Dumbarton Castle--Lochlomond--Luss--Ascent of
Benlomond--Magnificent Views--Ride to Loch-Katrine--Rob Roy
Macgregor--'Gathering of Clan Gregor'--Loch-Katrine and the
Trosachs--The city of Perth--Martyrdom of Helen Stark and her
husband.
Embarking in a steamer at Glasgow, we glide down the Clyde as far as
Dumbarton Castle, which rises, in stern and solitary majesty, from the
bosom of the river,--
"A castled steep,
Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn tower
So idly, that rapt fancy deemeth it
A metaphor of peace."
In ancient times, however, those old battlements frequently stood the
shock of invading war. Dumbarton was the "Alcluith" of the ancient
Britons, subsequently "Dumbriton," or "the fortified hill of the
Britons." The vale of the Clyde was called "Strathclutha," and here was
the capital of the kingdom of the "Strathclyde Britons." "Alcluith" is
the "Balclutha" of Ossian; _balla_ signifying a _wall_ or _bulwark_,
from the Latin _vallum_, a _wall_. "I have seen the walls of Balclutha,"
sings Ossian, in the poem of Carron, "but they were desolate. The fire
had resounded in the halls; and the voice of the people is heard no
more. The stream of the Clutha (Clyde) was removed from its place by
the fall of the walls. The thistle shook here its lonely head; the moss
whistled to the wind. The fox looked out from the windows; the rank
grass of the walls waved round its head. Desolate is the dwelling of
Morna; silence is in the house of her fathers." In the reign of Queen
Mary this stronghold was taken by an escalade. This was accomplished by
Captain Crawford, an officer of great energy and talent, who acted for
the confederated lords who opposed Queen Mary after the death of her
husband, Henry Darnley. Provided with scaling-ladders, and whatever else
was necessary, Crawford set out from Glasgow with a small but determined
body of men. The night was dark and misty, when they reached the
castle-walls. Crawford, and a soldier who acted as a guide, scrambled up
to a ledge of rock, where they fastened a ladder to a tree, which grew
on one of its cliffs. Ascending by this means, the whole party stood
together with their chief on this natural parapet. But they were far
from the point which they hoped to reach. Again the ladder was planted,
and the ascent begun. But all at once one of the foremost soldiers, when
half way up the ladder, was seized with a sudden fit, and clung to the
ladder stiff and motionless. All further progress was at an end. What to
do they knew not. To cut him down would be cruel, and besides might
awaken the garrison. In this emergency, Crawford had the man secured, by
means of ropes to the ladder, which was turned over and all passed up in
safety to the foot of the wall. Day began to break, and they hastened
to scale the wall. The first man who reached the parapet was seen by a
sentinel, who was quickly knocked in the head. The whole party, with
furious shouts, rushed over the wall, and took possession of the
magazine, seized the cannon, and before the besieged could help
themselves, had entire control of the Castle.
But we cannot linger here; so, bidding adieu to Dumbarton, with its
martial associations, we strike off from the river at right angles, and,
after a pleasant ride of four or five miles, through a peaceful and
agreeable country, we reach the south end of Lochlomond, the "Queen of
the Scottish lakes," where we find a little steamer in waiting, which
takes us, and a company of sportsmen, travellers and others, over the
placid waves of this magnificent sheet of water. The lake is some thirty
miles in length, and of unequal breadth, being sometimes four or five
miles, and then again not more than a single mile in width, gorgeously
begemmed with verdant and beautifully wooded islands, of larger and
smaller size, to the number of thirty, and shaded here and there by
mountains, covered with verdure and trees to their summits, or grim
cliffs, towering, in solitary grandeur, above the dark and heaving
waters beneath. How finely our little steamer dashes the water from her
prow, as if she really enjoyed the trip, among the beautiful scenery of
this charming lake! What variety of light and shade! What diversity of
scene, as isle after isle, bold headland, lofty cliff, or wooded
acclivity, meets the gaze! How earth and air and sky, yon fleecy clouds
that skirt the horizon, wild crags, and verdant slopes, clumps of trees
on the water's edge, islands of green mirroring their foliage in the
bosom of the lake, mingle and intermingle in ever varying forms of
beauty and grandeur! Yonder, too, is Benlomond, the genius of the place,
towering above the lesser mountains, and looking down, as if
protectingly, upon the lake he loves. The shores are exceedingly
beautiful; on one side lying low, "undulating with fields and groves,
where many a pleasant dwelling is embowered, into lines of hills that
gradually soften away into another land. On the other side, sloping
back, or overhanging, mounts beautiful in their bareness, for they are
green as emerald; others, scarcely more beautiful, studded with fair
trees, some altogether woods. They soon form into mountains, and the
mountains become more and more majestical, yet beauty never deserts
them, and her spirit continues to tame that of the frowning cliffs."
"The islands," continues Professor Wilson, from whom we make this fine
extract, "are forever arranging themselves into new forms, every one
more and more beautiful; at least so they seem to be, perpetually
occurring, yet always unexpected; and there is a pleasure even in such a
series of slight surprises that enhances the delight of admiration."
The southern part of the lake is the most beautiful, but the northern
the most sublime. The channel narrows, and the mountains rise higher and
higher, casting dark shadows into the water. For a moment it seems
gloomy, but high up in the mountains you discover spots of green; and
the sunlight glancing down, between the masses of shadow, lights up the
waves of the lake with a strange beauty, as if it were something purer
and more spirit-like than the beauty of the ordinary world.
But we will stop at the village of Luss, near the edge of the lake,
surrounded by mountain scenery, in some places rough and bleak, but
charmingly diversified by deep wooded glens, and romantic ravines.
The sun is sinking behind the western hills--the evening shadows are
resting in the vallies, while the tops of those craggy heights around us
are still burning with the last rays of departing day. We wander towards
the southern part of the parish, with feelings subdued by the
magnificent scenery which everywhere meets our gaze, and the solemn
stillness which reigns among the mountains, broken only by the tinkling
of a small stream winding its way to the lake, as if seeking a home in
its bosom, like the soul of a true Christian, which is ever tending
onward to the infinite and immortal. At length, while the sweet and long
continued "gloaming" of the Scottish summer envelopes everything in its
soft and dubious light, we reach the remains of a large cairn, a mound
of stones and earth, called "Carn-na-Cheasoig," the cairn of St. Kessog.
Here then, according to tradition, lies the dust of St. Kessog, who is
said to have suffered martyrdom near the site of this cairn, in the
sixth century, and who anciently was venerated as the guardian saint of
Luss. Was St. Kessog a true martyr? We trust he was, and can easily
imagine the cruel but triumphant death of the holy man. At such an hour,
and in such a scene, with the shadow of these great, sky-pointing
mountains, resting on our spirits, we might almost believe anything;
anything, at least, lofty and heart-stirring. It is not surprising that
the Highlanders are superstitious: but it is surprising that they are
not more religious. An infidel or a fanatic among the hills seems an
impossibility. Nor are the inhabitants of these high regions inclined
either to scepticism or fanatacism. But they are ignorant of
Christianity in its purer forms; and hence are easily subjected to
superstitious fears. But we are not yet among the Highlanders; for Luss
and the regions around are naturally subjected to Lowland influences.
Next morning we pass over the lake in a small boat to Rowardennan, on
the eastern shore, whence we commence the ascent of Benlomond, which
rises to a height of something more than three thousand feet. The
distance from Rowardennan to the top is generally reckoned about six
miles. Wending along the sides of the mountain we gradually ascend to
the bare and craggy summit, but not without resting here and there, and
stopping to gaze upon the expanding landscape, as it spreads further and
further towards the distant seas. We are somewhat fatigued, but how
refreshing the mountain breeze, and how exhilarating the magnificent
scenery which opens on every side, and absolutely reaches from sea to
sea! There, beneath us, like a belt of liquid light, stretches the long
and beautiful Lochlomond, sparkling under the rays of the sun, fringed
with hills, rocks, and woods, and adorned with green isles, reposing on
its heaving bosom, like gems of emerald chased in gold. Far off are the
islands of Bute and Arran, and nearer the fertile Strath-Clutha, through
which flows the river Clyde, adorned with villages, castles and
country-seats, the city of Glasgow, covered with a misty vapor, the
whole of Lanarkshire, the city of Edinburgh, and the vast and delightful
tract of country beyond, the Firth of Forth, Stirling Castle, and the
links of the Forth gliding in peaceful beauty through its green and
wooded vale. To the north a scene presents itself of wild and varied
grandeur, long ranges of Alpine heights, mighty crags towering to the
sky, dark lakes, and deep-cloven ravines, wild and desolate moors,
straggling forests, and rich secluded vales. Near us rises the hoary
Benvoirloich; and further north, among inferior mountains, Bencruachan
and Bennevis lift their lofty heads. Taking a wider range we get a
distant glimpse of the wide Atlantic, and the coast of green Erin, the
mountains of Cumberland, and the German Ocean, washing the north-eastern
coasts of Scotland. But the eye rests, as if by enchantment, upon the
magnificent mountain scenery to the north, inferior only in grandeur and
beauty to the mountains of Switzerland.
"Crags, knolls and mounds, confusedly hurled,
The fragments of an earlier world;
And mountains that like giants stand,
To sentinel enchanted land."
How elevating such a position, and such scenery. How the soul dilates
and rejoices, as if it were a part of the mighty spectacle. Ah! this
were a place for angels to light upon, and hymn the praise of that
infinite Being "whose are the mountains, and the vallies, and the
resplendent rivers."
But it is time to descend, though it would be pleasant, doubtless, to
linger here till sunset, and see those mountain heights shining like
stars in the departing radiance, while all beneath was covered with
shadow; and if the evening were still, to listen to the mingled murmur
which ever ascends through the calm air, from a region of streams and
torrents.
Coasting along the lake we reach Inversnaid mill at its upper extremity,
and securing some Highland ponies, little tough shaggy fellows,
sure-footed and self-willed, we ramble through a lonely, rock-bound
glen, the scene of the feats of Rob Roy Macgregor. In one of the smoky
huts of this glen we are shown a long Spanish musket, six feet and a
half in length, said to have belonged to the famous outlaw, whose
original residence was in this lonely region. We also pass the hut in
which Helen Macgregor, his wife, was born and brought up. By forgetting
a few years, one can easily imagine the whole region filled with wild
'kilted' Highlanders, shouting the war-cry of Macdonald, Glengarry, or
Macgregor. The spirit of these wild clans has been admirably depicted by
Sir Walter Scott. Nothing can be more spirited than his "Gathering of
Clan-Gregor," which in this rough glen, seems to gather a peculiar
intensity of meaning.
"The moon's on the lake, the mist's on the brae,
And the clan has a name that is nameless by day;
Then gather, gather, gather, Gregalich!
Our signal for fight that from monarchs we drew,
Must be heard but by night in our vengeful haloo;
Then haloo, Gregalich, haloo Gregalich!
Glen Orchy's proud mountains, Coalchuirn and her towers,
Glenstrae and Glenlyon no longer are ours;
We're landless, landless, Gregalich!
But doomed and devoted by vassal and lord,
Macgregor has still both his heart and his sword;
Then courage, courage, courage, Gregalich!
If they rob us of name, and pursue us with beagles,
Give their roofs to the flame, and their flesh to the eagles;
Then vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, Gregalich!
While there's leaves in the forest, or foam on the river,
Macgregor despite them, shall flourish forever!
Come then, Gregalich! Come then, Gregalich!
Through the depths of Lochkatrine the steed shall career,
O'er the peak of Benlomond the galley shall steer,
And the rocks of Craig-Royston, like icicles melt,
Ere our wrongs be forgot, or our vengeance unfelt!
Then gather, gather, gather, Gregalich!"
We reach Lochkatrine, a narrow sheet of water, ten miles in length,
winding, in serpentine turns, among the huge mountains which guard it on
every side. This, and the wild glen called the Trosachs, are embalmed in
the poetry of Sir Walter Scott, whose ethereal genius has imparted to
them a charm which they would not otherwise possess. Wild and grand the
scenery certainly is, secluded so far among the mountains, and guarded
so wondrously by
"Rocky summits, split and rent,"
which, gleaming under the rays of the morning sun, appeared to the eye
of poetical inspiration,
"Like turret, dome or battlement,
Or seemed fantastically set
With cupola or minaret,
Wild crests as pagod ever deck'd,
Or mosque of Eastern minaret."
And not only so, but richly adorned with forest-trees and wild flowers
among the rifted rocks and the "smiling glades between," lovelier by far
than ever met any but a poet's eye.
"Boon nature scattered free and wild,
Each plant or flower, the mountains' child.
Here eglantine embalmed the air,
Hawthorne and hazel mingled there;
The primrose, pale and violet flower,
Found in each cliff a narrow bower;
Foxglove and nightshade, side by side,
Emblems of punishment and pride,
Group'd their dark hues with every stain
The weather-beaten crags retain.
With boughs that quaked at every breath
Gray birch and aspen wept beneath;
Aloft the ash and warrior oak,
Cast anchor in the rifted rock;
And higher yet the pine tree hung
His shattered trunk, and frequent flung,
When seemed the cliffs to mount on high,
His boughs athwart the narrow'd sky.
Highest of all, where white peaks glanced,
Where glistening streamers waved and danced,
The wanderer's eye could barely view
The summer heaven's delicious blue;
So wondrous wild, the whole might seem
The scenery of a fairy dream."
The scenery at the east end of Lochkatrine, where the lake narrows, like
a placid river, under the eye of Benvenue, the lower parts of which are
richly wooded, is exceedingly beautiful. Through the whole of this glen,
the Highland guides point out the localities and incidents mentioned in
the "Lady of the Lake," as if it were a historical verity. Such is the
power of genius, which "gives to airy nothings a local habitation and a
name."
"Oh! who would think, in cheerless solitude,
Who o'er these twilight waters glided slow,
That genius, with a time-surviving glow,
These wild lone scenes so proudly hath imbued!
Or that from 'hum of men' so far remote,
Where blue waves gleam, and mountains darken round,
And trees, with broad boughs shed a gloom profound,
A poet here should from his trackless thought
Elysian prospects conjure up, and sing
Of bright achievement in the olden days,
When chieftain valor sued for beauty's praise,
And magic virtues charmed St. Fillan's spring;
Until in worlds where Chilian mountains raise
Their cloud-capt heads admiring souls should wing
Hither their flight, to wilds whereon I gaze."
Leaving Lochkatrine, we pass in a south-easterly direction, through
Callendar to Auchterarder, a parish famous in the annals of the Free
Church of Scotland, and thence, travelling through a delightful country,
reach "the bonnie town o' Perth," which lies so charmingly on the banks
of the Tay. Surrounded by some of the finest scenery in Scotland, with
Kinnoul House and Kinfauns Castle on the one side, and Scone, the old
palace in which the kings of Scotland were crowned, on the other,
clustering with memories of the olden time, and withal being a
well-built city, with some venerable churches and handsome public
edifices, Perth is one of the most interesting places in Scotland.
Moreover, it was anciently the capital of the kingdom, and contains a
good many relics of its former glory. Here the doctrines of the
Reformation early took root, and some of the citizens suffered martyrdom
for Christ's sake. Helen Stark and her husband, for refusing to pray to
the Virgin Mary, were condemned to die. She desired to be executed with
her husband, but her request was refused. On the way to the scaffold,
she exhorted him to constancy in the cause of Christ, and as she parted
with him, said, "Husband, be glad; we have lived together many joyful
days, and this day of our death we ought to esteem the most joyful of
them all, for we shall have joy forever; therefore, I will not bid you
good night, for we shall shortly meet in the kingdom of Heaven." After
the men were executed, Helen was taken to a pool of water yard by, when,
having recommended her dear children to the charity of her neighbors,
her infant having been taken from her breast, "she was drowned, and
died," says the historian of the town, "with great courage and comfort."
Perth rejoices in the possession of two beautiful "Commons," or
"Inches," as they are called, green as emerald, and bordered by long
avenues of magnificent trees. The Tay gleams through the verdant
foliage, and is seen winding, in serene beauty, far down among the rich
meadows and smooth lawns which adorn its banks. Behind it are the Sidlaw
hills, and looming up, in the distance, the blue ridges of the
Grampians. The lands around it are highly cultivated, and support a
numerous race of farmers, many of whom have grown rich from the produce
of the soil.
But the shadows of evening are beginning to fall upon the landscape;
to-morrow is "the rest of the holy Sabbath," and a comfortable "'tween
and supper-time" awaits us at the house of a friend at some distance
from Perth, which we must immediately leave.