a respectable and rather large ruined abbey, which is greatly injured by
being made the nest of a modern Scotch kirk, with sash windows,--very
incongruous with the noble antique tower,--a practice which we afterwards
found is not uncommon in Scotland. Sent for the Duke's gardener after
dinner, and walked with him into the pleasure-grounds, intending to go to
the Falls of the Bran, a mountain stream which here joins the Tay. After
walking some time on a shaven turf under the shade of old trees, by the
side of the Tay, we left the pleasure-grounds, and crossing the river by
a ferry, went up a lane on the hill opposite till we came to a locked
gate by the road-side, through which we entered into another part of the
Duke's pleasure-grounds bordering on the Bran, the glen being for a
considerable way--for aught I know, two miles--thridded by gravel walks.
The walks are quaintly enough intersected, here and there by a baby
garden of fine flowers among the rocks and stones. The waterfall, which
we came to see, warned us by a loud roaring that we must expect it; we
were first, however, conducted into a small apartment, where the gardener
desired us to look at a painting of the figure of Ossian, which, while he
was telling us the story of the young artist who performed the work,
disappeared, parting in the middle, flying asunder as if by the touch of
magic, and lo! we are at the entrance of a splendid room, which was
almost dizzy and alive with waterfalls, that tumbled in all
directions--the great cascade, which was opposite to the window that
faced us, being reflected in innumerable mirrors upon the ceiling and
against the walls. {210} We both laughed heartily, which, no doubt, the
gardener considered as high commendation; for he was very eloquent in
pointing out the beauties of the place.
We left the Bran, and pursued our walk through the plantations, where we
readily forgave the Duke his little devices for their sakes. They are
already no insignificant woods, where the trees happen to be oaks,
birches, and others natural to the soil; and under their shade the walks
are delightful. From one hill, through different openings under the
trees, we looked up the vale of Tay to a great distance, a magnificent
prospect at that time of the evening; woody and rich--corn, green fields,
and cattle, the winding Tay, and distant mountains. Looked down the
river to the town of Dunkeld, which lies low, under irregular hills,
covered with wood to their rocky summits, and bounded by higher
mountains, which are bare. The hill of Birnam, no longer Birnam 'wood,'
was pointed out to us. After a very long walk we parted from our guide
when it was almost dark, and he promised to call on us in the morning to
conduct us to the gardens.
* * * * *
_Friday_, _September_ 9_th_.--According to appointment, the gardener came
with his keys in his hand, and we attended him whithersoever he chose to
lead, in spite of past experience at Blair. We had, however, no reason
to repent, for we were repaid for the trouble of going through the large
gardens by the apples and pears of which he gave us liberally, and the
walks through the woods on that part of the grounds opposite to where we
had been the night before were very delightful. The Duke's house is
neither large nor grand, being just an ordinary gentleman's house, upon a
green lawn, and whitewashed, I believe. The old abbey faces the house on
the east side, and appears to stand upon the same green lawn, which,
though close to the town, is entirely excluded from it by high walls and
trees.
We had been undetermined respecting our future course when we came to
Dunkeld, whether to go on directly to Perth and Edinburgh, or to make a
circuit and revisit the Trossachs. We decided upon the latter plan, and
accordingly after breakfast set forward towards Crieff, where we intended
to sleep, and the next night at Callander. The first part of our road,
after having crossed the ferry, was up the glen of the Bran. Looking
backwards, we saw Dunkeld very pretty under the hills, and surrounded by
rich cultivated ground, but we had not a good distant view of the abbey.
Left our car, and went about a hundred yards from the road to see the
Rumbling Brig, which, though well worth our going out of the way even
much further, disappointed us, as places in general do which we hear much
spoken of as savage, tremendous, etc.,--and no wonder, for they are
usually described by people to whom rocks are novelties. The gardener
had told us that we should pass through the most populous glen in
Scotland, the glen of Amulree. It is not populous in the usual way, with
scattered dwellings; but many clusters of houses, hamlets such as we had
passed near the Tummel, which had a singular appearance, being like small
encampments, were generally without trees, and in high situations--every
house the same as its neighbour, whether for men or cattle. There was
nothing else remarkable in the glen. We halted at a lonely inn at the
foot of a steep barren moor, which we had to cross; then, after
descending considerably, came to the narrow glen, which we had approached
with no little curiosity, not having been able to procure any distinct
description of it.
At Dunkeld, when we were hesitating what road to take, we wished to know
whether that glen would be worth visiting, and accordingly put several
questions to the waiter, and, among other epithets used in the course of
interrogation, we stumbled upon the word 'grand,' to which he replied,
'No, I do not think there are any gentlemen's seats in it.' However, we
drew enough from this describer and the gardener to determine us finally
to go to Callander, the Narrow Glen being in the way.
Entered the glen at a small hamlet at some distance from the head, and
turning aside a few steps, ascended a hillock which commanded a view to
the top of it--a very sweet scene, a green valley, not very narrow, with
a few scattered trees and huts, almost invisible in a misty gleam of
afternoon light. At this hamlet we crossed a bridge, and the road led us
down the glen, which had become exceedingly narrow, and so continued to
the end: the hills on both sides heathy and rocky, very steep, but
continuous; the rocks not single or overhanging, not scooped into caverns
or sounding with torrents: there are no trees, no houses, no traces of
cultivation, not one outstanding object. It is truly a solitude, the
road even making it appear still more so: the bottom of the valley is
mostly smooth and level, the brook not noisy: everything is simple and
undisturbed, and while we passed through it the whole place was shady,
cool, clear, and solemn. At the end of the long valley we ascended a
hill to a great height, and reached the top, when the sun, on the point
of setting, shed a soft yellow light upon every eminence. The prospect
was very extensive; over hollows and plains, no towns, and few houses
visible--a prospect, extensive as it was, in harmony with the secluded
dell, and fixing its own peculiar character of removedness from the
world, and the secure possession of the quiet of nature more deeply in
our minds. The following poem was written by William on hearing of a
tradition relating to it, which we did not know when we were there:--
In this still place remote from men
Sleeps Ossian, in the Narrow Glen,
In this still place where murmurs on
But one meek streamlet, only one.
He sung of battles and the breath
Of stormy war, and violent death,
And should, methinks, when all was pass'd,
Have rightfully been laid at last
Where rocks were rudely heap'd, and rent
As by a spirit turbulent;
Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,
And everything unreconciled,
In some complaining, dim retreat
Where fear and melancholy meet;
But this is calm; there cannot be
A more entire tranquillity.
Does then the bard sleep here indeed?
Or is it but a groundless creed?
What matters it? I blame them not
Whose fancy in this lonely spot
Was moved, and in this way express'd
Their notion of its perfect rest.
A convent, even a hermit's cell
Would break the silence of this Dell;
It is not quiet, is not ease,
But something deeper far than these;
The separation that is here
Is of the grave; and of austere
And happy feelings of the dead:
And therefore was it rightly said
That Ossian, last of all his race,
Lies buried in this lonely place.
Having descended into a broad cultivated vale, we saw nothing remarkable.
Observed a gentleman's house, {215} which stood pleasantly among trees.
It was dark some time before we reached Crieff, a small town, though
larger than Dunkeld.
* * * * *
_Saturday_, _September_ 10_th_.--Rose early, and departed without
breakfast. We were to pass through one of the most celebrated vales of
Scotland, Strath Erne. We found it a wide, long, and irregular vale,
with many gentlemen's seats under the hills, woods, copses, frequent
cottages, plantations, and much cultivation, yet with an intermixture of
barren ground; indeed, except at Killin and Dunkeld, there was always
something which seemed to take from the composure and simplicity of the
cultivated scenes. There is a struggle to overcome the natural
barrenness, and the end not attained, an appearance of something doing or
imperfectly done, a passing with labour from one state of society into
another. When you look from an eminence on the fields of Grasmere Vale,
the heart is satisfied with a simple undisturbed pleasure, and no less,
on one of the green or heathy dells of Scotland, where there is no
appearance of change to be, or having been, but such as the seasons make.
Strath Erne is so extensive a vale that, had it been in England, there
must have been much inequality, as in Wensley Dale; but at Wensley there
is a unity, a softness, a melting together, which in the large vales of
Scotland I never perceived. The difference at Strath Erne may come
partly from the irregularity, the undefined outline, of the hills which
enclose it; but it is caused still more by the broken surface, I mean
broken as to colour and produce, the want of hedgerows, and also the
great number of new fir plantations. After some miles it becomes much
narrower as we approach nearer the mountains at the foot of the lake of
the same name, Loch Erne.
Breakfasted at a small public-house, a wretchedly dirty cottage, but the
people were civil, and though we had nothing but barley cakes we made a
good breakfast, for there were plenty of eggs. Walked up a high hill to
view the seat of Mr. Dundas, now Lord Melville--a spot where, if he have
gathered much wisdom from his late disgrace or his long intercourse with
the world, he may spend his days as quietly as he need desire. It is a
secluded valley, not rich, but with plenty of wood: there are many pretty
paths through the woods, and moss huts in different parts. After leaving
the cottage where we breakfasted the country was very pleasing, yet still
with a want of richness; but this was less perceived, being huddled up in
charcoal woods, and the vale narrow. Loch Erne opens out in a very
pleasing manner, seen from a hill along which the road is carried through
a wood of low trees; but it does not improve afterwards, lying directly
from east to west without any perceivable bendings: and the shores are
not much broken or varied, not populous, and the mountains not
sufficiently commanding to make up for the deficiencies. Dined at the
head of the lake. I scarcely know its length, but should think not less
than four or five miles, and it is wide in proportion. The inn is in a
small village--a decent house.
Walked about half a mile along the road to Tyndrum, which is through a
bare glen, {216} and over a mountain pass. It rained when we pursued our
journey again, and continued to rain for several hours. The road which
we were to take was up another glen, down which came a stream that fell
into the lake on the opposite side at the head of it, so, after having
crossed the main vale, a little above the lake, we entered into the
smaller glen. The road delightfully smooth and dry--one gentleman's
house very pleasant among large coppice woods. After going perhaps three
miles up this valley, we turned to the left into another, which seemed to
be much more beautiful. It was a level valley, not--like that which we
had passed--a wide sloping cleft between the hills, but having a quiet,
slow-paced stream, which flowed through level green grounds tufted with
trees intermingled with cottages. The tops of the hills were hidden by
mists, and the objects in the valley seen through misty rain, which made
them look exceedingly soft, and indeed partly concealed them, and we
always fill up what we are left to guess at with something as beautiful
as what we see. This valley seemed to have less of the appearance of
barrenness or imperfect cultivation than any of the same character we had
passed through; indeed, we could not discern any traces of it. It is
called Strath Eyer. 'Strath' is generally applied to a broad vale; but
this, though open, is not broad.
We next came to a lake, called Loch Lubnaig, a name which signifies
'winding.' In shape it somewhat resembles Ulswater, but is much narrower
and shorter, being only four miles in length. The character of this lake
is simple and grand. On the side opposite to where we were is a range of
steep craggy mountains, one of which--like Place Fell--encroaching upon
the bed of the lake, forces it to make a considerable bending. I have
forgotten the name of this precipice: it is a very remarkable one, being
almost perpendicular, and very rugged.
We, on the other side, travelled under steep and rocky hills which were
often covered with low woods to a considerable height; there were one or
two farm-houses, and a few cottages. A neat white dwelling {218} on the
side of the hill over against the bold steep of which I have spoken, had
been the residence of the famous traveller Bruce, who, all his travels
ended, had arranged the history of them in that solitude--as deep as any
Abyssinian one--among the mountains of his native country, where he
passed several years. Whether he died there or not we did not learn; but
the manner of his death was remarkable and affecting,--from a fall
down-stairs in his own house, after so many dangers through which
fortitude and courage had never failed to sustain him. The house stands
sweetly, surrounded by coppice-woods and green fields. On the other
side, I believe, were no houses till we came near to the outlet, where a
few low huts looked very beautiful, with their dark brown roofs near a
stream which hurried down the mountain, and after its turbulent course
travelled a short way over a level green, and was lost in the lake.
Within a few miles of Callander we come into a grand region; the
mountains to a considerable height were covered with wood, enclosing us
in a narrow passage; the stream on our right, generally concealed by
wood, made a loud roaring; at one place, in particular, it fell down the
rocks in a succession of cascades. The scene is much celebrated in
Scotland, and is called the Pass of Leny. It was nearly dark when we
reached Callander. We were wet and cold, and glad of a good fire. The
inn was comfortable; we drank tea; and after tea the waiter presented us
with a pamphlet descriptive of the neighbourhood of Callander, which we
brought away with us, and I am very sorry I lost it.
FIFTH WEEK.
_Sunday_, _September_ 11_th_.--Immediately after breakfast, the morning
being fine, we set off with cheerful spirits towards the Trossachs,
intending to take up our lodging at the house of our old friend the
ferryman. A boy accompanied us to convey the horse and car back to
Callander from the head of Loch Achray. The country near Callander is
very pleasing; but, as almost everywhere else, imperfectly cultivated.
We went up a broad vale, through which runs the stream from Loch
Ketterine, and came to Loch Vennachar, a larger lake than Loch Achray,
the small one which had given us such unexpected delight when we left the
Pass of the Trossachs. Loch Vennachar is much larger, but greatly
inferior in beauty to the image which we had conceived of its neighbour,
and so the reality proved to us when we came up to that little lake, and
saw it before us in its true shape in the cheerful sunshine. The
Trossachs, overtopped by Benledi and other high mountains, enclose the
lake at the head; and those houses which we had seen before, with their
corn fields sloping towards the water, stood very prettily under low
woods. The fields did not appear so rich as when we had seen them
through the veil of mist; but yet, as in framing our expectations we had
allowed for a much greater difference, so we were even a second time
surprised with pleasure at the same spot.
Went as far as these houses of which I have spoken in the car, and then
walked on, intending to pursue the road up the side of Loch Ketterine
along which Coleridge had come; but we had resolved to spend some hours
in the neighbourhood of the Trossachs, and accordingly coasted the head
of Loch Achray, and pursued the brook between the two lakes as far as
there was any track. Here we found, to our surprise--for we had expected
nothing but heath and rocks like the rest of the neighbourhood of the
Trossachs--a secluded farm, a plot of verdant ground with a single
cottage and its company of out-houses. We turned back, and went to the
very point from which we had first looked upon Loch Achray when we were
here with Coleridge. It was no longer a visionary scene: the sun shone
into every crevice of the hills, and the mountain-tops were clear. After
some time we went into the pass from the Trossachs, and were delighted to
behold the forms of objects fully revealed, and even surpassing in
loveliness and variety what we had conceived. The mountains, I think,
appeared not so high; but on the whole we had not the smallest
disappointment; the heather was fading, though still beautiful.
Sate for half-an-hour in Lady Perth's shed, and scrambled over the rocks
and through the thickets at the head of the lake. I went till I could
make my way no further, and left William to go to the top of the hill,
whence he had a distinct view, as on a map, of the intricacies of the
lake and the course of the river. Returned to the huts, and, after
having taken a second dinner of the food we had brought from Callander,
set our faces towards the head of Loch Ketterine. I can add nothing to
my former description of the Trossachs, except that we departed with our
old delightful remembrances endeared, and many new ones. The path or
road--for it was neither the one nor the other, but something between
both--is the pleasantest I have ever travelled in my life for the same
length of way,--now with marks of sledges or wheels, or none at all, bare
or green, as it might happen; now a little descent, now a level;
sometimes a shady lane, at others an open track through green pastures;
then again it would lead us into thick coppice-woods, which often
entirely shut out the lake, and again admitted it by glimpses. We have
never had a more delightful walk than this evening. Ben Lomond and the
three pointed-topped mountains of Loch Lomond, which we had seen from the
Garrison, were very majestic under the clear sky, the lake perfectly
calm, the air sweet and mild. I felt that it was much more interesting
to visit a place where we have been before than it can possibly be the
first time, except under peculiar circumstances. The sun had been set
for some time, when, being within a quarter of a mile of the ferryman's
hut, our path having led us close to the shore of the calm lake, we met
two neatly dressed women, without hats, who had probably been taking
their Sunday evening's walk. One of them said to us in a friendly, soft
tone of voice, 'What! you are stepping westward?' I cannot describe how
affecting this simple expression was in that remote place, with the
western sky in front, yet glowing with the departed sun. William wrote
the following poem long after, in remembrance of his feelings and mine:--
'What! you are stepping westward?' Yea,
'Twould be a wildish destiny
If we, who thus together roam
In a strange land, and far from home,
Were in this place the guests of chance:
Yet who would stop, or fear to advance,
Though home or shelter he had none,
With such a sky to lead him on?
The dewy ground was dark and cold,
Behind all gloomy to behold,
And stepping westward seem'd to be
A kind of heavenly destiny;
I liked the greeting, 'twas a sound
Of something without place or bound;
And seem'd to give me spiritual right
To travel through that region bright.
The voice was soft; and she who spake
Was walking by her native Lake;
The salutation was to me
The very sound of courtesy;
Its power was felt, and while my eye
Was fix'd upon the glowing sky,
The echo of the voice enwrought
A human sweetness with the thought
Of travelling through the world that lay
Before me in my endless way.
We went up to the door of our boatman's hut as to a home, and scarcely
less confident of a cordial welcome than if we had been approaching our
own cottage at Grasmere. It had been a very pleasing thought, while we
were walking by the side of the beautiful lake, that, few hours as we had
been there, there was a home for us in one of its quiet dwellings.
Accordingly, so we found it; the good woman, who had been at a preaching
by the lake-side, was in her holiday dress at the door, and seemed to be
rejoiced at the sight of us. She led us into the hut in haste to supply
our wants; we took once more a refreshing meal by her fireside, and,
though not so merry as the last time, we were not less happy, bating our
regrets that Coleridge was not in his old place. I slept in the same bed
as before, and listened to the household stream, which now only made a
very low murmuring.
* * * * *
_Monday_, _September_ 12_th_.--Rejoiced in the morning to see the sun
shining upon the hills when I first looked out through the open
window-place at my bed's head. We rose early, and after breakfast, our
old companion, who was to be our guide for the day, rowed us over the
water to the same point where Coleridge and I had sate down and eaten our
dinner, while William had gone to survey the unknown coast. We intended
to cross Loch Lomond, follow the lake to Glenfalloch, above the head of
it, and then come over the mountains to Glengyle, and so down the glen,
and passing Mr. Macfarlane's house, back again to the ferry-house, where
we should sleep. So, a third time we went through the mountain hollow,
now familiar ground. The inhabitants had not yet got in all their hay,
and were at work in the fields; our guide often stopped to talk with
them, and no doubt was called upon to answer many inquiries respecting us
two strangers.
At the ferry-house of Inversneyde we had not the happy sight of the
Highland girl and her companion, but the good woman received us
cordially, gave me milk, and talked of Coleridge, who, the morning after
we parted from him, had been at her house to fetch his watch, which he
had forgotten two days before. He has since told me that he questioned
her respecting the miserable condition of her hut, which, as you may
remember, admitted the rain at the door, and retained it in the hollows
of the mud floor: he told her how easy it would be to remove these
inconveniences, and to contrive something, at least, to prevent the wind
from entering at the window-places, if not a glass window for light and
warmth by day. She replied that this was very true, but if they made any
improvements the laird would conclude that they were growing rich, and
would raise their rent.
The ferryman happened to be just ready at the moment to go over the lake
with a poor man, his wife and child. The little girl, about three years
old, cried all the way, terrified by the water. When we parted from this
family, they going down the lake, and we up it, I could not but think of
the difference in our condition to that poor woman, who, with her
husband, had been driven from her home by want of work, and was now going
a long journey to seek it elsewhere: every step was painful toil, for she
had either her child to bear or a heavy burthen. _I_ walked as she did,
but pleasure was my object, and if toil came along with it, even _that_
was pleasure,--pleasure, at least, it would be in the remembrance.