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The clock had tolled the death-knell of April; the last
echoes of Spring had just been thundered from the steeple clock, and had
died away amid the dark recesses of the town; it was still; naught was
heard save the tread of the lonely sentinel, or the wail of the
tawny owl as it floated around the Castle rock; the night watchman at
the station, with muffled form and lamp in hand, had just signalled the
last train of the night, and as it dashed through the gloom, snorting
like some mighty steed, with a tread like the roar of thunder and eyes
of flame, you heard its shrill scream, like the cry of the wild eagle,
sending its echoes far among the Castle rocks, till the Abbey Craig
whispered back the sound. We mused on the past, and smilingly looked on
toward the future. We had made up our minds for a week at the Port, and
although not in actual possession, still in a great measure
we were enjoying the beautiful reality. In fancy we were climbing the
hill, rambling through its ferny glens, or catching the finny tribe in
the silvery waters of the lake. Early on the morning of the ist
May, we could be seen, basket on back and fishing-rod in hand, pacing
the platform of Stirling station, anxiously awaiting the ringing of the
last bell. Long looked for comes at lastno sooner had the last
bell given its first tinkle, than my companion plunged into a
first-class carriage—I, of course, following hard at his heels—placing
ourselves under the care of “old Hugh.” All now seems bustle and
animation—porters running with luggage, passengers taking their seats,
while the bang of the carriage-doors lends music to the scene. Suddenly
the short “ All right!” sounds in our ears, a sharp, shrill whistle is
heard in front, while the clankling of the couplings tells us we are on
the road; and in the twinkling of an eye we are sweeping round the
Castle rock and entering the rich Carse of Stirling. As we roll past, we
look on the old grey face of the Castle, and think of the changes—the
fetes and the fights that have ever and anon been enacted on its summit,
since the Roman Eagle first spread her wings on its bald head! Onwards
dashes the locomotive; and as we look out of the carriage window, we can
see the smoky spires of Stirling fast dying in the distance. On our
right rolls the sluggish Forth; and Craigforth, that proud usurper of
the Pass, rears its head in the morning sunshine. On our left stretches
the dark hills of Touch and Boquhan; and as our eyes scan their rocky
face, we see the falcon hunting after his morning meal. Approaching
Kippen, we get a glimpse of the famous glen of Boquhan—famous in
traditional and historic lore, and
“Where to the skies
The riven rocks fantastic rise.”
By-and-by, we reach the Port of Monteith station, and
instantly we are out on the platform. The train disappears, and we hear
its hollow sound dying in the distance, like the echoes of distant
thunder. We are now left to ourselves; and we look around us on the
prettiest of all country stations. We gaze on the flowers and the green
fields, with the dark blue hills beyond,
“Lending enchantment to the view.”
The dark green woods at our side are loud with the din of
birds, as they pour forth their morning songs of praise. Happy
native!—let him “bless his stars.” Away from the din and turmoil of the
city, he roams a free subject of the woods and fields! Here nothing
disturbs the quiet serenity of Nature, save the thundering of the “iron
horse,” or the wild whistle of the locomotive. We pass on our way to the
Port, where the road is beautiful and every foot is classic. Half-a-mile
from the station we pass the old bridge of Cardross, famous in prophecy
and tradition. Near to it is the place where Rob Roy crossed the Forth
with his stolen steed, when pursued by a troop of dragoons. Near to it,
also, in days of yore, stood the “Ferry Inns,” in which Prince Charles
Stuart refreshed himself, or, as some say, slept a night, when on a
visit to Buchanan of Arnprior. Near to it, also, is the gentle flowing
spring of the once far-famed “Gout Well of Cardross” On the left hand
side of the road there is a considerable knoll, from the top of which we
have a beautiful view of the surrounding country. We see the Forth roll
on in queenly pride, while on her downy banks graze the sober cattle. We
pass the Lodge of Cardross, and, farther on, the hamlet of Dykehead,
which boasts of a school, a smithy, and wight’s shop. Children are
playing at the school-door, the joiner grating away at his bench, while
the clank of the smith’s hammer lends a chorus to the rustic scene. .
The road in front of us is beautifully shaded with stately oaks, skirted
on the right by the well-kept grounds of Cardross. On our left is a dark
forest, some miles in length; and we can see the simple roe bounding for
protection far amid its dark recesses. Here we get a beautiful glimpse
of the Hill of Glenny, its top rising high above the trees, as if it
threatened to stop our northward passage. We now reach the sequestered
and romantic cottage of Tomavhoid (or Courthill), where, in days long
gone by, the neighbouring lairds sat in final judgment on the offending
wretches of their estates. We look around, and our eye rests on a hoary
ash, sending its grey branches wide to the breeze, whose old boughs
served the purpose of our new-fashioned scaffolds, when the rustic
native of the cottage performed the part of modern Calcraft. Our
thoughts wander back some hundred years; imagination paints the
assembled throng,—the proud laird, with sullen and merciless face,
wielding the sceptre of his relentless feudal power—the pitying looks of
his attendants, as they turn their eyes to gaze upon the fellow-mortal
on his way to the drop;—ay, methinks I see the poor culprit, as he kicks
high and dry upon the branch! But why fatigue the imagination with
scenes like these? Feudal days are past, the court has vanished, and the
mark of the rope has disappeared.
Leaving Tomavhoid, we have a beautiful, varied, and
interesting view of the Lake of Monteith and surrounding country. To the
left we get a fine prospect of the west Grampians—Ben-Lomond keeping
watch and ward over nether land, with an outstretching plain of
cultivated fields, dark forest, and barren moor between. In front are
the green knolls of Inchie—the lake and the blooming heath-clad hills of
Monteith beyond. On our right are the mansions of Rednock and Blairhoyle,
embosomed among fine old trees are the famous Moss of Flanders. Around
it the historic Gudie rolls smoothly along. Beyond are the sunny braes
of Ruskie, with the dark outline of the Ochils in the distance. Passing
Inchie House, the scene deepens, and the sight becomes charming. The
lake, with all its loveliness, bursts upon our view. On the south side
of the lake we get a glimpse of Lochen House, surrounded by stately
trees—the pleasure-grounds skirting the water. Farther on, we see the
romantic Arnmauch, covered with her dark waving pines, and stretching
her long arm far into the deep,—attempting to shake hands with the isle.
In the background we see the mansion of Gartmore, with the dark fir hill
beyond. Farther north, we see the rugged pass and scattered crags of
Aberfoyle. We pass on; our eye dazzles with the beauty of the landscape,
our mind is pleased with the calm grandeur of the scene, our soul is
filled with instruction, and we are anxious to get to the hotel. And as
we walk along the lake’s pebbled shore, and gaze upwards, onwards, and
around, beauty skirts us on either side. On our right are the wooded
slopes of Rednock, where the creeping fern entwines itself with the
green moss, and the “blue bells of Scotland” fill the air with their
fragrance. On our left lies the silvery waters of the lake, with
Inchmahome resting on its bosom, and the blue heavens and grey towering
clouds mirrored in its glossy surface. The sea-gull skims along its
bosom; the wild swan spreads her wings to catch the floating zeyhyr;
while the cormorant feeds among the reeds. We see the osprey, as the
noble bird soars above the waters, eyeing some sportive pike, and
pinioned in mid air, as if transfixed between the heavens and the earth;
then, with a swoop like a flash of lightning, he disappears below the
blue waters, and again, with triumphant scream, soars away with the
finny prey to his mate 011 yonder rock. Before us stands the church, the
mausoleum of the house of Gartmore, and the graveyard, where the native
dust in peace reposes. The beautifully situated hotel; the neat manse,
ensconsed among trees; behind, the hill of Glenny, bursting high up
suddenly from the plain, where, like some aged sire with wrinkled face
and bald head, he stands,
“The guardian angel of the lake.”
The dark firs that clothe its front contrast beautifully
with the brown heath upon its summit. We enter the hotel; lounge on the
sofa, puff our Havannah, sip our sherry, and order a boat to convey us
to the island. We are taking a last whiff, and giving orders for dinner,
when the door gently opens, and an old Celt, doffing his bonnet,
politely informs us that he is waiting to row us to Inchmahome. We gaze
upon the form before us; we mark his grey hairs and weather-beaten brow,
brown as the heath on his native Mondhuie. My companion mutters “ Can
this be the boatman?” We are almost afraid to place ourselves under his
care, or risk a voyage in his tiny barge. But as he walks before us to
the shore, we see something in his gait and manner which convinces us
that he is no ordinary boatman; and, with feelings of confidence, we
take our seats by his side, and soon find that we are under the charge
of a true son of the Graeme,* and that the spirit of that ancient clan
fills the old man’s bosom, while its blood flows pure in his veins. We
have just been seated, when we find his memory fresh with all the
legendary tales and fairy incidents of his cherished vale, while he is
deep read in historic lore; and as, with clutched oar and bent back, the
eager old man pulls on through the blue waters, he points us to the
pass, where, in days gone by, their native Glenny vomited forth her
warrior sons on the red hosts of Cromwell, and, like the mighty
avalanche from the brow of yonder hill, crushed the invaders. He points
us also to Portend’s craggy glen, where, rock built on rock, it raises
its riven head far in mid air, and, with ragged face, shattered brow,
and tottering form, stands
“Nodding o’er the cavern grey.”
He tells you of its deep pools and tumbling waterfalls,
and of the rare ferns that clothe its banks and adorn its sides. Behind
we see Bendhu, with blue head and barren face, its bare rocks glancing
in the summer sun. On the lake’s reedy margin we see the feathered steep
of the Cowden, through the shadows of the noble oaks that clothe its
side, deep in the blue waters. But ere we have half surveyed the
grandeur of hill and glen, our boat strikes the landing-place, and we
turn to gaze on the varied glories of Inchmahome, as they loom before us
in the huge and hoary wreck that stands with skeleton form, the monument
of the zeal of our early fathers; or in the noble trees that shoot their
giant antlers high in the breeze. We spend the afternoon among the
sacred relics of the Priory and Queen’s Garden, and then return to spend
the night at the inn.
We are astir early in the morning; we find the weather,
as it always is at the Lake of Monteith, clear and beautiful; and as we
look out of our bed-room window, we gaze on a landscape of placid
beauty, the fairest our eye has ever beheld—a landscape famous in
history, poetry, and romance. Before us stand the grand old Highland
hills, their tops clear, but the grey mist crawling along their boggy
sides, here and there tinged with the golden rays of the summer sun, and
throwing a few dark shadows deep into the waters. We see the lake in all
its loveliness, with the ruins of Inchmahome looking through the hoary
branches that adorn the isle—the isle which kings and queens delighted
to honour with their presence—the isle, once the birth-place of earls,
the home of royalty, the favourite resort of monarchs, the safe retreat
of queens. A shallop, with oars ready, lies beneath our window, and we
see the sea-fowl playing over the blue waters. The hill and the lake are
alike tempting, and we now begin to discuss whether we shall storm the
hill, or launch out on the lake and enjoy the glorious sensation of
hooking some greedy pike, or inhale the mountain’s balmy breeze. We soon
decide. To-day, the hill is clear and robed in sunshine; to-morrow, that
rampart of Nature may be wrapped in its misty mantle, and the golden
tints of to-day be chased away by to-morrow’s sweeping blast. We discuss
breakfast; fill our flasks with “the real naked truth,” as our kind
hostess termed it, and which, I dare say, might have the advantage of “
never seeing a gauger;” and soon we are marching up the hill. Before us
stands the place where Rob Roy, one hundred years ago, dashed up the
hill with his foaming steed, while being pursued by a troop of English
dragoons. We ascend the knoll on which it is said he stopped to rest the
noble animal, and gaze back on his pursuers, as they swept round the
lake like a whirlwind, and came on like a rolling flood. We fancy we see
the outlawed chief making preparations for the final effort. As the
eagle, high on yon dizzy cliff, plants his wings before making the final
dart upon his victim, Macgregor plants his knees and his rowels firm
into his horse’s sides, and, with a few terrific plunges, each like the
swoop of the falcon, the hero chief vanishes over the summit. We hurry
on up the rugged slope of Glenny, where,
“With crown of heath and brow of stone,
Crockmelly rears her head alone;
And watching o’er the inlet brake,
The guardian angel of the lake.”
The hill is already fresh with the glories of summer, and
as we ascend its fern-covered sides, and climb its breck-an braes, we
breathe the heather gale, and inhale the fresh mountain breeze, balmy as
it ever floats around Monteith, and see the creeping moss clinging to
the jutting rocks. By-and-by we reach the summit, and after taking “a
refresher,” we gaze downwards and onwards. A scene intensely interesting
meets our view. We will not compare it with the bold sweep, as seen from
the towering top of Ben-Nevis, or the gorgeous display of Highland
grandeur as witnessed from the princely summit of Ben-Lomond, but for
variety of Highland and Lowland scenery, heathy hill and wooded dale,
lowland lake and mountain stream, is unsurpassed by any of the lesser
hills in Scotland. Around you, on either side, behind and before, lie
the scattered glories of Monteith. In front you look down on the valley
of the Graeme, behind we gaze far back on the country of the Macgregor.
To the south we see what was once an icebound ocean, now a lovely
valley, watered with rivers, adorned with lakes, studded with trees,
dotted with mansions, beautified with glens, clothed with their native
ferns, hushed to slumber mid the din of waterfalls. Before us lies the
Lake of Monteith, with its three isolated islands resting on its bosom
like specks on a vast mirror; the quiet country highway winds along the
shore, like a huge native adder in its coil, cooling its poisoned tongue
in the silvery rivers. To the east we scan a long and wide tree-shaded
country. Our eye ranges the carse of Stirling, and rests on the Castle
rock, while far beyond we trace the dark outlines of Edinburgh Castle
mingling with the distant sky. To the west we see Aberfoyle’s classic
hills and glens. To the north we gaze far back on the country of
Clan-Alpine— a country famous for the deeds of its sons, and the glories
of its scenery—a country famous for the exploits of kings, the home of
Rob Roy, the birth-place of Roderick Dhu. We look around us, and at once
fourteen Highland lakes burst upon our awe-struck view. Many of those
mountain tarns repose amid the seclusion of their native hills, so
sheltered by the heathy mountains, that the hurricanes of winter never
disturb, nor the zephyrs of summer kiss their waters. Before us on the
north lie Lochs Vennacher and Achray, the road from Callander to the
Trossachs winding along the shore, while the huge form of Ben-Ledi
towers beyond. We see the wood-adorned summits of the Trossachs, Loch-Katrine
up among the hills, with Glengyle and the misty tops of Balquhidder in
the back ground. As we look around on the Highland country, and admire
the glories of the Creator’s works, as they stand before us in the grey
mountain, sink deep in the rugged glen, stretch out in the green valley,
or dip amid the placid waters, our mind wanders back to the marauding
character of its inhabitants, when the hardy natives of the hills and
glens learned only to handle the bow and studied nothing but the sword;
and oft has the heath on this mountain side been dyed by the blood of
those who fell in the fierce conflicts between the Macgregors and the
Grahams, in the days of the war cry and fiery cross. Those days are now
gone, and as we look around on the peaceful scene, we think of the
change since the wild boar roamed through its marshes, and the wolf
growled deep in its caverns—since the wild cry of the war-chief was
heard from the hill, or saw him return with his trophies. There was a
time, and that not long ago, when the bloodhound tore the Macgregor, and
the eagle fed on his carcase. Ay, we fancy we can see the
blood-bespattered beast, as he returns from his fell mission, snuffing
the fresh breeze or lapping his gory fangs; or hearken to the mountain
raven, as he perches on, and picks the eyes out of the fallen victim,
when that brave but ill-used and unhappy clan was hunted like foxes
among their covers, and stalked like deers on their loved native hills.
But those scenes have passed away. The cottagers of the glens and the
natives of the hill-sides alike dwell in security—their sons are trained
to industry, and their daughters spring up like mountain daisies, born
to blush unseen. The howl of the bloodhound gives place to the bleating
of the lamb; and the voice of the war-chief finds an echo in the
herdman’s pipe, or the song of the shepherd’s daughter. True, the flocks
may yet be startled by the inroads of the fox or the cry of the black
eagle, as the king of birds sweeps over the grey mountain, away to his
home among the dizzy cliffs. |
