats and potatoes,
with a small garden for kitchen vegetables and the hardier kinds of
flowers. Fruit trees there are none, for the best of all reasons—they
could not exist in such an exposed and barren situation. There are a few
of our hardiest trees, however; but even these have a dwarfed and
miserable appearance. For miles around stretches the wild moor-land,
barren and desolate as it came from the hand of Nature, and the only
practical use of which is as pasture for sheep and cattle. Some idea of
the soil of this bleak Shetlandish locality may be formed from the fact
that we find the farmers, as we pass, making hay on fields where the
moisture, oozing from the ground, is from two to three inches in depth.
The farm-steading of Lochgoin is a low range of houses, partly of recent
erection and partly of considerable antiquity. The larger and most
comfortable looking portion is devoted to the
accommodation of cattle. The present occupant of Lochgoin is Mr. Thomas
Howie, the descendant of a long line of ancestors, who have for many
generations dwelt on the same spot, and who have been throughout
honourably distinguished for their attachment to the cause of religious
liberty. The founder of the family is said to have been one of the
persecuted Waldenses, who in 1178 fled from his native land, and found a
safe though solitary place of rest and peace at Loebgoin. The date of his
arrival, with others indicating the various periods at which alterations
and additions to the original tenement have been made, are carved on the
lintel of the principal doorway. During the dark days of religious
persecution,
"when the minister’s home was the mountain and wood,"
in the reign of Charles II., who was, in sad truth, no
"merry Monarch" to Scotland, and that of his bigoted and priestridden
brother James II., whom England flung from her like an unclean thing,
Lochgoin formed a frequent asylum to those who had sacrificed their all
for conscience’ sake, Cameron, Peden, and others, often found shelter
under its hospitable though humble roof. For this the house was plundered
not less than from ten to twelve times; while its inmates were as often
driven to seek safety in the moors by the revengeful dragoons, who, by the
way, it is some consolation to know, must have had considerable difficulty
in finding their way on horseback to the place. The names of James Howie,
the possessor of the farm, and that of his son, were also placed on the
fugitives’ roll, and exposed on the church doors; while it appears from a
proclamation, dated May 5, 1679, that they were both denounced as rebels
and dangerous persons. Nevertheless, they continued firm to their
principles, and although exposed to great hardships and perils both
survived until after the Revolution. John Howie, father of the present
possessor, was the author of the Scott Worthies, a work which
contains biographical sketches of the leading personages who struggled and
died for the covenanted work of Reformation in those times, and which has
obtained an almost unrivalled popularity in the rural districts of
Scotland.
At the time of our visit Mr. Howie
is in the fields busy with his haymaking, but we are received in the most
kindly manner by the goodwife, who at once proceeds to show us certain
relics of the Covenanters, which have been religiously preserved in the
family. These are the Bible and sword of Captain John Paton, one of the
worthies who fought for his principles at Pentland and Bothwell Bridge,
and who was afterwards executed at Edinburgh for his share in these
transactions. The captain also served with the Covenanters against
Montrose; and certain marvellous stories are told of his exploits with the
sword in question, after his party had been routed at Kilsyth. In the
memoir of him which is published in the Scott Worthies, the
following extraordinary statement appears regarding his prowess on this
unfortunate occasion
"Having made the best of his way
through the enemy, he fell in with
Colonels Hacket and Strachan. All three then
rode off together, but they had not gone far till they were encountered by
about fifteen of the enemy, all of whom they killed except two. when they
had gone a little farther, they were attacked by about thirteen more, and
of these they killed ten, so that only three of them made their escape.
But upon the approach of about eleven Highlanders more, one of the
colonels said in a familiar dialect, ‘Johnny, if thou dost not something
now, we are an dead men.’ To him the Captain answered, ‘Fear not, for we
will do what we can before we yield, or flee before thea’ They killed nine
of them and put the rest to flight."
The Captain’s other feats,
many of which are sufficiently wondrous, will be found recorded in the
book alluded to. The sword is now rusty and time-worn, but even at its
best it must have been a light blade, and all unlikely to do such deadly
work. It is said at one time to have had a series of nicks on its edge,
corresponding to the number of years during which the persecution lasted.
These emblematic notches are not now visible. The Bible is dated 1652, and
has the following inscription on the inside of one of the boards :—
"Captain John Paton’s
Bible, which he gave to his wife from off the scaffold, when he was
executed for the cause of Christ at Edinburgh, on the 5th of May, 1684.
James Howie received it from the Captain’s son’s daughter’s husband, and
gave it to John Howie, his nephew,"
Besides these interesting
relics, we are shown the banner which waved above the heads of the
Covenanters at the battle of Drumclog, when the bloody Claverhouse was
sent to the right about by a handful of undisciplined peasants.
It is of
white linen, and has the figures of a Bible and crown, supported by the
thistle, rudely traced on it with a reddish pigment, and the motto,
"Phinick for country and
covenanted work of Reformation."
An old drum also, which beat the
alarm on that memorable morning when the troopers hove in sight as the
Covenanters were engaged in prayer on the lonely moor, is also placed in
our hands, and we need scarcely say excites our deepest interest. An
antiquary would be delighted with a collection of ancient silver coins
which is in the possession of the family; and we cannot help picturing to
ourselves the ecstasy which a Monkbarns might have felt had he been shown
into the spence of Lochgoin, as we are, and permitted to examine the
extensive assortment of old books which it contains. These were
principally purchased, as we understand, by the author of the Scots
Worthies, and many of them must have been of inestimable service to
him for purposes of reference in the composition of that work. We pull out
a number of them at random, and find them to be generally of a religious
or historical character, and nearly all of venerable data One old Bible
interests us considerably; it is of date 1599, and was "Printed by the
deputies of Christopher Smart, printer to Queen Elizabeth." It is still in
a good state of preservation, and contains a number of curious engravings,
amongst which we observe a map wherein the geographical position of the
garden of Eden is lucidly delineated. Altogether, we are highly gratified
by our visit to this out-of-the-way nook; and we do not wonder that many
hundreds annually, as we are informed is the case, should be attracted to
its precincts. The wild beauty of the locality, the associations of an
interesting nature which are entwined around it, and the venerable relics
of the past which it contains, must ever render it a sacred spot in the
eyes of those who sympathize with the trials and struggles of those brave
men, from the darkness of whose sufferings has arisen for us the day-star
of a brighter era. As we take leave of the obliging matron, and set out on
our homeward way, we cannot help repeating the following lines from a
genuine Scottish poet, which seem to us peculiarly applicable to the
place:—
"And from that lonely rugged spot
Ascended rich and rare
The incense of the contrite heart,
The sacrifice of prayer;
And angels from the heights of heaven
Did look complacent down
On honoured heads that soon should wear
The martyr's glorious crown."
Before leaving Lochgoin, we may
mention that the prospect from the vicinity of the house, looking towards
the south and west, is of the most spacious and beautiful description,
including within its range Loudon hill, near which the battle of Drumclog
was fought, and an extensive portion of the Ayrshire coast, with Ailsa
Craig and the picturesque mountains of Arran in the distance. The
atmosphere is delightfully clear, and we consequently behold the land of
Burns spread, as in a map, at our feet; while, on the blue sea beyond, the
white sails are gleaming here and there like snowy specks of cloud on the
summer sky. The motion of these fair children of the deep is of course
imperceptible in the extreme distance, and to our gaze they seem
"As idle even as painted ships
Upon a painted
ocean."
It is always monotonous and
wearisome to retrace one’s steps on an excursion, and we determine,
instead of returning by Eaglesham, to take a circuitous course, and to
make our way home by Means. With this intention we strike across the moor
in a northerly direction, towards the hill of Ballygeich. The way is rough
enough in all conscience, and forcibly brings to our mind the exclamation
of the Highlander on seeing the roads which General Wade had constructed
through the wilds of his native country,—
"Bad you seen these roads
before they were made,
You would hold up your hands and
bless General Wade!"
The road from Lochgoin to
Ballygeich is not yet made, and
we would recommend any one who has a desire thoroughly
to appreciate the benefits of modern road-making to try the walk from the
one place to the other. The distance may be somewhere about two miles, and
by dint of leaping, wading, and scrambling, we manage to get over them in
rather more than an hour.
The hill of Ballygeieh is, with the
exception of Mistilaw and the hill of Staik, the highest eminence in the
county of Renfrew, being about 1,000 feet above the level of the sea. It
is principally composed of the trap-rock prevalent in the district; but
several specimens of barytes have been found in its vicinity, and a
species of stone which bears extreme heat without renting, and has
consequently been found well adapted for the construction of furnaces and
ovens. It is also reported to contain silver and lead ores; but it must be
admitted that nothing of the sort comes under our observation. The
prospect from its summit, however, fully repays us for any disappointment
which we may experience on this score. It indeed commands an extensive and
beautiful series of landscapes, embracing many counties within its scope.
On one hand are the moors of Fenwick, with the fertile woods and fields of
Ayrshire, the giant rock of Ailsa, and the towering Goatfell in the
distance; on the other, the rand basin and vale of Clyde, with Glasgow,
Paisley, and countless other towns and hamlets in its capacious bosom,
while a perfect wilderness of Bens rise proudly on the dim horizon. This
was a favourite haunt of the author of The Course of Time, who was
born and spent his early years in the vicinity. Here the youthful poet
came full oft to feast his expanding soul with the elements of beauty and
sublimity; and those who are familiar with his great poem will doubtless
recollect that several of its most striking passages are evidently
descriptive of the scenery which was here impressed upon his memory; We
may mention, however, that in our admiration of the landscape here, we
unfortunately dropt our vasculum, which, for the benefit of the
non-initiated, we may explain to be a sort of japanned tin-canister, used
by botanists for the convenient conveyance of their specimens. It has been
our companion on many a flower-gathering excursion; and although of no
great value in a pecuniary sense, we have a sort of affection for it,
which makes us regret its loss considerably.
Leaving Ballygeich and proceeding in
a north-west direction by Moorhouse, we soon, after crossing the Earn by a
rustic bridge, arrive at the Glasgow and Kilmarnock road, about nine miles
from the city. Being somewhat fagged with our devious wanderings, and
evening drawing rapidly on, we make an effort and push smartly homeward.
Including a few minutes’ rest at Newton-of-Mearns, we get over the
distance in about two and a-half hours. Latterly, we must admit, the
mile-stones, to our fancy, appear somewhat "lang o’ coming," but this is
scarcely to be wondered at, when it is considered that our peregrinations
must have extended, by a moderate computation, considerably over thirty
miles.
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