girls, who told us we could not cross the ferry till evening, for the
boat was gone with a number of people to church. One of the girls was
exceedingly beautiful; and the figures of both of them, in grey plaids
falling to their feet, their faces only being uncovered, excited our
attention before we spoke to them; but they answered us so sweetly that
we were quite delighted, at the same time that they stared at us with an
innocent look of wonder. I think I never heard the English language
sound more sweetly than from the mouth of the elder of these girls, while
she stood at the gate answering our inquiries, her face flushed with the
rain; her pronunciation was clear and distinct: without difficulty, yet
slow, like that of a foreign speech. They told us we might sit in the
ferry-house till the return of the boat, went in with us, and made a good
fire as fast as possible to dry our wet clothes. We learnt that the
taller was the sister of the ferryman, and had been left in charge with
the house for the day, that the other was his wife's sister, and was come
with her mother on a visit,--an old woman, who sate in a corner beside
the cradle, nursing her little grandchild. We were glad to be housed,
with our feet upon a warm hearth-stone; and our attendants were so active
and good-humoured that it was pleasant to have to desire them to do
anything. The younger was a delicate and unhealthy-looking girl; but
there was an uncommon meekness in her countenance, with an air of
premature intelligence, which is often seen in sickly young persons. The
other made me think of Peter Bell's 'Highland Girl:'
'As light and beauteous as a squirrel,
As beauteous and as wild.'
She moved with unusual activity, which was chastened very delicately by a
certain hesitation in her looks when she spoke, being able to understand
us but imperfectly. They were both exceedingly desirous to get me what I
wanted to make me comfortable. I was to have a gown and petticoat of the
mistress's; so they turned out her whole wardrobe upon the parlour floor,
talking Erse to one another, and laughing all the time. It was long
before they could decide which of the gowns I was to have; they chose at
last, no doubt thinking that it was the best, a light-coloured sprigged
cotton, with long sleeves, and they both laughed while I was putting it
on, with the blue linsey petticoat, and one or the other, or both
together, helped me to dress, repeating at least half a dozen times, 'You
never had on the like of that before.' They held a consultation of
several minutes over a pair of coarse woollen stockings, gabbling Erse as
fast as their tongues could move, and looked as if uncertain what to do:
at last, with great diffidence, they offered them to me, adding, as
before, that I had never worn 'the like of them.' When we entered the
house we had been not a little glad to see a fowl stewing in
barley-broth; and now when the wettest of our clothes were stripped off,
began again to recollect that we were hungry, and asked if we could have
dinner. 'Oh yes, ye may get that,' the elder replied, pointing to the
pan on the fire.
Conceive what a busy house it was--all our wet clothes to be dried,
dinner prepared and set out for us four strangers, and a second cooking
for the family; add to this, two rough 'callans,' as they called them,
boys about eight years old, were playing beside us; the poor baby was
fretful all the while; the old woman sang doleful Erse songs, rocking it
in its cradle the more violently the more it cried; then there were a
dozen cookings of porridge, and it could never be fed without the
assistance of all three. The hut was after the Highland fashion, but
without anything beautiful except its situation; the floor was rough, and
wet with the rain that came in at the door, so that the lasses' bare feet
were as wet as if they had been walking through street puddles, in
passing from one room to another; the windows were open, as at the other
hut; but the kitchen had a bed in it, and was much smaller, and the shape
of the house was like that of a common English cottage, without its
comfort; yet there was no appearance of poverty--indeed, quite the
contrary. The peep out of the open door-place across the lake made some
amends for the want of the long roof and elegant rafters of our boatman's
cottage, and all the while the waterfall, which we could not see, was
roaring at the end of the hut, which seemed to serve as a sounding-board
for its noise, so that it was not unlike sitting in a house where a mill
is going. The dashing of the waves against the shore could not be
distinguished; yet in spite of my knowledge of this I could not help
fancying that the tumult and storm came from the lake, and went out
several times to see if it was possible to row over in safety.
After long waiting we grew impatient for our dinner; at last the pan was
taken off, and carried into the other room; but we had to wait at least
another half hour before the ceremony of dishing up was completed; yet
with all this bustle and difficulty, the manner in which they, and
particularly the elder of the girls, performed everything, was perfectly
graceful. We ate a hearty dinner, and had time to get our clothes quite
dry before the arrival of the boat. The girls could not say at what time
it would be at home; on our asking them if the church was far off they
replied, 'Not very far;' and when we asked how far, they said, 'Perhaps
about four or five miles.' I believe a Church of England congregation
would hold themselves excused for non-attendance three parts of the year,
having but half as far to go; but in the lonely parts of Scotland they
make little of a journey of nine or ten miles to a preaching. They have
not perhaps an opportunity of going more than once in a quarter of a
year, and, setting piety aside, have other motives to attend: they hear
the news, public and private, and see their friends and neighbours; for,
though the people who meet at these times may be gathered together from a
circle of twenty miles' diameter, a sort of neighbourly connexion must be
so brought about. There is something exceedingly pleasing to my
imagination in this gathering together of the inhabitants of these
secluded districts--for instance, the borderers of these two large lakes
meeting at the deserted garrison which I have described. The manner of
their travelling is on foot, on horseback, and in boats across the
waters,--young and old, rich and poor, all in their best dress.
If it were not for these Sabbath-day meetings one summer month would be
like another summer month, one winter month like another--detached from
the goings-on of the world, and solitary throughout; from the time of
earliest childhood they will be like landing-places in the memory of a
person who has passed his life in these thinly peopled regions; they must
generally leave distinct impressions, differing from each other so much
as they do in circumstances, in time and place, etc.,--some in the open
fields, upon hills, in houses, under large rocks, in storms, and in fine
weather.
But I have forgotten the fireside of our hut. After long waiting, the
girls, who had been on the look-out, informed us that the boat was
coming. I went to the water-side, and saw a cluster of people on the
opposite shore; but being yet at a distance, they looked more like
soldiers surrounding a carriage than a group of men and women; red and
green were the distinguishable colours. We hastened to get ourselves
ready as soon as we saw the party approach, but had longer to wait than
we expected, the lake being wider than it appears to be. As they drew
near we could distinguish men in tartan plaids, women in scarlet cloaks,
and green umbrellas by the half-dozen. The landing was as pretty a sight
as ever I saw. The bay, which had been so quiet two days before, was all
in motion with small waves, while the swoln waterfall roared in our ears.
The boat came steadily up, being pressed almost to the water's edge by
the weight of its cargo; perhaps twenty people landed, one after another.
It did not rain much, but the women held up their umbrellas; they were
dressed in all the colours of the rainbow, and, with their scarlet
cardinals, the tartan plaids of the men, and Scotch bonnets, made a gay
appearance. There was a joyous bustle surrounding the boat, which even
imparted something of the same character to the waterfall in its tumult,
and the restless grey waves; the young men laughed and shouted, the
lasses laughed, and the elder folks seemed to be in a bustle to be away.
I remember well with what haste the mistress of the house where we were
ran up to seek after her child, and seeing us, how anxiously and kindly
she inquired how we had fared, if we had had a good fire, had been well
waited upon, etc. etc. All this in three minutes--for the boatman had
another party to bring from the other side and hurried us off.
The hospitality we had met with at the two cottages and Mr. Macfarlane's
gave us very favourable impressions on this our first entrance into the
Highlands, and at this day the innocent merriment of the girls, with
their kindness to us, and the beautiful figure and face of the elder,
come to my mind whenever I think of the ferry-house and waterfall of Loch
Lomond, and I never think of the two girls but the whole image of that
romantic spot is before me, a living image, as it will be to my dying
day. The following poem {113} was written by William not long after our
return from Scotland:--
Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower
Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
Twice seven consenting years have shed
Their utmost bounty on thy head:
And these grey rocks; this household lawn;
These trees, a veil just half withdrawn;
This fall of water, that doth make
A murmur near the silent Lake;
This little Bay, a quiet road
That holds in shelter thy abode;
In truth together ye do seem
Like something fashion'd in a dream;
Such forms as from their covert peep
When earthly cares are laid asleep!
Yet, dream and vision as thou art,
I bless thee with a human heart:
God shield thee to thy latest years!
I neither know thee nor thy peers;
And yet my eyes are filled with tears.
With earnest feeling I shall pray
For thee when I am far away:
For never saw I mien or face,
In which more plainly I could trace
Benignity and home-bred sense
Ripening in perfect innocence.
Here, scattered like a random seed,
Remote from men, thou dost not need
Th' embarrass'd look of shy distress
And maidenly shamefacedness;
Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear
The freedom of a mountaineer:
A face with gladness overspread!
Sweet smiles, by human-kindness bred!
And seemliness complete, that sways
Thy courtesies, about thee plays;
With no restraint but such as springs
From quick and eager visitings
Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach
Of thy few words of English speech:
A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strife
That gives thy gestures grace and life!
So have I, not unmoved in mind,
Seen birds of tempest-loving kind,
Thus beating up against the wind.
What hand but would a garland cull
For thee, who art so beautiful?
O happy pleasure! here to dwell
Beside thee in some heathy dell;
Adopt your homely ways and dress,
A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess!
But I could frame a wish for thee
More like a grave reality:
Thou art to me but as a wave
Of the wild sea: and I would have
Some claim upon thee, if I could,
Though but of common neighbourhood.
What joy to hear thee and to see!
Thy elder brother I would be,
Thy father--anything to thee.
Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace
Hath led me to this lonely place!
Joy have I had; and going hence
I bear away my recompence.
In spots like these it is we prize
Our memory, feel that she hath eyes:
Then why should I be loth to stir?
I feel this place is made for her;
To give new pleasure like the past
Continued long as life shall last.
Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,
Sweet Highland Girl, from thee to part;
For I, methinks, till I grow old,
As fair before me shall behold
As I do now, the Cabin small,
The Lake, the Bay, the Waterfall,
And thee, the Spirit of them all.
We were rowed over speedily by the assistance of two youths, who went
backwards and forwards for their own amusement, helping at the oars, and
pulled as if they had strength and spirits to spare for a year to come.
We noticed that they had uncommonly fine teeth, and that they and the
boatman were very handsome people. Another merry crew took our place in
the boat.
We had three miles to walk to Tarbet. It rained, but not heavily; the
mountains were not concealed from us by the mists, but appeared larger
and more grand; twilight was coming on, and the obscurity under which we
saw the objects, with the sounding of the torrents, kept our minds alive
and wakeful; all was solitary and huge--sky, water, and mountains mingled
together. While we were walking forward, the road leading us over the
top of a brow, we stopped suddenly at the sound of a half articulate
Gaelic hooting from the field close to us. It came from a little boy,
whom we could see on the hill between us and the lake, wrapped up in a
grey plaid. He was probably calling home the cattle for the night. His
appearance was in the highest degree moving to the imagination: mists
were on the hillsides, darkness shutting in upon the huge avenue of
mountains, torrents roaring, no house in sight to which the child might
belong; his dress, cry, and appearance all different from anything we had
been accustomed to. It was a text, as William has since observed to me,
containing in itself the whole history of the Highlander's life--his
melancholy, his simplicity, his poverty, his superstition, and above all,
that visionariness which results from a communion with the unworldliness
of nature.
When we reached Tarbet the people of the house were anxious to know how
we had fared, particularly the girl who had waited upon us. Our praises
of Loch Ketterine made her exceedingly happy, and she ventured to say, of
which we had heard not a word before, that it was 'bonnier to _her_ fancy
than Loch Lomond.' {116} The landlord, who was not at home when we had
set off, told us that if he had known of our going he would have
recommended us to Mr. Macfarlane's or the other farm-house, adding that
they were hospitable people in that vale. Coleridge and I got tea, and
William and the drawing-master chose supper; they asked to have a broiled
fowl, a dish very common in Scotland, to which the mistress replied,
'Would not a "boiled" one do as well?' They consented, supposing that it
would be more easily cooked; but when the fowl made its appearance, to
their great disappointment it proved a cold one that had been stewed in
the broth at dinner.
* * * * *
_Monday_, _August_ 29_th_.--It rained heavily this morning, and, having
heard so much of the long rains since we came into Scotland, as well as
before, we had no hope that it would be over in less than three weeks at
the least, so poor Coleridge, being very unwell, determined to send his
clothes to Edinburgh and make the best of his way thither, being afraid
to face much wet weather in an open carriage. William and I were
unwilling to be confined at Tarbet, so we resolved to go to Arrochar, a
mile and a half on the road to Inverary, where there is an inn celebrated
as a place of good accommodation for travellers. Coleridge and I set off
on foot, and William was to follow with the car, but a heavy shower
coming on, Coleridge left me to shelter in a hut and wait for William,
while he went on before. This hut was unplastered, and without windows,
crowded with beds, uncomfortable, and not in the simplicity of the
ferryman's house. A number of good clothes were hanging against the
walls, and a green silk umbrella was set up in a corner. I should have
been surprised to see an umbrella in such a place before we came into the
Highlands; but umbrellas are not so common anywhere as there--a plain
proof of the wetness of the climate; even five minutes after this a girl
passed us without shoes and stockings, whose gown and petticoat were not
worth half a crown, holding an umbrella over her bare head.
We turned at a guide-post, 'To the New Inn,' and, after descending a
little, and winding round the bottom of a hill, saw, at a small distance,
a white house half hidden by tall trees upon a lawn that slopes down to
the side of Loch Long, a sea-loch, which is here very narrow. Right
before us, across the lake, was The Cobbler, which appeared to rise
directly from the water; but, in fact, it overtopped another hill, being
a considerable way behind. The inn looked so much like a gentleman's
house that we could hardly believe it was an inn. We drove down the
broad gravel walk, and, making a sweep, stopped at the front door, were
shown into a large parlour with a fire, and my first thought was, How
comfortable we should be! but Coleridge, who had arrived before us,
checked my pleasure: the waiter had shown himself disposed to look coolly
upon us, and there had been a hint that we could not have beds;--a party
was expected, who had engaged all the beds. We conjectured this might be
but a pretence, and ordered dinner in the hope that matters would clear
up a little, and we thought they could not have the heart to turn us out
in so heavy a rain if it were possible to lodge us. We had a nice
dinner, yet would have gladly changed our roasted lamb and pickles, and
the gentleman-waiter with his napkin in his pocket, for the more homely
fare of the smoky hut at Loch Ketterine, and the good woman's busy
attentions, with the certainty of a hospitable shelter at night. After
dinner I spoke to the landlord himself, but he was not to be moved: he
could not even provide one bed for me, so nothing was to be done but
either to return to Tarbet with Coleridge, or that William and I should
push on the next stage, to Cairndow. We had an interesting close view
from the windows of the room where we sate, looking across the lake,
which did not differ in appearance, as we saw it here, from a fresh-water
lake. The sloping lawn on which the house stood was prettily scattered
over with trees; but we had seen the place to great advantage at our
first approach, owing to the mists upon the mountains, which had made
them seem exceedingly high, while the strange figures on The Cobbler
appeared and disappeared, like living things; but, as the day cleared we
were disappointed in what was more like the permanent effect of the
scene: the mountains were not so lofty as we had supposed, and the low
grounds not so fertile; yet still it is a very interesting, I may say
beautiful, place.
The rain ceased entirely, so we resolved to go on to Cairndow, and had
the satisfaction of seeing that our landlord had not told us an untruth
concerning the expected company; for just before our departure we saw, on
the opposite side of the vale, a coach with four horses, another
carriage, and two or three men on horseback--a striking procession, as it
moved along between the bare mountain and the lake. Twenty years ago,
perhaps, such a sight had not been seen here except when the Duke of
Argyle, or some other Highland chieftain, might chance to be going with
his family to London or Edinburgh. They had to cross a bridge at the
head of the lake, which we could not see, so, after disappearing about
ten minutes, they drove up to the door--three old ladies, two
waiting-women, and store of men-servants. The old ladies were as gaily
dressed as bullfinches in spring-time. We heard the next day that they
were the renowned Miss Waughs of Carlisle, and that they enjoyed
themselves over a game at cards in the evening.
Left Arrochar at about four o'clock in the afternoon. Coleridge
accompanied us a little way; we portioned out the contents of our purse
before our parting; and, after we had lost sight of him, drove heavily
along. Crossed the bridge, and looked to the right, up the vale, which
is soon terminated by mountains: it was of a yellow green, with but few
trees and few houses; sea-gulls were flying above it. Our road--the same
along which the carriages had come--was directly under the mountains on
our right hand, and the lake was close to us on our left, the waves
breaking among stones overgrown with yellow sea-weed; fishermen's boats,
and other larger vessels than are seen on fresh-water lakes were lying at
anchor near the opposite shore; seabirds flying overhead; the noise of
torrents mingled with the beating of the waves, and misty mountains
enclosed the vale;--a melancholy but not a dreary scene. Often have I,
in looking over a map of Scotland, followed the intricate windings of one
of these sea-lochs, till, pleasing myself with my own imaginations, I
have felt a longing, almost painful, to travel among them by land or by
water.
This was the first sea-loch we had seen. We came prepared for a new and
great delight, and the first impression which William and I received, as
we drove rapidly through the rain down the lawn of Arrochar, the objects
dancing before us, was even more delightful than we had expected. But,
as I have said, when we looked through the window, as the mists
disappeared and the objects were seen more distinctly, there was less of
sheltered valley-comfort than we had fancied to ourselves, and the
mountains were not so grand; and now that we were near to the shore of
the lake, and could see that it was not of fresh water, the wreck, the
broken sea-shells, and scattered sea-weed gave somewhat of a dull and
uncleanly look to the whole lake, and yet the water was clear, and might
have appeared as beautiful as that of Loch Lomond, if with the same pure
pebbly shore. Perhaps, had we been in a more cheerful mood of mind we
might have seen everything with a different eye. The stillness of the
mountains, the motion of the waves, the streaming torrents, the
sea-birds, the fishing-boats were all melancholy; yet still, occupied as
my mind was with other things, I thought of the long windings through
which the waters of the sea had come to this inland retreat, visiting the
inner solitudes of the mountains, and I could have wished to have mused
out a summer's day on the shores of the lake. From the foot of these
mountains whither might not a little barque carry one away? Though so
far inland, it is but a slip of the great ocean: seamen, fishermen, and
shepherds here find a natural home. We did not travel far down the lake,
but, turning to the right through an opening of the mountains, entered a
glen called Glen Croe.
Our thoughts were full of Coleridge, and when we were enclosed in the
narrow dale, with a length of winding road before us, a road that seemed
to have insinuated itself into the very heart of the mountains--the
brook, the road, bare hills, floating mists, scattered stones, rocks, and
herds of black cattle being all that we could see,--I shivered at the
thought of his being sickly and alone, travelling from place to place.
The Cobbler, on our right, was pre-eminent above the other hills; the
singular rocks on its summit, seen so near, were like ruins--castles or
watch-towers. After we had passed one reach of the glen, another opened
out, long, narrow, deep, and houseless, with herds of cattle and large
stones; but the third reach was softer and more beautiful, as if the
mountains had there made a warmer shelter, and there were a more gentle
climate. The rocks by the riverside had dwindled away, the mountains
were smooth and green, and towards the end, where the glen sloped
upwards, it was a cradle-like hollow, and at that point where the slope
became a hill, at the very bottom of the curve of the cradle, stood one
cottage, with a few fields and beds of potatoes. There was also another
house near the roadside, which appeared to be a herdsman's hut. The
dwelling in the middle of the vale was a very pleasing object. I said
within myself, How quietly might a family live in this pensive solitude,
cultivating and loving their own fields! but the herdsman's hut, being
the only one in the vale, had a melancholy face; not being attached to
any particular plot of land, one could not help considering it as just
kept alive and above ground by some dreary connexion with the long barren
tract we had travelled through.
The afternoon had been exceedingly pleasant after we had left the vale of
Arrochar; the sky was often threatening, but the rain blew off, and the
evening was uncommonly fine. The sun had set a short time before we had
dismounted from the car to walk up the steep hill at the end of the glen.
Clouds were moving all over the sky--some of a brilliant yellow hue,
which shed a light like bright moonlight upon the mountains. We could
not have seen the head of the valley under more favourable circumstances.