_THIRD WEEK_
_Sunday, August 28th._--We were desirous to have crossed the mountains
above Glengyle to Glenfalloch, at the head of Loch Lomond, but it rained
so heavily that it was impossible, so the ferryman engaged to row us to
the point where Coleridge and I had rested, while William was going on
our doubtful adventure. The hostess provided us with tea and sugar for
our breakfast; the water was boiled in an iron pan, and dealt out to us
in a jug, a proof that she does not often drink tea, though she said she
had always tea and sugar in the house. She and the rest of the family
breakfasted on curds and whey, as taken out of the pot in which she was
making cheese; she insisted upon my taking some also; and her husband
joined in with the old story, that it was "varra halesome." I thought it
exceedingly good, and said to myself that they lived nicely with their
cow: she was meat, drink, and company. Before breakfast the housewife
was milking behind the chimney, and I thought I had seldom heard a
sweeter fire-side sound; in an evening, sitting over a sleepy, low-burnt
fire, it would lull one like the purring of a cat.
When we departed, the good woman shook me cordially by the hand, saying
she hoped that if ever we came into Scotland again, we would come and
see her. The lake was calm, but it rained so heavily that we could see
little. Landed at about ten o'clock, almost wet to the skin, and, with
no prospect but of streaming rains, faced the mountain-road to Loch
Lomond. We recognised the same objects passed before,--the tarn, the
potato-bed, and the cottages with their burnies, which were no longer,
as one might say, household streams, but made us only think of the
mountains and rocks they came from. Indeed, it is not easy to imagine
how different everything appeared; the mountains with mists and torrents
alive and always changing: but the low grounds where the inhabitants had
been at work the day before were melancholy, with here and there a few
haycocks and hay scattered about.
Wet as we were, William and I turned out of our path to the Garrison
house. A few rooms of it seemed to be inhabited by some wretchedly poor
families, and it had all the desolation of a large decayed mansion in
the suburbs of a town, abandoned of its proper inhabitants, and become
the abode of paupers. In spite of its outside bravery, it was but a poor
protection against "the sword of winter, keen and cold." We looked at
the building through the arch of a broken gateway of the courtyard, in
the middle of which it stands. Upon that stormy day it appeared more
than desolate; there was something about it even frightful.
When beginning to descend the hill towards Loch Lomond, we overtook two
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 grand-child. 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![1]
[Footnote 1: See _Peter Bell_, part iii. stanza 31.--ED.]
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[2] was written by William not long after
our return from Scotland:--
[Footnote 2: _To a Highland Girl_, in "Memorials of a Tour in
Scotland, 1803."--ED.]
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." 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 29th._--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 of 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; sea-birds 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 river-side 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.
The passing away of a storm is always a time of life and cheerfulness,
especially in a mountainous country; but that afternoon and evening the
sky was in an extraordinary degree vivid and beautiful. We often stopped
in ascending the hill to look down the long reach of the glen. The road,
following the course of the river as far as we could see, the farm and
cottage hills, smooth towards the base and rocky higher up, were the
sole objects before us. This part of Glen Croe reminded us of some of
the dales of the north of England--Grisdale above Ulswater, for
instance; but the length of it, and the broad highway, which is always
to be seen at a great distance, a sort of centre of the vale, a point of
reference, gives to the whole of the glen, and each division of it, a
very different character.
At the top of the hill we came to a seat with the well-known
inscription, "Rest and be thankful." On the same stone it was recorded
that the road had been made by Col. Wade's regiment. The seat is placed
so as to command a full view of the valley, and the long, long road,
which, with the fact recorded, and the exhortation, makes it an
affecting resting-place. We called to mind with pleasure a seat under
the braes of Loch Lomond on which I had rested, where the traveller is
informed by an inscription upon a stone that the road was made by Col.
Lascelles' regiment. There, the spot had not been chosen merely as a
resting-place, for there was no steep ascent in the highway, but it
might be for the sake of a spring of water and a beautiful rock, or,
more probably, because at that point the labour had been more than
usually toilsome in hewing through the rock. Soon after we had climbed
the hill we began to descend into another glen, called Glen Kinglas. We
now saw the western sky, which had hitherto been hidden from us by the
hill--a glorious mass of clouds uprising from a sea of distant
mountains, stretched out in length before us, towards the west--and
close by us was a small lake or tarn. From the reflection of the crimson
clouds the water appeared of a deep red, like melted rubies, yet with a
mixture of a grey or blackish hue: the gorgeous light of the sky, with
the singular colour of the lake, made the scene exceedingly romantic;
yet it was more melancholy than cheerful. With all the power of light
from the clouds, there was an overcasting of the gloom of evening, a
twilight upon the hills.
We descended rapidly into the glen, which resembles the lower part of
Glen Croe, though it seemed to be inferior in beauty; but before we had
passed through one reach it was quite dark, and I only know that the
steeps were high, and that we had the company of a foaming stream; and
many a vagrant torrent crossed us, dashing down the hills. The road was
bad, and, uncertain how we should fare, we were eager and somewhat
uneasy to get forward; but when we were out of the close glen, and near
to Cairndow, as a traveller had told us, the moon showed her clear face
in the sky, revealing a spacious vale, with a broad loch and sloping
corn fields; the hills not very high. This cheerful sight put us into
spirits, and we thought it was at least no dismal place to sit up all
night in, if they had no beds, and they could not refuse us a shelter.
We were, however, well received, and sate down in a neat parlour with a
good fire.
_Tuesday, August 30th._--Breakfasted before our departure, and ate a
herring, fresh from the water, at our landlord's earnest
recommendation--much superior to the herrings we get in the north of
England.[3] Though we rose at seven, could not set off before nine
o'clock; the servants were in bed; the kettle did not boil--indeed, we
were completely out of patience; but it had always been so, and we
resolved to go off in future without breakfast. Cairndow is a single
house by the side of the loch, I believe resorted to by gentlemen in the
fishing season: it is a pleasant place for such a purpose; but the vale
did not look so beautiful as by moonlight--it had a sort of sea-coldness
without mountain grandeur. There is a ferry for foot-passengers from
Cairndow to the other side of the water, and the road along which all
carriages go is carried round the head of the lake, perhaps a distance
of three miles.
[Footnote 3: I should rather think so!--J. C. S.]
After we had passed the landing-place of the ferry opposite to Cairndow
we saw the lake spread out to a great width, more like an arm of the sea
or a great river than one of our lakes; it reminded us of the Severn at
the Chepstow passage; but the shores were less rich and the hills
higher. The sun shone, which made the morning cheerful, though there was
a cold wind. Our road never carried us far from the lake, and with the
beating of the waves, the sparkling sunshiny water, boats, the opposite
hills, and, on the side on which we travelled, the chance cottages, the
coppice woods, and common business of the fields, the ride could not but
be amusing. But what most excited our attention was, at one particular
place, a cluster of fishing-boats at anchor in a still corner of the
lake, a small bay or harbour by the wayside. They were overshadowed by
fishermen's nets hung out to dry, which formed a dark awning that
covered them like a tent, overhanging the water on each side, and
falling in the most exquisitely graceful folds. There was a monastic
pensiveness, a funereal gloom in the appearance of this little company
of vessels, which was the more interesting from the general liveliness
and glancing motions of the water, they being perfectly still and silent
in their sheltered nook.
When we had travelled about seven miles from Cairndow, winding round the
bottom of a hill, we came in view of a great basin or elbow of the lake.
Completely out of sight of the long track of water we had coasted, we
seemed now to be on the edge of a very large, almost circular, lake, the
town of Inverary before us, a line of white buildings on a low
promontory right opposite, and close to the water's edge; the whole
landscape a showy scene, and bursting upon us at once. A traveller who
was riding by our side called out, "Can that be the Castle?"
Recollecting the prints which we had seen, we knew it could not; but the
mistake is a natural one at that distance: it is so little like an
ordinary town, from the mixture of regularity and irregularity in the
buildings. With the expanse of water and pleasant mountains, the
scattered boats and sloops, and those gathered together, it had a truly
festive appearance. A few steps more brought us in view of the Castle, a
stately turreted mansion, but with a modern air, standing on a lawn,
retired from the water, and screened behind by woods covering the sides
of high hills to the top, and still beyond, by bare mountains. Our road
wound round the semicircular shore, crossing two bridges of lordly
architecture. The town looked pretty when we drew near to it in
connexion with its situation, different from any place I had ever seen,
yet exceedingly like what I imaged to myself from representations in
raree-shows, or pictures of foreign places--Venice, for
example--painted on the scene of a play-house, which one is apt to fancy
are as cleanly and gay as they look through the magnifying-glass of the
raree-show or in the candle-light dazzle of a theatre. At the door of
the inn, though certainly the buildings had not that delightful outside
which they appeared to have at a distance, yet they looked very
pleasant. The range bordering on the water consisted of little else than
the inn, being a large house, with very large stables, the county gaol,
the opening into the main street into the town, and an arched gateway,
the entrance into the Duke of Argyle's private domain.
We were decently well received at the inn, but it was over-rich in
waiters and large rooms to be exactly to our taste, though quite in
harmony with the neighbourhood. Before dinner we went into the Duke's
pleasure-grounds, which are extensive, and of course command a variety
of lively and interesting views. Walked through avenues of tall
beech-trees, and observed some that we thought even the tallest we had
ever seen; but they were all scantily covered with leaves, and the
leaves exceedingly small--indeed, some of them, in the most exposed
situations, were almost bare, as if it had been winter. Travellers who
wish to view the inside of the Castle send in their names, and the Duke
appoints the time of their going; but we did not think that what we
should see would repay us for the trouble, there being no pictures, and
the house, which I believe has not been built above half a century, is
fitted up in the modern style. If there had been any reliques of the
ancient costume of the castle of a Highland chieftain, we should have
been sorry to have passed it.
Sate after dinner by the fireside till near sunset, for it was very
cold, though the sun shone all day. At the beginning of this our second
walk we passed through the town, which is but a doleful example of
Scotch filth. The houses are plastered or rough-cast, and washed
yellow--well built, well sized, and sash-windowed, bespeaking a
connexion with the Duke, such a dependence as may be expected in a small
town so near to his mansion; and indeed he seems to have done his utmost
to make them comfortable, according to our English notions of comfort:
they are fit for the houses of people living decently upon a decent
trade; but the windows and door-steads were as dirty as in a dirty
by-street of a large town, making a most unpleasant contrast with the
comely face of the buildings towards the water, and the ducal grandeur
and natural festivity of the scene. Smoke and blackness are the wild
growth of a Highland hut: the mud floors cannot be washed, the
door-steads are trampled by cattle, and if the inhabitants be not very
cleanly it gives one little pain; but dirty people living in two-storied
stone houses, with dirty sash windows, are a melancholy spectacle
anywhere, giving the notion either of vice or the extreme of
wretchedness.
Returning through the town, we went towards the Castle, and entered the
Duke's grounds by a porter's lodge, following the carriage-road through
the park, which is prettily scattered over with trees, and slopes gently
towards the lake. A great number of lime-trees were growing singly, not
beautiful in their shape, but I mention them for the resemblance to one
of the same kind we had seen in the morning, which formed a shade as
impenetrable as the roof of any house. The branches did not spread far,
nor any one branch much further than another; on the outside it was like
a green bush shorn with shears, but when we sate upon a bench under it,
looking upwards, in the middle of the tree we could not perceive any
green at all; it was like a hundred thousand magpies' nests clustered
and matted together, the twigs and boughs being so intertwined that
neither the light of the mid-day sun nor showers of hail or rain could
pierce through them. The lime-trees on the lawn resembled this tree both
in shape and in the manner of intertwisting their twigs, but they were
much smaller, and not an impenetrable shade.
The views from the Castle are delightful. Opposite is the lake, girt
with mountains, or rather smooth high hills; to the left appears a very
steep rocky hill, called Duniquoich Hill, on the top of which is a
building like a watch-tower; it rises boldly and almost perpendicular
from the plain, at a little distance from the river Arey, that runs
through the grounds. To the right is the town, overtopped by a sort of
spire or pinnacle of the church, a thing unusual in Scotland, except in
the large towns, and which would often give an elegant appearance to the
villages, which, from the uniformity of the huts, and the frequent want
of tall trees, they seldom exhibit.
In looking at an extensive prospect, or travelling through a large vale,
the Trough of the Clyde for instance, I could not help thinking that in
England there would have been somewhere a tower or spire to warn us of a
village lurking under the covert of a wood or bank, or to point out some
particular spot on the distant hills which we might look at with kindly
feelings. I well remember how we used to love the little nest of trees
out of which Ganton spire rose on the distant Wolds opposite to the
windows at Gallow Hill. The spire of Inverary is not of so beautiful a
shape as those of the English churches, and, not being one of a class of
buildings which is understood at once, seen near or at a distance, is a
less interesting object; but it suits well with the outlandish trimness
of the buildings bordering on the water; indeed, there is no one thing
of the many gathered together in the extensive circuit of the basin or
vale of Inverary, that is not in harmony with the effect of the whole
place. The Castle is built of a beautiful hewn stone, in colour
resembling our blue slates. The author-tourists have quarrelled with the
architecture of it, but we did not find much that we were disposed to
blame. A castle in a deep glen, overlooking a roaring stream, and
defended by precipitous rocks, is, no doubt, an object far more
interesting; but, dropping all ideas of danger or insecurity, the
natural retinue in our minds of an ancient Highland chieftain,--take a
Duke of Argyle at the end of the eighteenth century, let him have his
house in Grosvenor Square, his London liveries, and daughters glittering
at St. James's, and I think you will be satisfied with his present
mansion in the Highlands, which seems to suit with the present times and
its situation, and that is indeed a noble one for a modern Duke of the
mountainous district of Argyleshire, with its bare valleys, its rocky
coasts, and sea lochs.
There is in the natural endowments of Inverary something akin to every
feature of the general character of the county; yet even the very
mountains and the lake itself have a kind of princely festivity in their
appearance. I do not know how to communicate the feeling, but it seemed
as if it were no insult to the hills to look on them as the shield and
enclosure of the ducal domain, to which the water might delight in
bearing its tribute. The hills near the lake are smooth, so smooth that
they might have been shaven or swept; the shores, too, had somewhat of
the same effect, being bare, and having no roughness, no woody points;
yet the whole circuit being very large, and the hills so extensive, the
scene was not the less cheerful and festive, rejoicing in the light of
heaven. Behind the Castle the hills are planted to a great height, and
the pleasure-grounds extend far up the valley of Arey. We continued our
walk a short way along the river, and were sorry to see it stripped of
its natural ornaments, after the fashion of Mr. Brown,[4] and left to
tell its tale--for it would not be silent like the river at Blenheim--to
naked fields and the planted trees on the hills. We were disgusted with
the stables, out-houses, or farm-houses in different parts of the
grounds behind the Castle: they were broad, out-spreading, fantastic,
and unintelligible buildings.
[Footnote 4: "Capability" Brown.--J. C. S.]
Sate in the park till the moonlight was perceived more than the light
of day. We then walked near the town by the water-side. I observed that
the children who were playing did not speak Erse, but a much worse
English than is spoken by those Highlanders whose common language is the
Erse. I went into the town to purchase tea and sugar to carry with us on
our journey. We were tired when we returned to the inn, and went to bed
directly after tea. My room was at the very top of the house--one flight
of steps after another!--but when I drew back the curtains of my window
I was repaid for the trouble of panting up-stairs by one of the most
splendid moonlight prospects that can be conceived: the whole circuit of
the hills, the Castle, the two bridges, the tower on Duniquoich Hill,
and the lake with many boats--fit scene for summer midnight festivities!
I should have liked to have seen a bevy of Scottish ladies sailing, with
music, in a gay barge. William, to whom I have read this, tells me that
I have used the very words of Browne of Ottery, Coleridge's
fellow-townsman:--
As I have seen when on the breast of Thames
A heavenly bevy of sweet English dames,
In some calm evening of delightful May,
With music give a farewell to the day,
Or as they would (with an admired tone)
Greet night's ascension to her ebon throne.
BROWNE'S _Britannia's Pastorals_.
_Wednesday, August 31st._--We had a long day's journey before us,
without a regular baiting-place on the road, so we breakfasted at
Inverary, and did not set off till nine o'clock, having, as usual, to
complain of the laziness of the servants. Our road was up the valley
behind the Castle, the same we had gone along the evening before.
Further up, though the plantations on the hills are noble, the valley
was cold and naked, wanting hedgerows and comfortable houses. We
travelled several miles under the plantations, the vale all along
seeming to belong almost exclusively to the Castle. It might have been
better distinguished and adorned, as we thought, by neater farm-houses
and cottages than are common in Scotland, and snugger fields with warm
hedgerows, at the same time testifying as boldly its adherence to the
chief.
At that point of the valley where the pleasure-grounds appear to end, we
left our horse at a cottage door, and turned a few steps out of the road
to see a waterfall, which roared so loud that we could not have gone by
without looking about for it, even if we had not known that there was
one near Inverary. The waterfall is not remarkable for anything but the
good taste with which it has been left to itself, though there is a
pleasure-road from the Castle to it. As we went further up the valley
the roads died away, and it became an ordinary Scotch glen, the poor
pasturage of the hills creeping down into the valley, where it was
little better for the shelter, I mean little greener than on the
hill-sides; but a man must be of a churlish nature if, with a mind free
to look about, he should not find such a glen a pleasing place to travel
through, though seeing little but the busy brook, with here and there a
bush or tree, and cattle pasturing near the thinly-scattered dwellings.
But we came to one spot which I cannot forget, a single green field at
the junction of another brook with the Arey, a peninsula surrounded with
a close row of trees, which overhung the streams, and under their
branches we could just see a neat white house that stood in the middle
of the field enclosed by the trees. Before us was nothing but bare
hills, and the road through the bare glen. A person who has not
travelled in Scotland can scarcely imagine the pleasure we have had from
a stone house, though fresh from the workmen's hands, square and sharp;
there is generally such an appearance of equality in poverty through the
long glens of Scotland, giving the notion of savage ignorance--no house
better than another, and barns and houses all alike. This house had,
however, other recommendations of its own; even in the fertile parts of
Somersetshire it would have been a delicious spot; here, "'Mid mountain
wild set like a little nest," it was a resting-place for the fancy, and
to this day I often think of it, the cottage and its green covert, as an
image of romance, a place of which I have the same sort of knowledge as
of some of the retirements, the little valleys, described so livelily by
Spenser in his _Fairy Queen_.
We travelled on, the glen now becoming entirely bare. Passed a miserable
hut on a naked hill-side, not far from the road, where we were told by a
man who came out of it that we might refresh ourselves with a dram of
whisky. Went over the hill, and saw nothing remarkable till we came in
view of Loch Awe, a large lake far below us, among high mountains--one
very large mountain right opposite, which we afterwards found was called
Cruachan. The day was pleasant--sunny gleams and a fresh breeze; the
lake--we looked across it--as bright as silver, which made the islands,
three or four in number, appear very green. We descended gladly, invited
by the prospect before us, travelling downwards, along the side of the
hill, above a deep glen, woody towards the lower part near the brook;
the hills on all sides were high and bare, and not very stony: it made
us think of the descent from Newlands into Buttermere, though on a wider
scale, and much inferior in simple majesty.
After walking down the hill a long way we came to a bridge, under which
the water dashed through a dark channel of rocks among trees, the lake
being at a considerable distance below, with cultivated lands between.
Close upon the bridge was a small hamlet,[5] a few houses near together,
and huddled up in trees--a very sweet spot, the only retired village we
had yet seen which was characterized by "beautiful" wildness with
sheltering warmth. We had been told at Inverary that we should come to
a place where we might give our horse a feed of corn, and found on
inquiry that there was a little public-house here, or rather a hut
"where they kept a dram." It was a cottage, like all the rest, without a
sign-board. The woman of the house helped to take the horse out of
harness, and, being hungry, we asked her if she could make us some
porridge, to which she replied that "we should get that," and I followed
her into the house, and sate over her hearth while she was making it. As
to fire, there was little sign of it, save the smoke, for a long time,
she having no fuel but green wood, and no bellows but her breath. My
eyes smarted exceedingly, but the woman seemed so kind and cheerful that
I was willing to endure it for the sake of warming my feet in the ashes
and talking to her. The fire was in the middle of the room, a crook
being suspended from a cross-beam, and a hole left at the top for the
smoke to find its way out by: it was a rude Highland hut, unadulterated
by Lowland fashions, but it had not the elegant shape of the ferry-house
at Loch Ketterine, and the fire, being in the middle of the room, could
not be such a snug place to draw to on a winter's night.
[Footnote 5: Cladich.--J. C. S.]
We had a long afternoon before us, with only eight miles to travel to
Dalmally, and, having been told that a ferry-boat was kept at one of the
islands, we resolved to call for it, and row to the island, so we went
to the top of an eminence, and the man who was with us set some children
to work to gather sticks and withered leaves to make a smoky fire--a
signal for the boatman, whose hut is on a flat green island, like a
sheep pasture, without trees, and of a considerable size: the man told
us it was a rabbit-warren. There were other small islands, on one of
which was a ruined house, fortification, or small castle: we could not
learn anything of its history, only a girl told us that formerly
gentlemen lived in such places. Immediately from the water's edge rose
the mountain Cruachan on the opposite side of the lake; it is woody
near the water and craggy above, with deep hollows on the surface. We
thought it the grandest mountain we had seen, and on saying to the man
who was with us that it was a fine mountain, "Yes," he replied, "it is
an excellent mountain," adding that it was higher than Ben Lomond, and
then told us some wild stories of the enormous profits it brought to
Lord Breadalbane, its lawful owner. The shape of Loch Awe is very
remarkable, its outlet being at one side, and only about eight miles
from the head, and the whole lake twenty-four miles in length. We looked
with longing after that branch of it opposite to us out of which the
water issues: it seemed almost like a river gliding under steep
precipices. What we saw of the larger branch, or what might be called
the body of the lake, was less promising, the banks being merely gentle
slopes, with not very high mountains behind, and the ground moorish and
cold.
The children, after having collected fuel for our fire, began to play on
the green hill where we stood, as heedless as if we had been trees or
stones, and amused us exceedingly with their activity: they wrestled,
rolled down the hill, pushing one another over and over again, laughing,
screaming, and chattering Erse: they were all without shoes and
stockings, which, making them fearless of hurting or being hurt, gave a
freedom to the action of their limbs which I never saw in English
children: they stood upon one another, body, breast, or face, or any
other part; sometimes one was uppermost, sometimes another, and
sometimes they rolled all together, so that we could not know to which
body this leg or that arm belonged. We waited, watching them, till we
were assured that the boatman had noticed our signal.--By the bye, if we
had received proper directions at Loch Lomond, on our journey to Loch
Ketterine, we should have made our way down the lake till we had come
opposite to the ferryman's house, where there is a hut, and the people
who live there are accustomed to call him by the same signal as here.
Luckily for us we were not so well instructed, for we should have missed
the pleasure of receiving the kindness of Mr. and Mrs. Macfarlane and
their family.
A young woman who wanted to go to the island accompanied us to the
water-side. The walk was pleasant, through fields with hedgerows, the
greenest fields we had seen in Scotland; but we were obliged to return
without going to the island. The poor man had taken his boat to another
place, and the waters were swollen so that we could not go close to the
shore, and show ourselves to him, nor could we make him hear by
shouting. On our return to the public-house we asked the woman what we
should pay her, and were not a little surprised when she answered,
"Three shillings." Our horse had had a sixpenny feed of miserable corn,
not worth threepence; the rest of the charge was for skimmed milk,
oat-bread, porridge, and blue milk cheese: we told her it was far too
much; and, giving her half-a-crown, departed. I was sorry she had made
this unreasonable demand, because we had liked the woman, and we had
before been so well treated in the Highland cottages; but, on thinking
more about it, I satisfied myself that it was no scheme to impose upon
us, for she was contented with the half-crown, and would, I daresay,
have been so with two shillings, if we had offered it her at first. Not
being accustomed to fix a price upon porridge and milk, to such as we,
at least, when we asked her she did not know what to say; but, seeing
that we were travelling for pleasure, no doubt she concluded we were
rich, and that what was a small gain to her could be no great loss to
us.
When we had gone a little way we saw before us a young man with a bundle
over his shoulder, hung on a stick, bearing a great boy on his back:
seeing that they were travellers, we offered to take the boy on the car,
to which the man replied that he should be more than thankful, and set
him up beside me. They had walked from Glasgow, and that morning from
Inverary; the boy was only six years old, "But," said his father, "he
is a stout walker," and a fine fellow he was, smartly dressed in tight
clean clothes and a nice round hat: he was going to stay with his
grandmother at Dalmally. I found him good company; though I could not
draw a single word out of him, it was a pleasure to see his happiness
gleaming through the shy glances of his healthy countenance. Passed a
pretty chapel by the lake-side, and an island with a farm-house upon it,
and corn and pasture fields; but, as we went along, we had frequent
reason to regret the want of English hedgerows and English culture; for
the ground was often swampy or moorish near the lake where comfortable
dwellings among green fields might have been. When we came near to the
end of the lake we had a steep hill to climb, so William and I walked;
and we had such confidence in our horse that we were not afraid to leave
the car to his guidance with the child in it; we were soon, however,
alarmed at seeing him trot up the hill a long way before us; the child,
having raised himself up upon the seat, was beating him as hard as he
could with a little stick which he carried in his hand; and when he saw
our eyes were on him he sate down, I believe very sorry to resign his
office: the horse slackened his pace, and no accident happened.
When we had ascended half-way up the hill, directed by the man, I took a
nearer footpath, and at the top came in view of a most impressive scene,
a ruined castle on an island almost in the middle of the last
compartment of the lake, backed by a mountain cove, down which came a
roaring stream. The castle occupied every foot of the island that was
visible to us, appearing to rise out of the water; mists rested upon the
mountain side, with spots of sunshine between; there was a mild
desolation in the low grounds, a solemn grandeur in the mountains, and
the castle was wild, yet stately, not dismantled of its turrets, nor the
walls broken down, though completely in ruin. After having stood some
minutes I joined William on the high road, and both wishing to stay
longer near this place, we requested the man to drive his little boy on
to Dalmally, about two miles further, and leave the car at the inn. He
told us that the ruin was called Kilchurn Castle, that it belonged to
Lord Breadalbane, and had been built by one of the ladies of that family
for her defence during her Lord's absence at the Crusades, for which
purpose she levied a tax of seven years' rent upon her tenants;[6] he
said that from that side of the lake it did not appear, in very dry
weather, to stand upon an island; but that it was possible to go over to
it without being wet-shod. We were very lucky in seeing it after a great
flood; for its enchanting effect was chiefly owing to its situation in
the lake, a decayed palace rising out of the plain of waters! I have
called it a palace, for such feeling it gave to me, though having been
built as a place of defence, a castle or fortress. We turned again and
reascended the hill, and sate a long time in the middle of it looking on
the castle and the huge mountain cove opposite, and William, addressing
himself to the ruin, poured out these verses:[7]--
[Footnote 6: Not very probable.--J. C. S.]
[Footnote 7: _Address to Kilchurn Castle, upon Loch Awe._--ED.]
Child of loud-throated War! the mountain stream
Roars in thy hearing; but thy hour of rest
Is come, and thou art silent in thy age.
We walked up the hill again, and, looking down the vale, had a fine view
of the lake and islands, resembling the views down Windermere, though
much less rich. Our walk to Dalmally was pleasant: the vale makes a turn
to the right, beyond the head of the lake, and the village of Dalmally,
which is, in fact, only a few huts, the manse or minister's house, the
chapel, and the inn, stands near the river, which flows into the head of
the lake. The whole vale is very pleasing, the lower part of the
hill-sides being sprinkled with thatched cottages, cultivated ground in
small patches near them, which evidently belonged to the cottages.
We were overtaken by a gentleman who rode on a beautiful white pony,
like Lilly, and was followed by his servant, a Highland boy, on another
pony, a little creature, not much bigger than a large mastiff, on which
were slung a pair of crutches and a tartan plaid. The gentleman entered
into conversation with us, and on our telling him that we were going to
Glen Coe, he advised us, instead of proceeding directly to Tyndrum, the
next stage, to go round by the outlet of Loch Awe to Loch Etive, and
thence to Glen Coe. We were glad to change our plan, for we wanted much
to see more of Loch Awe, and he told us that the whole of the way by
Loch Etive was pleasant, and the road to Tyndrum as dreary as possible;
indeed, we could see it at that time several miles before us upon the
side of a bleak mountain; and he said that there was nothing but moors
and mountains all the way. We reached the inn a little before sunset,
ordered supper, and I walked out. Crossed a bridge to look more nearly
at the parsonage-house and the chapel, which stands upon a bank close to
the river, a pretty stream overhung in some parts by trees. The vale is
very pleasing; but, like all the other Scotch vales we had yet seen, it
told of its kinship with the mountains and of poverty or some neglect on
the part of man.
_Thursday, September 1st._--We had been attended at supper by a civil
boy, whom we engaged to rouse us at six o'clock, and to provide us each
a basin of milk and bread, and have the car ready; all which he did
punctually, and we were off in good time. The morning was not
unpleasant, though rather cold, and we had some fear of rain. Crossed
the bridge, and passed by the manse and chapel, our road carrying us
back again in the direction we had come; but on the opposite side of the
river. Passed close to many of the houses we had seen on the hill-side,
which the lame gentleman had told us belonged to Lord Breadalbane, and
were attached to little farms, or "crofts," as he called them. Lord
Breadalbane had lately laid out a part of his estates in this way as an
experiment, in the hope of preventing discontent and emigration. We were
sorry we had not an opportunity of seeing into these cottages, and of
learning how far the people were happy or otherwise. The dwellings
certainly did not look so comfortable when we were near to them as from
a distance; but this might be chiefly owing to what the inhabitants did
not feel as an evil--the dirt about the doors. We saw, however--a sight
always painful to me--two or three women, each creeping after her single
cow, while it was feeding on the slips of grass between the
corn-grounds. Went round the head of the lake, and onwards close to the
lake-side. Kilchurn Castle was always interesting, though not so grand
as seen from the other side, with its own mountain cove and roaring
stream. It combined with the vale of Dalmally and the distant hills--a
beautiful scene, yet overspread with a gentle desolation. As we went
further down we lost sight of the vale of Dalmally. The castle, which we
often stopped to look back upon, was very beautiful seen in combination
with the opposite shore of the lake--perhaps a little bay, a tuft of
trees, or a slope of the hill. Travelled under the foot of the mountain
Cruachan, along an excellent road, having the lake close to us on our
left, woods overhead, and frequent torrents tumbling down the hills. The
distant views across the lake were not peculiarly interesting after we
were out of sight of Kilchurn Castle, the lake being wide, and the
opposite shore not rich, and those mountains which we could see were not
high.
Came opposite to the village where we had dined the day before, and,
losing sight of the body of the lake, pursued the narrow channel or
pass,[8] which is, I believe, three miles long, out of which issues the
river that flows into Loch Etive. We were now enclosed between steep
hills, on the opposite side entirely bare, on our side bare or woody;
the branch of the lake generally filling the whole area of the vale. It
was a pleasing, solitary scene; the long reach of naked precipices on
the other side rose directly out of the water, exceedingly steep, not
rugged or rocky, but with scanty sheep pasturage and large beds of small
stones, purple, dove-coloured, or red, such as are called Screes in
Cumberland and Westmoreland. These beds, or rather streams of stones,
appeared as smooth as the turf itself, nay, I might say, as soft as the
feathers of birds, which they resembled in colour. There was no building
on either side of the water; in many parts only just room for the road,
and on the other shore no footing, as it might seem, for any creature
larger than the mountain sheep, and they, in treading amongst the
shelving stones, must often send them down into the lake below.
[Footnote 8: The Pass of Awe.--J. C. S.]
After we had wound for some time through the valley, having met neither
foot-traveller, horse, nor cart, we started at the sight of a single
vessel, just as it turned round the point of a hill, coming into the
reach of the valley where we were. She floated steadily through the
middle of the water, with one large sail spread out, full swollen by the
breeze, that blew her right towards us. I cannot express what romantic
images this vessel brought along with her--how much more beautiful the
mountains appeared, the lake how much more graceful. There was one man
on board, who sate at the helm, and he, having no companion, made the
boat look more silent than if we could not have seen him. I had almost
said the ship, for on that narrow water it appeared as large as the
ships which I have watched sailing out of a harbour of the sea. A little
further on we passed a stone hut by the lake-side, near which were many
charcoal sacks, and we conjectured that the vessel had been depositing
charcoal brought from other parts of Loch Awe to be carried to the
iron-works at Loch Etive. A little further on we came to the end of the
lake, but where exactly it ended was not easy to determine, for the
river was as broad as the lake, and we could only say when it became
positively a river by the rushing of the water. It is, indeed, a grand
stream, the quantity of water being very large, frequently forming
rapids, and always flowing very quickly; but its greatness is
short-lived, for, after a course of three miles, it is lost in the great
waters of Loch Etive, a sea loch.
Crossed a bridge, and climbing a hill towards Taynuilt, our
baiting-place, we saw a hollow to the right below us, through which the
river continued its course between rocks and steep banks of wood.
William turned aside to look into the dell, but I was too much tired. We
had left it, two or three hundred yards behind, an open river, the
hills, enclosing the branch of the lake, having settled down into
irregular slopes. We were glad when we reached Taynuilt, a village of
huts, with a chapel and one stone house, which was the inn. It had begun
to rain, and I was almost benumbed with the cold, besides having a bad
headache; so it rejoiced me to see kind looks on the landlady's face,
and that she was willing to put herself in a bustle for our comfort; we
had a good fire presently, and breakfast was set out--eggs, preserved
gooseberries, excellent cream, cheese, and butter, but no wheat bread,
and the oaten cakes were so hard I could not chew them. We wished to go
upon Loch Etive; so, having desired the landlady to prepare a fowl for
supper, and engaged beds, which she promised us willingly--a proof that
we were not in the great road--we determined to find our way to the lake
and endeavour to procure a boat. It rained heavily, but we went on,
hoping the sky would clear up.
Walked through unenclosed fields, a sort of half-desolate country; but
when we came to the mouth of the river which issues out of Loch Awe, and
which we had to cross by a ferry, looking up that river we saw that the
vale down which it flowed was richly wooded and beautiful.
We were now among familiar fireside names. We could see the town of
Bunawe, a place of which the old woman with whom William lodged ten
years at Hawkshead used to tell tales half as long as an ancient
romance. It is a small village or port on the same side of Loch Etive on
which we stood, and at a little distance is a house built by a Mr. Knott
of Coniston Water-head, a partner in the iron-foundry at Bunawe, in the
service of whose family the old woman had spent her youth. It was an
ugly yellow-daubed building, staring this way and that, but William
looked at it with pleasure for poor Ann Tyson's sake.[9] We hailed the
ferry-boat, and a little boy came to fetch us; he rowed up against the
stream with all his might for a considerable way, and then yielding to
it, the boat was shot towards the shore almost like an arrow from a bow.
It was pleasing to observe the dexterity with which the lad managed his
oars, glorying in the appearance of danger--for he observed us watching
him, and afterwards, while he conveyed us over, his pride redoubled; for
my part, I was completely dizzy with the swiftness of the motion.
[Footnote 9: The village dame with whom he lived when a school-boy at
Hawkshead.--ED.]
We could not have a boat from the ferry, but were told that if we would
walk to a house half a mile up the river, we had a chance of getting
one. I went a part of the way with William, and then sate down under the
umbrella near some houses. A woman came out to talk with me, and pressed
me to take shelter in her house, which I refused, afraid of missing
William. She eyed me with extreme curiosity, asking fifty questions
respecting the object of our journey. She told me that it rained most
parts of the year there, and that there was no chance of fine weather
that day; and I believe when William came to tell me that we could have
a boat, she thought I was half crazed. We went down to the shore of the
lake, and, after having sate some time under a wall, the boatman came to
us, and we went upon the water. At first it did not rain heavily, and
the air was not cold, and before we had gone far we rejoiced that we had
not been faint-hearted. The loch is of a considerable width, but the
mountains are so very high that, whether we were close under them or
looked from one shore to the other, they maintained their dignity. I
speak of the higher part of the loch, above the town of Bunawe and the
large river, for downwards they are but hills, and the water spreads out
wide towards undetermined shores. On our right was the mountain
Cruachan, rising directly from the lake, and on the opposite side
another mountain, called Ben Durinish,[10] craggy, and exceedingly
steep, with wild wood growing among the rocks and stones.
[Footnote 10: Duirinnis.--ED.]
We crossed the water, which was very rough in the middle, but calmer
near the shores, and some of the rocky basins and little creeks among
the rocks were as still as a mirror, and they were so beautiful with the
reflection of the orange-coloured seaweed growing on the stones or
rocks, that a child, with a child's delight in gay colours, might have
danced with joy at the sight of them. It never ceased raining, and the
tops of the mountains were concealed by mists, but as long as we could
see across the water we were contented; for though little could be seen
of the true shapes and permanent appearances of the mountains, we saw
enough to give us the most exquisite delight: the powerful lake which
filled the large vale, roaring torrents, clouds floating on the mountain
sides, sheep that pastured there, sea-birds and land birds. We sailed a
considerable way without coming to any houses or cultivated fields.
There was no horse-road on either side of the loch, but a person on
foot, as the boatman told us, might make his way at the foot of Ben
Durinish, namely on that side of the loch on which we were; there was,
however, not the least track to be seen, and it must be very difficult
and laborious.