of our Scottish hills; but this is something that Ben Ledi can boast
of. On its shoulder, a little way below us, there is a small and dark
tarn, only a few yards in width, which yet was made the unwilling
witness, nay, worse, participator in a terrible tragedy. The tarn is
called Loch-an-nan-corp—“the small lake of dead bodies,” a name the
origin of which tradition ascribes to the calamity which “once upon a
time,” not to be too particular, overtook a funeral procession there.
Two hundred persons journeying from Glenfinlas to a churchyard on
the pass of Leny, found this lake frozen over and covered with snow,
and attempted to cross it, but the ice gave way and they were all
drowned. An interesting writer in the _Illustrated News_, a year or two
back, a writer who, we are pleased to hear, belongs to Glasgow, says,
writing on this point, “No tablet on that wind-swept moor records the
half-forgotten disaster; only the eerie lapping of the lochlet’s waves
fill the discoverer with strange forebodings, and at dusk, it is said,
the lonely ptarmigan may be seen, like souls of the departed, haunting
the fatal spot.”
Those who, instead of retracing their steps, and coming down again by
Coilantogle, prefer to make for the Pass of Leny, will find at the foot
of the mountain a little mound, close to where the river leaves Loch
Lubnaig, the burying-ground to which the clansmen were carrying their
dead friend. There is now only a low scone wall around this diminutive
grave-yard, but here once stood the small chapel of St. Bride, “which,”
according to Sir Walter Scott, “stood in a small and romantic knoll in
the middle of the valley,” from the Gothic arch of whose doorway, we
read in the _Lady of the Lake_, the happy marriage company were coming
out when Roderick Dhu’s messenger rushed up to the principal one of
the party and thrust into his hands the fiery cross of the Macgregors.
After rounding this knoll we arrive, about a mile farther on, within
sight of Loch Lubnaig, or the “Crooked Lake,” which is some 5 miles
in length, overhung on both sides by rugged hills, and surrounded by
groves of birch, pine, and hazel. We do not know a better position
than the farmhouse of Ardchullary for getting a good view of the loch.
Unless you have provided yourself with a very liberal allowance of the
biscuits and cheese to which we have already referred, you will be
glad to get near to some such kindly and hospitable place. And if you
are a little tired and done up with your day’s travels, additional
interest will attach, in your eyes, to this house, from its having been
the favourite summer quarters of Bruce of Kinnaird, the Abyssinian
traveller, who retired to these solitudes for the purpose of arranging
the materials for the publication of his travels.
The date of our visit to Ben Ledi’s summit was “on or about” the time
when the young grouse begin to lose the number of their covey, and to
learn that every man who treads the moor is not so harmless as the
shepherd, especially when a dog accompanies him. And ever and again we
come across them sitting warily and watchfully among the heather, and
saw them rising far out of gunshot. The grouse, indeed, were now being
deserted for the black game, which, on account of the general lateness
of the grey hen in sitting compared with that of her red sister of the
moor, are allowed a little rest. Of course some men make it a rule to
pull a trigger upon a blackcock how or whenever they can, and some
birds fall to the guns of those who do not know the difference between
heath-fowl and moor-fowl. Most people, indeed, remember the canny reply
of the Scotch keeper to the English sportsman who was out on the moors
for the first time, and had missed what he thought was a grouse. “I
was too soon, Donald, I am afraid,” said the latter. “’Deed, and you
were, sir, eight days too soon; it was an auld blackcock.” We saw over
and again in the course of the day good proof of what we had often
heard that the blackcock is far from a model husband, and anything but
resembles the grouse-cock in his devotion to his mate.
But we must step out on our homeward and southward journey with the
Leny accompanying us in the valley, the road being quite equal, during
its mile or two, to that between Callander and Coilantogle. The river
is low to-day, and runs under banks that are hung with ferns and
lingering foxgloves, with golden rod and harebells, and all the flowers
of the late summer. But in a wet season, when each rivulet along the
mountain side swells into an angry torrent, and from an occasional
cliff “the wild cataract leaps in glory,” it exults in the added
strength of all its hundred turbulent vassals, and rises in its might,
and seething, and struggling, and overflowing its banks, rises and
roars a furious stream.
As we get into Callander again we are passed by the coaches on their
return from Loch Katrine, and when we look at the prancing steeds, the
happy tourists, and last, but not by any means least, the red-coated,
brass-buttoned, and very superior persons who handle the whip and
reins, we have no difficulty in seeing why it is that there should
be in our days a coaching revival, even on routes where there is the
opportunity of travelling by train. There is no more delightful way
of spending a summer day, given sunshine and warmth, than to have a
drive on a well-appointed coach, behind an accomplished whip, and four
“spanking” horses.
We are not at all sorry, however, that this particular outing did
not take that special shape, and although we cannot claim to be the
first to bring the glories and the attractions of Ben Ledi into view,
as Mrs. Murray did in the case of the beauties of the Trossachs, and
who claimed that Sir Walter Scott should have dedicated the _Lady of
the Lake_ to her (although her claim has not generally been allowed),
we feel that we have done something at least to tempt some Glasgow
excursionists to follow us, and climb the hill for themselves.
THE MEIKLE BEN.
It was our Autumn Holiday, and we had decided on a run to one of the
choicest spots which abound within a reasonable distance of Glasgow. Of
course we wanted to do as much as possible, which is not always wise,
especially when there are one or two in the party with different tastes
and different muscular capacities. But having got a general idea of
our plan, we started, leaving that “divinity that shapes our ends” to
give the turn to our holiday which we believed would bring us the best
results.
It was a fine balmy morning, becoming overcast, however, as the train
hurried on to Milton of Campsie, and when we left the station and
started on our way for the Meikle Ben, or Bin, as it is more popularly
called, the rain greeted us a little freely. It may be that some
of our readers have not even heard of the Meikle Ben. In that case
we claim from them a little of the respect and gratitude which all
discoverers are entitled to and as a rule get ungrudgingly. In spite
of an unpretentious and unromantic name, the Meikle Ben is not only
a spot of wonderful beauty, but the approach to the place as well as
its immediate surroundings are decidedly much above the dead level of
topographical mediocrity.
On leaving the station we cross the Glazert, as it travels on to meet
the Kelvin, in a wild rocky channel fretted by the flood of ages. We
take the first road to the right, which runs past Antirmony House,
formerly the seat of Bell, the traveller, and in more recent years the
residence of Mr. C. M. King, a younger brother of the amiable and busy
baronet of Levernholm. A few yards along this road bring us to the
village school, up past the side of which we take, and make as best we
can for the top of a bold brown range now immediately in front of us.
Long before we get halfway to the top of the range we take repeated
opportunities of noticing how sharply and distinctly its outline is
defined against the horizon, and how clearly the scars and wrinkles on
its broad and openly honest face stand out. As we continue our climb up
the braes we notice with pleasure that the lights and shades on their
breast are beautifully intermingled, a sure sign that there will be
little rain to-day. Before we reach the northern slope we take a look
at Antirmony Loch at our feet, a little to the east, one of the finest
sheets of water within 20 miles of Glasgow, and at Glorat House, about
as far to the west, the residence of one of the oldest families in the
county (Sir Charles Stirling).
On reaching the summit we are only some 12 miles or so from the dusty,
drowsy, smoky metropolis, and yet are in what may be called the Lowland
Highlands. We stand upon an eminence of only a few hundred feet above
sea level, and yet the landscape stretched out below is sufficiently
wide and varied to warrant us in thinking that we stand much higher
in the world. Right below us are the little hamlets of Milton and
Birdston, with Kirkintilloch and Lenzie, and their church spires
standing out clear and bright in the glowing sunshine. To the right is
the cosy-looking strath of Campsie, commanded by Lennox Castle, in the
boldest style of Norman architecture. The proprietor is said to be in
the direct succession of the Earls of Lennox, but this is a subject on
which our limited genealogical knowledge forbids us to enlarge.
Away in the south-west we catch a glimpse of Glasgow, cloud-capped and
grey; beyond it are the flats of Renfrew and the surrounding country,
the monotony of which in a clear day is somewhat relieved by the blue
tops of the Paisley and Kilmalcolm hills. Looking across the valley
at our feet we can see the streams trickle like silver threads, and
the sunbeams tremble and play in mingled gleams of green and yellow.
Wonderful hills those old Campsie hills, with what might be called the
Garden of Scotland at their base (for is not this the earliest part of
Scotland, speaking from an agricultural point of view?) and the glory
of God’s sunshine on their brows. Those in city pent, and those whose
days are for the most part spent in the rush and crush of business
could not enjoy an afternoon to more profit and pleasure than up here.
From the summit of these hills, down past the eastern base of the
Meikle Ben a little to the north of us, there is no carriage drive to
the Fintry and Denny Road; but, for all that, the walk does not seem
to be one of any great difficulty, whereas, on the other hand, the way
would be beguiled by scenes of rarest beauty. We have made the stiff
uphill walk or climb to this in a little less than an hour; but the
bracing air, the scenery around us, far and near, and some pleasant
seats on the soft turf have made us forget all fatigue.
We have to dip down a little on the other side before we begin the
ascent of the Ben pure and simple. As we do so we lose sight of
all human habitations, and for a mile or more not even a tree or
shrub is to be seen except the heather. We have heard it said that a
would-be suicide who was anxious to “lay hands on himself” by hanging
up here was frustrated in a very simple fashion. He found it would be
impossible to carry out his horrid purpose in this “heaven-kissing”
locality unless he could manage to throw a coil over the horn of
the moon, a blaeberry bush or a clump of heather being the nearest
approach to a tree which could be found. We begin to wonder why there
is such an extent of land lying waste, and our mind naturally turns to
the poor crofter, or once more to the overcrowded dens in our large
cities. We are ready to exclaim, “Why, here is sufficient land to
sustain thousands of our population, and we have been quite ignorant
of it,” but when we examine the soil we find that the crop it grows
is sufficient for black cattle and sheep, but could not be easily
cultivated for the support of man.
The summit of our hill is not at all difficult now to reach, although,
as the “Gazetteer” tells us, it is 1870 feet high. But we may be said
to have been climbing it ever since we left Milton. And now we see,
what can only be seen when we are close to it, that it is really a
hill of itself. To those who live a few miles to the south, our Ben
appears only a large cairn on the highest point of the front part of
the range. To those up here, or still farther to the north of this, it
seems a considerable independent hill, and to those who live away to
the east and south-east, in the Slamannan direction, it looks as if it
could hold its head almost quite as high as Ben Ledi or Ben Venue. It
is even said to be seen from a great distance in the Lanark direction,
and forms a conspicuous landmark from the Firth of Forth.
We are here in the south-east corner of the parish of Fintry, close to
the meeting point with Campsie and Kilsyth. We can see at a glance that
it is a central summit of the Lennox hills, occupying such a position
as to unite the Fintry, Campsie, and Kilsyth sections of those hills.
On the north-east of it, there is what is called the Little Bin, some
1446 feet high, and on its south-west side the Bin burn runs away to
the north and becomes a head stream of the river Carron.
Standing here, or rather stretching ourselves along the grateful turf,
we are in the very centre of Stirlingshire, and at the source of a
river which nowhere is very large, and yet, than which there is none in
Scotland, and probably few in the whole island, whose banks have been
the stage of so many memorable transactions. When the Roman empire was
in all its glory, and had its eastern frontiers upon the Euphrates,
the banks of the Carron were its boundaries on the north-west; for the
Wall of Antoninus, which was raised to mark the limits of that mighty
empire, stood in the neighbourhood of this river, and ran parallel
to it for many miles. This last fact suggests one of the probable
origins of the word Carron, for there are more than one. The meaning
of the word has been a puzzle to the etymologists. “Even ministers
they ha’e been kenn’d” to arrive at very different conclusions on
this interesting subject. Some derive it from Caraon, which means “a
winding river,” and “The bonny links of Carron Water” are poetically
celebrated. This expresses one feature of the stream which, in former
times, before it had forced a new channel to itself in some places,
and been straightened by human industry in others, made almost as many
serpentine links as the Forth itself.
In the valley below the river runs through the well-known Carron bog,
and for 3½ miles flows in a slow serpentine course over one of the
finest and most fertile tracks of natural meadow in Scotland. The
Carron Company, whose works are at the other end of the river, and in
summer utilise almost all its water, wished at one time to convert this
bog into a great reservoir for their works, but the hay crop was found
to be too valuable, the tract containing upwards of 1000 Scotch acres
in one continued plain, bearing from 130 to 150 stones per acre, which
is all the more valuable from the fact that the artificial crops are
a little precarious from their elevated situation. From the adjoining
heights as many as 20 or 30 different parties of people may be seen
on it in the season making hay, and in the winter again the river
is industriously led over its whole extent to fertilise it for the
following crop.
On the other side of the road from the bog, a little to the west of it,
and close to where the infant Endrick comes down from the Kippen hills,
we have the old castle of Sir John de Grahame of Dundaff, who fell at
the battle of Falkirk. For courage and military skill he was reckoned
next to Wallace, and was commonly called by the great hero himself his
“Right Hand.” The gravestone of Sir John in the churchyard of Falkirk
has the following Latin motto, with a Scotch translation:—
Mente manuque potens, et vallae fidus Achates,
Conditur hic Grahmos, bello interfectus ab Anglis.
While some of Cromwell’s troops were stationed in Falkirk, an officer
asked the parochial schoolmaster to translate the Latin. This he did in
the following witty manner:—
Of mind and courage stout,
Wallace’s true Achates,
Here lies Sir John the Graham,
Felled by the English Baties.
On our left, looking north, we get a sight of what was in former years
called the “Moor Toll,” near to which the Carron rises, which we
ourselves will soon cross in the valley. This veritable “lodge in the
wilderness” has been a welcome sight to many a weary traveller from
either side of the hill on a stormy night, and many a dreary winter day
“Honest Peter,” the carrier, and his horse, were glad when they got
this length.
Hitherto we have only been looking at things within easy reach of us,
but we are not allowed to forget long that we have scenery here which
equals any to be had, it might almost be said, in any part of Scotland.
Looking to the north-west we have a view of country before us
Where broad extended, far beneath,
The varied realms of fair Menteith.
The stretch of country lying before us from Port of Menteith round by
Aberfoyle, taking in Fintry, Buchlyvie, Balfron, Gartmore, with the
majestic Ben Lomond and a host of other hills, is a sight not to be
forgotten. Certainly no such beautiful panorama of hill and dale is to
be seen within the same distance from Glasgow.
Probably the most pleasing features in the immediate neighbourhood are
the valley of the Endrick and of the Carron which almost touch each
other at the farm house straight down from us. We see the Endrick on
its way to the famous “Loup of Fintry,” just a little to the west of
Sir John de Graham’s old castle, where it falls over a precipitous rock
of more than 60 feet in height, forming a cataract of great beauty.
In a “loup,” a “spout,” or “fall” of water there is a great variety
of opinion as to what makes it specially remarkable. Some desire a
flood of water, others a silvery veil of falling mist, others would
have grand natural surroundings. The truth is that a cataract, like a
human face, depends a great deal on its surroundings. It is a mistake
to go to a waterfall with a measuring line and judge it by height, and
breadth, and volume alone. There are comparatively trifling cascades,
which, by virtue of their natural position and the sweet and sylvan
scenery of their home, are far more attractive than a vaster flood
of water filling a greater depth amid tame scenic circumstances. Let
our climber make a nearer acquaintance with the “Loup of Fintry,”
either to-day or on some other occasion, and he will see what good
reason the natives have for their praise of Strathendrick. From its
first beginning to its fall into Loch Lomond the Endrick is a thing of
beauty, having in its course many a lovely and picturesque scene.
But the valley of the Carron away to the east is not less interesting
although its interest is of a more historical character. It is
not, however, without an occasional spot of extra loveliness. For
example, a little below where it crosses the Kilsyth and Stirling
(old) Road, 6 miles behind Kilsyth, it rushes over the Spout or Linn
of Auchintilly. In spite of its grand name, which means “field of
the overflowing torrent and pool,” it is little known, as it is in
a most unfrequented valley. We have made the journey right round
by road from Lennoxtown to Kilsyth, a distance of some 19 miles,
without meeting more than two people on the highway, although not so
far removed from the “madding crowd.” This state of matters reminded
us at the time of Dean Ramsay’s story of the English traveller on
the out-of-the-way Scotch road, who asked a stone-breaker whom he
passed, “Does nobody travel on this road at all?” “O yes,” was the
answer, “we’re not that bad. There was a gangrel body yesterday, and
there’s yoursel’ the day.” If we were writing in verse, we would be
obliged to say of this sexasyllabic, significant, mouth-filling, and
loud-sounding name—Auchin-tilly-lin-spout—what Horace says of the
little town in which he lodged a night in his journey from Rome to
Brundusium, _Versu dicere non est_. And yet those banks have been
sung of both by Ossian and Hector M’Neill, the latter, a native of the
shire. M’Neill speaks of it as the classic stream where Fingal fought
and Ossian hymned his heaven-taught lays; and Dyer sings of it as
still seeming responsive to Ossian’s lyre. The ancient ballad of “Gil
Morice” also—the story of which has been formed into the celebrated
tragedy of “Douglas”—represents the mother of the unfortunate young
hero as having “lived on Carron side.” We have no time to discuss the
ornithology of our day’s outing; but we could almost hear the throbbing
of birds’ hearts, which portends a sudden and distant flight. Had we
been down on the banks, either of the Endrick or of the Carron a month
ago, we could have seen the common sandpiper in its old haunts. But now
that September is upon us not one is to be seen. Silently but surely
they have slipped off in the night, and the rivers will not know them
till next April. But the rooks are in abundance admiring their glossy
plumage and symmetry, reminding us of the Scottish aphorism, and
proving its truthfulness, “Aye, you’re a bonny pair, as the craw said
to its ain twa feet.” They are now beginning to assemble in flocks, and
those often deserve the appellation of “a craw’s preaching” from the
flow of noisy eloquence of which at such times they are capable.
As we prepare to retrace our steps we cannot help being again struck by
the vast expanse of land unoccupied by people and so little cultivated.
The one moment we are thankful that there is such a place so near to
Glasgow, and no one with heart so hard as to bar the rambler’s way;
but the next again the stillness becomes oppressive, as when Cockburn
wrote to Jeffrey, “This place is as still as the grave, or even as
Peebles.” Our hill to-day is certainly in the heart of a district about
which the average dweller within 40 miles of Glasgow knows less, we
are persuaded, than he does of some of our colonial possessions. And
yet it is not more than 12 or 13 miles from the city. We can return as
we came, or make for the old Toll House on the road between Fintry and
Campsie, and get the train at Lennoxtown, or we can take a walk along
the ridge of hills for 2 or 3 miles to the east, and make for Gavel
Station, a mile or so on the near side of Kilsyth.
MORISON BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS.
THE AULD SCOTCH SANGS
_Arranged and Harmonised by_
SINCLAIR DUNN.
Containing 96 Scotch Songs
WITH PIANOFORTE ACCOMPANIMENT.
_Cloth_, 6s. 6d.; _Cloth (Gilt Edges)_, 7s. 6d.; _Leather_, 10s. 6d.
PRESENTATION EDITION
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“I can recommend a delightful book of ‘Auld Scotch Sangs;’ the value of
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to me by the admirable short notes prefatory to each song, and giving
interesting details as to its history. Mr. SINCLAIR DUNN is to be
congratulated on his work. It ought to help to brighten and enliven
many a home in the long nights of drear December.”—ORION, in the
_Glasgow Weekly Citizen_.
“The songs are well arranged and well printed, and the work is
attractively bound.”—_The Scotsman._
“A capital collection of the songs of ‘Auld Scotland.’”—_The European
Mail._
* * * * *
SECOND EDITION.
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PERSONAL ADVENTURES OF A DETECTIVE.