our minds, when we discovered a woman sitting right in the middle of the
field, alone, wrapped up in a grey cloak or plaid. She sat motionless
all the time we looked at her, which might be nearly half an hour. We
could not conceive why she sat there, for there were neither sheep nor
cattle in the field; her appearance was very melancholy. In the meantime
our road carried us nearer to the cottage, though we were crossing over
the hill to the left, leaving the valley below us, and we perceived that
a part of the building was inhabited, and that what we had supposed to be
_one_ blasted tree was eight trees, four of which were entirely blasted;
the others partly so, and round about the place was a little potato and
cabbage garth, fenced with earth. No doubt, that woman had been an
inhabitant of the cottage. However this might be, there was so much
obscurity and uncertainty about her, and her figure agreed so well with
the desolation of the place, that we were indebted to the chance of her
being there for some of the most interesting feelings that we had ever
had from natural objects connected with man in dreary solitariness.
We had been advised to go along the _new_ road, which would have carried
us down the vale; but we met some travellers who recommended us to climb
the hill, and go by the village of Crawfordjohn as being much nearer. We
had a long hill, and after having reached the top, steep and bad roads,
so we continued to walk for a considerable way. The air was cold and
clear--the sky blue. We walked cheerfully along in the sunshine, each of
us alone, only William had the charge of the horse and car, so he
sometimes took a ride, which did but poorly recompense him for the
trouble of driving. I never travelled with more cheerful spirits than
this day. Our road was along the side of a high moor. I can always walk
over a moor with a light foot; I seem to be drawn more closely to nature
in such places than anywhere else; or rather I feel more strongly the
power of nature over me, and am better satisfied with myself for being
able to find enjoyment in what unfortunately to many persons is either
dismal or insipid. This moor, however, was more than commonly
interesting; we could see a long way, and on every side of us were larger
or smaller tracts of cultivated land. Some were extensive farms, yet in
so large a waste they did but look small, with farm-houses, barns, etc.,
others like little cottages, with enough to feed a cow, and supply the
family with vegetables. In looking at these farms we had always one
feeling. Why did the plough stop there? Why might not they as well have
carried it twice as far? There were no hedgerows near the farms, and
very few trees. As we were passing along, we saw an old man, the first
we had seen in a Highland bonnet, walking with a staff at a very slow
pace by the edge of one of the moorland cornfields; he wore a grey plaid,
and a dog was by his side. There was a scriptural solemnity in this
man's figure, a sober simplicity which was most impressive. Scotland is
the country above all others that I have seen, in which a man of
imagination may carve out his own pleasures. There are so many
_inhabited_ solitudes, and the employments of the people are so
immediately connected with the places where you find them, and their
dresses so simple, so much alike, yet, from their being folding garments,
admitting of an endless variety, and falling often so gracefully.
After some time we descended towards a broad vale, passed one farm-house,
sheltered by fir trees, with a burn close to it; children playing, linen
bleaching. The vale was open pastures and corn-fields unfenced, the land
poor. The village of Crawfordjohn on the slope of a hill a long way
before us to the left. Asked about our road of a man who was driving a
cart; he told us to go through the village, then along some fields, and
we should come to a 'herd's house by the burn side.' The highway was
right through the vale, unfenced on either side; the people of the
village, who were making hay, all stared at us and our carriage. We
inquired the road of a middle-aged man, dressed in a shabby black coat,
at work in one of the hay fields; he looked like the minister of the
place, and when he spoke we felt assured that he was so, for he was not
sparing of hard words, which, however, he used with great propriety, and
he spoke like one who had been accustomed to dictate. Our car wanted
mending in the wheel, and we asked him if there was a blacksmith in the
village. 'Yes,' he replied, but when we showed him the wheel he told
William that he might mend it himself without a blacksmith, and he would
put him in the way; so he fetched hammer and nails and gave his
directions, which William obeyed, and repaired the damage entirely to his
own satisfaction and the priest's, who did not offer to lend any
assistance himself; not as if he would not have been willing in case of
need; but as if it were more natural for him to dictate, and because he
thought it more fit that William should do it himself. He spoke much
about the propriety of every man's lending all the assistance in his
power to travellers, and with some ostentation or self-praise. Here I
observed a honey-suckle and some flowers growing in a garden, the first I
had seen in Scotland. It is a pretty cheerful-looking village, but must
be very cold in winter; it stands on a hillside, and the vale itself is
very high ground, unsheltered by trees.
Left the village behind us, and our road led through arable ground for a
considerable way, on which were growing very good crops of corn and
potatoes. Our friend accompanied us to show us the way, and Coleridge
and he had a scientific conversation concerning the uses and properties
of lime and other manures. He seemed to be a well-informed man; somewhat
pedantic in his manners; but this might be only the difference between
Scotch and English. {27}
Soon after he had parted from us, we came upon a stony, rough road over a
black moor; and presently to the 'herd's house by the burn side.' We
could hardly cross the burn dry-shod, over which was the only road to the
cottage. In England there would have been stepping-stones or a bridge;
but the Scotch need not be afraid of wetting their bare feet. The hut
had its little kail-garth fenced with earth; there was no other
enclosure--but the common, heathy with coarse grass. Travelled along the
common for some miles, before we joined the great road from Longtown to
Glasgow--saw on the bare hill-sides at a distance, sometimes a solitary
farm, now and then a plantation, and one very large wood, with an
appearance of richer ground above; but it was so very high we could not
think it possible. Having descended considerably, the common was no
longer of a peat-mossy brown heath colour, but grass with rushes was its
chief produce; there was sometimes a solitary hut, no enclosures except
the kail-garth, and sheep pasturing in flocks, with shepherd-boys tending
them. I remember one boy in particular; he had no hat on, and only had a
grey plaid wrapped about him. It is nothing to describe, but on a bare
moor, alone with his sheep, standing, as he did, in utter quietness and
silence, there was something uncommonly impressive in his appearance, a
solemnity which recalled to our minds the old man in the corn-field. We
passed many people who were mowing, or raking the grass of the common; it
was little better than rushes; but they did not mow straight forward,
only here and there, where it was the best; in such a place hay-cocks had
an uncommon appearance to us.
After a long descent we came to some plantations which were not far from
Douglas Mill. The country for some time had been growing into
cultivation, and now it was a wide vale with large tracts of corn; trees
in clumps, no hedgerows, which always make a country look bare and
unlovely. For my part, I was better pleased with the desert places we
had left behind, though no doubt the inhabitants of this place think it
'a varra bonny spot,' for the Scotch are always pleased with their own
abode, be it what it may; and afterwards at Edinburgh, when we were
talking with a bookseller of our travels, he observed that it was 'a fine
country near Douglas Mill.' Douglas Mill is a single house, a large inn,
being one of the regular stages between Longtown and Glasgow, and
therefore a fair specimen of the best of the country inns of Scotland.
As soon as our car stopped at the door we felt the difference. At an
English inn of this size, a waiter, or the master or mistress, would have
been at the door immediately, but we remained some time before anybody
came; then a barefooted lass made her appearance, but she only looked at
us and went away. The mistress, a remarkably handsome woman, showed us
into a large parlour; we ordered mutton-chops, and I finished my letter
to Mary; writing on the same window-ledge on which William had written to
me two years before.
After dinner, William and I sat by a little mill-race in the garden. We
had left Leadhills and Wanlockhead far above us, and now were come into a
warmer climate; but there was no richness in the face of the country.
The shrubs looked cold and poor, and yet there were some very fine trees
within a little distance of Douglas Mill, so that the reason, perhaps,
why the few low shrubs and trees which were growing in the gardens seemed
to be so unluxuriant, might be, that there being no hedgerows, the
general appearance of the country was naked, and I could not help seeing
the same coldness where, perhaps, it did not exist in itself to any great
degree, for the corn crops are abundant, and I should think the soil is
not bad. While we were sitting at the door, two of the landlady's
children came out; the elder, a boy about six years old, was running away
from his little brother, in petticoats; the ostler called out, 'Sandy,
tak' your wee brither wi' you;' another voice from the window, 'Sawny,
dinna leave your wee brither;' the mother then came, 'Alexander, tak'
your wee brother by the hand;' Alexander obeyed, and the two went off in
peace together. We were charged eightpence for hay at this inn, another
symptom of our being in Scotland. Left Douglas Mill at about three
o'clock; travelled through an open corn country, the tracts of corn large
and unenclosed. We often passed women or children who were watching a
single cow while it fed upon the slips of grass between the corn.
William asked a strong woman, about thirty years of age, who looked like
the mistress of a family--I suppose moved by some sentiment of compassion
for her being so employed,--if the cow would eat the corn if it were left
to itself: she smiled at his simplicity. It is indeed a melancholy thing
to see a full-grown woman thus waiting, as it were, body and soul devoted
to the poor beast; yet even this is better than working in a manufactory
the day through.
We came to a moorish tract; saw before us the hills of Loch Lomond, Ben
Lomond and another, distinct each by itself. Not far from the roadside
were some benches placed in rows in the middle of a large field, with a
sort of covered shed like a sentry-box, but much more like those boxes
which the Italian puppet-showmen in London use. We guessed that it was a
pulpit or tent for preaching, and were told that a sect met there
occasionally, who held that toleration was unscriptural, and would have
all religions but their own exterminated. I have forgotten what name the
man gave to this sect; we could not learn that it differed in any other
respect from the Church of Scotland. Travelled for some miles along the
open country, which was all without hedgerows, sometimes arable,
sometimes moorish, and often whole tracts covered with grunsel. {30}
There was one field, which one might have believed had been sown with
grunsel, it was so regularly covered with it--a large square field upon a
slope, its boundary marked to our eyes only by the termination of the
bright yellow; contiguous to it were other fields of the same size and
shape, one of clover, the other of potatoes, all equally regular crops.
The oddness of this appearance, the grunsel being uncommonly luxuriant,
and the field as yellow as gold, made William laugh. Coleridge was
melancholy upon it, observing that there was land enough wasted to rear a
healthy child.
We left behind us, considerably to the right, a single high mountain;
{31a} I have forgotten its name; we had had it long in view. Saw before
us the river Clyde, its course at right angles to our road, which now
made a turn, running parallel with the river; the town of Lanerk in sight
long before we came to it. I was somewhat disappointed with the first
view of the Clyde: {31b} the banks, though swelling and varied, had a
poverty in their appearance, chiefly from the want of wood and hedgerows.
Crossed the river and ascended towards Lanerk, which stands upon a hill.
When we were within about a mile of the town, William parted from
Coleridge and me, to go to the celebrated waterfalls. Coleridge did not
attempt to drive the horse; but led him all the way. We inquired for the
best inn, and were told that the New Inn was the best; but that they had
very 'genteel apartments' at the Black Bull, and made less charges, and
the Black Bull was at the entrance of the town, so we thought we would
stop there, as the horse was obstinate and weary. But when we came to
the Black Bull we had no wish to enter the apartments; for it seemed the
abode of dirt and poverty, yet it was a large building. The town showed
a sort of French face, and would have done much more, had it not been for
the true British tinge of coal-smoke; the doors and windows dirty, the
shops dull, the women too seemed to be very dirty in their dress. The
town itself is not ugly; the houses are of grey stone, the streets not
very narrow, and the market-place decent. The New Inn is a handsome old
stone building, formerly a gentleman's house. We were conducted into a
parlour, where people had been drinking; the tables were unwiped, chairs
in disorder, the floor dirty, and the smell of liquors was most
offensive. We were tired, however, and rejoiced in our tea.
The evening sun was now sending a glorious light through the street,
which ran from west to east; the houses were of a fire red, and the faces
of the people as they walked westward were almost like a blacksmith when
he is at work by night. I longed to be out, and meet with William, that
we might see the Falls before the day was gone. Poor Coleridge was
unwell, and could not go. I inquired my road, and a little girl told me
she would go with me to the porter's lodge, where I might be admitted. I
was grieved to hear that the Falls of the Clyde were shut up in a
gentleman's grounds, and to be viewed only by means of lock and key.
Much, however, as the pure feeling with which one would desire to visit
such places is disturbed by useless, impertinent, or even unnecessary
interference with nature, yet when I was there the next morning I seemed
to feel it a less disagreeable thing than in smaller and more delicate
spots, if I may use the phrase. My guide, a sensible little girl,
answered my inquiries very prettily. She was eight years old, read in
the 'Collection,' a book which all the Scotch children whom I have
questioned read in. I found it was a collection of hymns; she could
repeat several of Dr. Watts'. We passed through a great part of the
town, then turned down a steep hill, and came in view of a long range of
cotton mills, {33} the largest and loftiest I had ever seen; climbed
upwards again, our road leading us along the top of the left bank of the
river; both banks very steep and richly wooded. The girl left me at the
porter's lodge. Having asked after William, I was told that no person
had been there, or could enter but by the gate. The night was coming on,
therefore I did not venture to go in, as I had no hope of meeting
William. I had a delicious walk alone through the wood; the sound of the
water was very solemn, and even the cotton mills in the fading light of
evening had somewhat of the majesty and stillness of the natural objects.
It was nearly dark when I reached the inn. I found Coleridge sitting by
a good fire, which always makes an inn room look comfortable. In a few
minutes William arrived; he had heard of me at the gate, and followed as
quickly as he could, shouting after me. He was pale and exceedingly
tired.
After he had left us he had taken a wrong road, and while looking about
to set himself right had met with a barefooted boy, who said he would go
with him. The little fellow carried him by a wild path to the upper of
the Falls, the Boniton Linn, and coming down unexpectedly upon it, he was
exceedingly affected by the solemn grandeur of the place. This fall is
not much admired or spoken of by travellers; you have never a full,
breast view of it; it does not make a complete self-satisfying place, an
abode of its own, as a perfect waterfall seems to me to do; but the
river, down which you look through a long vista of steep and ruin-like
rocks, the roaring of the waterfall, and the solemn evening lights, must
have been most impressive. One of the rocks on the near bank, even in
broad daylight, as we saw it the next morning, is exactly like the
fractured arch of an abbey. With the lights and shadows of evening upon
it, the resemblance must have been much more striking.
William's guide was a pretty boy, and he was exceedingly pleased with
him. Just as they were quitting the waterfall, William's mind being full
of the majesty of the scene, the little fellow pointed to the top of a
rock, 'There's a fine slae-bush there.' 'Ay,' said William, 'but there
are no slaes upon it,' which was true enough; but I suppose the child
remembered the slaes of another summer, though, as he said, he was but
'half seven years old,' namely, six and a half. He conducted William to
the other fall, and as they were going along a narrow path, they came to
a small cavern, where William lost him, and looking about, saw his pretty
figure in a sort of natural niche fitted for a statue, from which the boy
jumped out laughing, delighted with the success of his trick. William
told us a great deal about him, while he sat by the fire, and of the
pleasure of his walk, often repeating, 'I wish you had been with me.'
Having no change, he gave the boy sixpence, which was certainly, if he
had formed any expectations at all, far beyond them; but he received it
with the utmost indifference, without any remark of surprise or pleasure;
most likely he did not know how many halfpence he could get for it, and
twopence would have pleased him more. My little girl was delighted with
the sixpence I gave her, and said she would buy a book with it on Monday
morning. What a difference between the manner of living and education of
boys and of girls among the lower classes of people in towns! she had
never seen the Falls of the Clyde, nor had ever been further than the
porter's lodge; the boy, I daresay, knew every hiding-place in every
accessible rock, as well as the fine 'slae bushes' and the nut trees.
SECOND WEEK.
_Sunday_, _August_ 21_st_.--The morning was very hot, a morning to tempt
us to linger by the water-side. I wished to have had the day before us,
expecting so much from what William had seen; but when we went there, I
did not desire to stay longer than till the hour which we had prescribed
to ourselves; for it was a rule not to be broken in upon, that the person
who conducted us to the Falls was to remain by our side till we chose to
depart. We left our inn immediately after breakfast. The lanes were
full of people going to church; many of the middle-aged women wore long
scarlet cardinals, and were without hats: they brought to my mind the
women of Goslar as they used to go to church in their silver or gold
caps, with their long cloaks, black or coloured.
The banks of the Clyde from Lanerk to the Falls rise immediately from the
river; they are lofty and steep, and covered with wood. The road to the
Falls is along the top of one of the banks, and to the left you have a
prospect of the open country, corn fields and scattered houses. To the
right, over the river, the country spreads out, as it were, into a plain
covered over with hills, no one hill much higher than another, but hills
all over; there were endless pastures overgrown with broom, and scattered
trees, without hedges or fences of any kind, and no distinct footpaths.
It was delightful to see the lasses in gay dresses running like cattle
among the broom, making their way straight forward towards the river,
here and there as it might chance. They waded across the stream, and,
when they had reached the top of the opposite bank, sat down by the
road-side, about half a mile from the town, to put on their shoes and
cotton stockings, which they brought tied up in pocket-handkerchiefs.
The porter's lodge is about a mile from Lanerk, and the lady's house--for
the whole belongs to a lady, whose name I have forgotten {36a}--is upon a
hill at a little distance. We walked, after we had entered the private
grounds, perhaps two hundred yards along a gravel carriage-road, then
came to a little side gate, which opened upon a narrow gravel path under
trees, and in a minute and a half, or less, were directly opposite to the
great waterfall. I was much affected by the first view of it. The
majesty and strength of the water, for I had never before seen so large a
cataract, struck me with astonishment, which died away, giving place to
more delightful feelings; though there were some buildings that I could
have wished had not been there, though at first unnoticed. The chief of
them was a neat, white, lady-like house, {36b} very near to the
waterfall. William and Coleridge however were in a better and perhaps
wiser humour, and did not dislike the house; indeed, it was a very
nice-looking place, with a moderate-sized garden, leaving the green
fields free and open. This house is on the side of the river opposite to
the grand house and the pleasure-grounds. The waterfall Cora Linn {36c}
is composed of two falls, with a sloping space, which _appears_ to be
about twenty yards between, but is much more. The basin which receives
the fall is enclosed by noble rocks, with trees, chiefly hazels, birch,
and ash growing out of their sides whenever there is any hold for them;
and a magnificent resting-place it is for such a river; I think more
grand than the Falls themselves.
After having stayed some time, we returned by the same footpath into the
main carriage-road, and soon came upon what William calls an ell-wide
gravel walk, from which we had different views of the Linn. We sat upon
a bench, placed for the sake of one of these views, whence we looked down
upon the waterfall, and over the open country, and saw a ruined tower,
called Wallace's Tower, which stands at a very little distance from the
fall, and is an interesting object. A lady and gentleman, more
expeditious tourists than ourselves, came to the spot; they left us at
the seat, and we found them again at another station above the Falls.
Coleridge, who is always good-natured enough to enter into conversation
with anybody whom he meets in his way, began to talk with the gentleman,
who observed that it was a _majestic_ waterfall. Coleridge was delighted
with the accuracy of the epithet, particularly as he had been settling in
his own mind the precise meaning of the words grand, majestic, sublime,
etc., and had discussed the subject with William at some length the day
before. 'Yes, sir,' says Coleridge, 'it _is_ a majestic waterfall.'
'Sublime and beautiful,' replied his friend. Poor Coleridge could make
no answer, and, not very desirous to continue the conversation, came to
us and related the story, laughing heartily.