Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy Pass,
And with them did we journey several hours
At a slow step. The immeasurable height
Of woods decaying, never to be decayed!
The stationary blasts of waterfalls;
And everywhere along the hollow rent
Winds thwarting winds, bewilder'd and forlorn;
The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky,
The rocks that mutter'd close upon our ears,
Black drizzling crags that spake by the way-side
As if a voice were in them; the sick sight
And giddy prospect of the raving stream;
The unfetter'd clouds, and region of the heavens,
Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light,
Were all like workings of one mind, the features
Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree,
Characters of the great Apocalypse,
The Types and Symbols of Eternity,
Of first, and last, and midst, and without end.
The place had nothing of this character, the glen being open to the eye
of day, the mountains retiring in independent majesty. Even in the upper
part of it, where the stream rushed through the rocky chasm, it was but a
deep trench in the vale, not the vale itself, and could only be seen when
we were close to it.
FOURTH WEEK.
_Sunday_, _September_ 4_th_.--We had desired to be called at six o'clock,
and rose at the first summons. Our beds had proved better than we
expected, and we had not slept ill; but poor Coleridge had passed a
wretched night here four days before. This we did not know; but since,
when he told us of it, the notion of what he must have suffered, with the
noise of drunken people about his ears all night, himself sick and tired,
has made our discomfort cling to my memory, and given these recollections
a twofold interest. I asked if it was possible to have a couple of eggs
boiled before our departure: the woman hesitated; she thought I might,
and sent a boy into the out-houses to look about, who brought in one egg
after long searching. Early as we had risen it was not very early when
we set off; for everything at King's House was in unison--equally
uncomfortable. As the woman had told us the night before, 'They had no
hay, and that was a loss.' There were neither stalls nor bedding in the
stable, so that William was obliged to watch the horse while it was
feeding, for there were several others in the stable, all standing like
wild beasts, ready to devour each other's portion of corn: this, with the
slowness of the servant and other hindrances, took up much time, and we
were completely starved, for the morning was very cold, as I believe all
the mornings in that desolate place are.
When we had gone about a quarter of a mile I recollected that I had left
the little cup given me by the kind landlady at Taynuilt, which I had
intended that John should hereafter drink out of, in memory of our
wanderings. I would have turned back for it, but William pushed me on,
unwilling that we should lose so much time, though indeed he was as sorry
to part with it as myself.
Our road was over a hill called the Black Mount. For the first mile, or
perhaps more, after we left King's House, we ascended on foot; then came
upon a new road, one of the finest that was ever trod; and, as we went
downwards almost all the way afterwards, we travelled very quickly. The
motion was pleasant, the different reaches and windings of the road were
amusing; the sun shone, the mountain-tops were clear and cheerful, and we
in good spirits, in a bustle of enjoyment, though there never was a more
desolate region: mountains behind, before, and on every side; I do not
remember to have seen either patch of grass, flower, or flowering heather
within three or four miles of King's House. The low ground was not
rocky, but black, and full of white frost-bleached stones, the prospect
only varied by pools, seen everywhere both near and at a distance, as far
as the ground stretched out below us: these were interesting spots, round
which the mind assembled living objects, and they shone as bright as
mirrors in the forlorn waste. We passed neither tree nor shrub for
miles--I include the whole space from Glen Coe--yet we saw perpetually
traces of a long decayed forest, pieces of black mouldering wood.
Through such a country as this we had travelled perhaps seven and a half
miles this morning, when, after descending a hill, we turned to the
right, and saw an unexpected sight in the moorland hollow into which we
were entering, a small lake bounded on the opposite side by a grove of
Scotch firs, two or three cottages at the head of it, and a lot of
cultivated ground with scattered hay-cocks. The road along which we were
going, after having made a curve considerably above the tarn, was seen
winding through the trees on the other side, a beautiful object, and,
luckily for us, a drove of cattle happened to be passing there at the
very time, a stream coursing the road, with off-stragglers to the borders
of the lake, and under the trees on the sloping ground.
In conning over our many wanderings I shall never forget the gentle
pleasure with which we greeted the lake of Inveroran and its few grey
cottages: we suffered our horse to slacken his pace, having now no need
of the comfort of quick motion, though we were glad to think that one of
those cottages might be the public-house where we were to breakfast. A
forest--now, as it appeared, dwindled into the small grove bordering the
lake--had, not many years ago, spread to that side of the vale where we
were: large stumps of trees which had been cut down were yet remaining
undecayed, and there were some single trees left alive, as if by their
battered black boughs to tell us of the storms that visit the valley
which looked now so sober and peaceful. When we arrived at the huts, one
of them proved to be the inn, a thatched house without a sign-board. We
were kindly received, had a fire lighted in the parlour, and were in such
good humour that we seemed to have a thousand comforts about us; but we
had need of a little patience in addition to this good humour before
breakfast was brought, and at last it proved a disappointment: the butter
not eatable, the barley-cakes fusty, the oat-bread so hard I could not
chew it, and there were only four eggs in the house, which they had
boiled as hard as stones.
Before we had finished breakfast two foot-travellers came in, and seated
themselves at our table; one of them was returning, after a long absence,
to Fort-William, his native home; he had come from Egypt, and, many years
ago, had been on a recruiting party at Penrith, and knew many people
there. He seemed to think his own country but a dismal land.
There being no bell in the parlour, I had occasion to go several times
and ask for what we wanted in the kitchen, and I would willingly have
given twenty pounds to have been able to take a lively picture of it.
About seven or eight travellers, probably drovers, with as many dogs,
were sitting in a complete circle round a large peat-fire in the middle
of the floor, each with a mess of porridge, in a wooden vessel, upon his
knee; a pot, suspended from one of the black beams, was boiling on the
fire; two or three women pursuing their household business on the outside
of the circle, children playing on the floor. There was nothing
uncomfortable in this confusion: happy, busy, or vacant faces, all looked
pleasant; and even the smoky air, being a sort of natural indoor
atmosphere of Scotland, served only to give a softening, I may say
harmony, to the whole.
We departed immediately after breakfast; our road leading us, as I have
said, near the lake-side and through the grove of firs, which extended
backward much further than we had imagined. After we had left it we came
again among bare moorish wastes, as before, under the mountains, so that
Inveroran still lives in our recollection as a favoured place, a flower
in the desert.
Descended upon the whole, I believe very considerably, in our way to
Tyndrum; but it was a road of long ups and downs, over hills and through
hollows of uncultivated ground; a chance farm perhaps once in three
miles, a glittering rivulet bordered with greener grass than grew on the
broad waste, or a broken fringe of alders or birches, partly concealing
and partly pointing out its course.
Arrived at Tyndrum at about two o'clock. It is a cold spot. Though, as
I should suppose, situated lower than Inveroran, and though we saw it in
the hottest time of the afternoon sun, it had a far colder aspect from
the want of trees. We were here informed that Coleridge, who, we
supposed, was gone to Edinburgh, had dined at this very house a few days
before, in his road to Fort-William. By the help of the cook, who was
called in, the landlady made out the very day: it was the day after we
parted from him; as she expressed it, the day after the 'great speet,'
namely, the great rain. We had a moorfowl and mutton-chops for dinner,
well cooked, and a reasonable charge. The house was clean for a Scotch
inn, and the people about the doors were well dressed. In one of the
parlours we saw a company of nine or ten, with the landlady, seated round
a plentiful table,--a sight which made us think of the fatted calf in the
alehouse pictures of the Prodigal Son. There seemed to be a whole
harvest of meats and drinks, and there was something of festivity and
picture-like gaiety even in the fresh-coloured dresses of the people and
their Sunday faces. The white table-cloth, glasses, English dishes,
etc., were all in contrast with what we had seen at Inveroran: the places
were but about nine miles asunder, both among hills; the rank of the
people little different, and each house appeared to be a house of plenty.
We were I think better pleased with our treatment at this inn than any of
the lonely houses on the road, except Taynuilt; but Coleridge had not
fared so well, and was dissatisfied, as he has since told us, and the two
travellers who breakfasted with us at Inveroran had given a bad account
of the house.
Left Tyndrum at about five o'clock; a gladsome afternoon; the road
excellent, and we bowled downwards through a pleasant vale, though not
populous, or well cultivated, or woody, but enlivened by a river that
glittered as it flowed. On the side of a sunny hill a knot of men and
women were gathered together at a preaching. We passed by many droves of
cattle and Shetland ponies, which accident stamped a character upon
places, else unrememberable--not an individual character, but the soul,
the spirit, and solitary simplicity of many a Highland region.
We had about eleven miles to travel before we came to our lodging, and
had gone five or six, almost always descending, and still in the same
vale, when we saw a small lake before us after the vale had made a
bending to the left; it was about sunset when we came up to the lake; the
afternoon breezes had died away, and the water was in perfect stillness.
One grove-like island, with a ruin that stood upon it overshadowed by the
trees, was reflected on the water. This building, which, on that
beautiful evening, seemed to be wrapped up in religious quiet, we were
informed had been raised for defence by some Highland chieftain. All
traces of strength, or war, or danger are passed away, and in the mood in
which we were we could only look upon it as a place of retirement and
peace. The lake is called Loch Dochart. We passed by two others of
inferior beauty, and continued to travel along the side of the same
river, the Dochart, through an irregular, undetermined vale,--poor soil
and much waste land.
At that time of the evening when, by looking steadily, we could discover
a few pale stars in the sky, we saw upon an eminence, the bound of our
horizon, though very near to us, and facing the bright yellow clouds of
the west, a group of figures that made us feel how much we wanted in not
being painters. Two herdsmen, with a dog beside them, were sitting on
the hill, overlooking a herd of cattle scattered over a large meadow by
the river-side. Their forms, looked at through a fading light, and
backed by the bright west, were exceedingly distinct, a beautiful picture
in the quiet of a Sabbath evening, exciting thoughts and images of almost
patriarchal simplicity and grace. We were much pleased with the
situation of our inn, where we arrived between eight and nine o'clock.
The river was at the distance of a broad field from the door; we could
see it from the upper windows and hear its murmuring; the moon shone,
enlivening the large corn fields with cheerful light. We had a bad
supper, and the next morning they made us an unreasonable charge; and the
servant was uncivil, because, forsooth! we had no wine.
_N.B._--The travellers in the morning had spoken highly of this inn.
{186}
* * * * *
_Monday_, _September_ 5_th_.--After drinking a bason of milk we set off
again at a little after six o'clock--a fine morning--eight miles to
Killin--the river Dochart always on our left. The face of the country
not very interesting, though not unpleasing, reminding us of some of the
vales of the north of England, though meagre, nipped-up, or shrivelled
compared with them. There were rocks, and rocky knolls, as about
Grasmere and Wytheburn, and copses, but of a starveling growth; the
cultivated ground poor. Within a mile or two of Killin the land was
better cultivated, and, looking down the vale, we had a view of Loch Tay,
into which the Dochart falls. Close to the town, the river took up a
roaring voice, beating its way over a rocky descent among large black
stones: islands in the middle turning the stream this way and that; the
whole course of the river very wide. We crossed it by means of three
bridges, which make one continued bridge of a great length. On an island
below the bridge is a gateway with tall pillars, leading to an old
burying-ground belonging to some noble family. {187} It has a singular
appearance, and the place is altogether uncommon and romantic--a remnant
of ancient grandeur: extreme natural wildness--the sound of roaring
water, and withal, the ordinary half-village, half-town bustle of an
every-day place.
The inn at Killin is one of the largest on the Scotch road: it stands
pleasantly, near the chapel, at some distance from the river Dochart, and
out of reach of its tumultuous noise; and another broad, stately, and
silent stream, which you cannot look at without remembering its
boisterous neighbour, flows close under the windows of the inn, and
beside the churchyard, in which are many graves. That river falls into
the lake at the distance of nearly a mile from the mouth of the Dochart.
It is bordered with tall trees and corn fields, bearing plentiful crops,
the richest we had seen in Scotland.
After breakfast we walked onwards, expecting that the stream would lead
us into some considerable vale; but it soon became little better than a
common rivulet, and the glen appeared to be short; indeed, we wondered
how the river had grown so great all at once. Our horse had not been
able to eat his corn, and we waited a long time in the hope that he would
be better. At eleven o'clock, however, we determined to set off, and
give him all the ease possible by walking up the hills, and not pushing
beyond a slow walk. We had fourteen miles to travel to Kenmore, by the
side of Loch Tay. Crossed the same bridge again, and went down the south
side of the lake. We had a delightful view of the village of Killin,
among rich green fields, corn and wood, and up towards the two horns of
the vale of Tay, the valley of the Dochart, and the other valley with its
full-grown river, the prospect terminated by mountains. We travelled
through lanes, woods, or open fields, never close to the lake, but always
near it, for many miles, the road being carried along the side of a hill,
which rose in an almost regularly receding steep from the lake. The
opposite shore did not much differ from that down which we went, but it
seemed more thinly inhabited, and not so well cultivated. The sun shone,
the cottages were pleasant, and the goings-on of the harvest--for all the
inhabitants were at work in the corn fields--made the way cheerful. But
there is an uniformity in the lake which, comparing it with other lakes,
made it appear tiresome. It has no windings: I should even imagine,
although it is so many miles long, that, from some points not very high
on the hills, it may be seen from one end to the other. There are few
bays, no lurking-places where the water hides itself in the land, no
outjutting points or promontories, no islands; and there are no
commanding mountains or precipices. I think that this lake would be the
most pleasing in spring-time, or in summer before the corn begins to
change colour, the long tracts of hills on each side of the vale having
at this season a kind of patchy appearance, for the corn fields in
general were very small, mere plots, and of every possible shade of
bright yellow. When we came in view of the foot of the lake we perceived
that it ended, as it had begun, in pride and loveliness. The village of
Kenmore, with its neat church and cleanly houses, stands on a gentle
eminence at the end of the water. The view, though not near so beautiful
as that of Killin, is exceedingly pleasing. Left our car, and turned out
of the road at about the distance of a mile from the town, and after
having climbed perhaps a quarter of a mile, we were conducted into a
locked-up plantation, and guessed by the sound that we were near the
cascade, but could not see it. Our guide opened a door, and we entered a
dungeon-like passage, and, after walking some yards in total darkness,
found ourselves in a quaint apartment stuck over with moss, hung about
with stuffed foxes and other wild animals, and ornamented with a library
of wooden books covered with old leather backs, the mock furniture of a
hermit's cell. At the end of the room, through a large bow-window, we
saw the waterfall, and at the same time, looking down to the left, the
village of Kenmore and a part of the lake--a very beautiful prospect.
MEMORANDUM BY THE AUTHOR.
'The transcript of the First Part of this Journal, and the Second as far
as page 149, were written before the end of the year 1803. I do not know
exactly when I concluded the remainder of the Second Part, but it was
resumed on the 2d of February 1804. The Third Part was begun at the end
of the month of April 1805, and finished on the 31st of May.' {190}
* * * * *
_April_ 11_th_, 1805.--I am setting about a task which, however free and
happy the state of my mind, I could not have performed well at this
distance of time; but now, I do not know that I shall be able to go on
with it at all. I will strive, however, to do the best I can, setting
before myself a different object from that hitherto aimed at, which was,
to omit no incident, however trifling, and to describe the country so
minutely that you should, where the objects were the most interesting,
feel as if you had been with us. I shall now only attempt to give you an
idea of those scenes which pleased us most, dropping the incidents of the
ordinary days, of which many have slipped from my memory, and others
which remain it would be difficult, and often painful to me, to endeavour
to draw out and disentangle from other thoughts. I the less regret my
inability to do more, because, in describing a great part of what we saw
from the time we left Kenmore, my work would be little more than a
repetition of what I have said before, or, where it was not so, a longer
time was necessary to enable us to bear away what was most interesting
than we could afford to give.
* * * * *
_Monday_, _September_ 5_th_.--We arrived at Kenmore after sunset.
* * * * *
_Tuesday_, _September_ 6_th_.--Walked before breakfast in Lord
Breadalbane's grounds, which border upon the river Tay. The higher
elevations command fine views of the lake; and the walks are led along
the river's banks, and shaded with tall trees: but it seemed to us that a
bad taste had been at work, the banks being regularly shaven and cut as
if by rule and line. One or two of such walks I should well have liked
to see; but they are all equally trim, and I could not but regret that
the fine trees had not been left to grow out of a turf that cattle were
permitted to feed upon. There was one avenue which would well have
graced the ruins of an abbey or some stately castle. It was of a very
great length, perfectly straight, the trees meeting at the top in a
cathedral arch, lessening in perspective,--the boughs the roof, the stems
the pillars. I never saw so beautiful an avenue. We were told that some
improver of pleasure-grounds had advised Lord B. to cut down the trees,
and lay the whole open to the lawn, for the avenue is very near his
house. His own better taste, or that of some other person, I suppose,
had saved them from the axe. Many workmen were employed in building a
large mansion something like that of Inverary, close to the old house,
which was yet standing; the situation, as we thought, very bad,
considering that Lord Breadalbane had the command of all the ground at
the foot of the lake, including hills both high and low. It is in a
hollow, without prospect either of the lake or river, or anything
else--seeing nothing, and adorning nothing. After breakfast, left
Kenmore, and travelled through the vale of Tay, I believe fifteen or
sixteen miles; but in the course of this we turned out of our way to the
Falls of Moness, a stream tributary to the Tay, which passes through a
narrow glen with very steep banks. A path like a woodman's track has
been carried through the glen, which, though the private property of a
gentleman, has not been taken out of the hands of Nature, but merely
rendered accessible by this path, which ends at the waterfalls. They
tumble from a great height, and are indeed very beautiful falls, and we
could have sate with pleasure the whole morning beside the cool basin in
which the waters rest, surrounded by high rocks and overhanging trees.
In one of the most retired parts of the dell, we met a young man coming
slowly along the path, intent upon a book which he was reading: he did
not seem to be of the rank of a gentleman, though above that of a
peasant.
Passed through the village of Aberfeldy, at the foot of the glen of
Moness. The birks of Aberfeldy are spoken of in some of the Scotch
songs, which no doubt grew in the stream of Moness; but near the village
we did not see any trees that were remarkable, except a row of laburnums,
growing as a common field hedge; their leaves were of a golden colour,
and as lively as the yellow blossoms could have been in the spring.
Afterwards we saw many laburnums in the woods, which we were told had
been 'planted;' though I remember that Withering speaks of the laburnum
as one of the British plants, and growing in Scotland. The twigs and
branches being stiff, were not so graceful as those of our garden
laburnums, but I do not think I ever before saw any that were of so
brilliant colours in their autumnal decay. In our way to and from Moness
we crossed the Tay by a bridge of ambitious and ugly architecture. Many
of the bridges in Scotland are so, having eye-holes between the arches,
not in the battlements but at the outspreading of the pillar of the arch,
which destroys its simplicity, and takes from the appearance of strength
and security, without adding anything of lightness. We returned, by the
same road, to the village of Weem, where we had left our car. The vale
of Tay was very wide, having been so from within a short distance of
Kenmore: the reaches of the river are long; and the ground is more
regularly cultivated than in any vale we had yet seen--chiefly corn, and
very large tracts. Afterwards the vale becomes narrow and less
cultivated, the reaches shorter--on the whole resembling the vale of
Nith, but we thought it inferior in beauty.