journey of a long day and a half, when one of the men, pointing to the
head of the loch, replied that if we were there we should be but an
hour's walk from Glen Coe. Though it continued raining, and there was no
hope that the rain would cease, we could not help wishing to go by that
way: it was an adventure; we were not afraid of trusting ourselves to
the hospitality of the Highlanders, and we wanted to give our horse a
day's rest, his back having been galled by the saddle. The owner of the
boat, who understood English much better than the other man, his helper,
said he would make inquiries about the road at a farm-house a little
further on. He was very ready to talk with us, and was rather an
interesting companion; he spoke after a slow and solemn manner, in book
and sermon language and phrases:
A stately speech,
Such as grave livers do in Scotland use.[11]
[Footnote 11: See _Resolution and Independence_, stanza xiv.--ED.]
When we came to the farm-house of which the man had spoken, William and
he landed to make the necessary inquiries. It was a thatched house at
the foot of the high mountain Ben Durinish--a few patches or little beds
of corn belonging to it; but the spot was pastoral, the green grass
growing to the walls of the house. The dwelling-house was distinguished
from the outer buildings, which were numerous, making it look like two
or three houses, as is common in Scotland, by a chimney and one small
window with sash-panes; on one side was a little woody glen, with a
precipitous stream that fell into the bay, which was perfectly still,
and bordered with the rich orange-colour reflected from the sea-weed.
Cruachan, on the other side of the lake, was exceedingly grand, and
appeared of an enormous height, spreading out two large arms that made a
cove down which fell many streams swoln by the rain, and in the hollow
of the cove were some huts which looked like a village. The top of the
mountain was concealed from us by clouds, and the mists floated high and
low upon the sides of it.
William came back to the boat highly pleased with the cheerful
hospitality and kindness of the woman of the house, who would scarcely
permit him and his guide to go away without taking some refreshment. She
was the only person at home, so they could not obtain the desired
information; but William had been well repaid for the trouble of
landing; indeed, rainy as it was, I regretted that I had not landed
also, for I should have wished to bear away in my memory a perfect image
of this place,--the view from the doors, as well as the simple Highland
comforts and contrivances which were near it. I think I never saw a
retirement that would have so completely satisfied me, if I had wanted
to be altogether shut out from the world, and at the same time among the
grandest of the works of God; but it must be remembered that mountains
are often so much dignified by clouds, mists, and other accidents of
weather, that one could not know them again in the full sunshine of a
summer's noon. But, whatever the mountains may be in their own shapes,
the farm-house with its pastoral grounds and corn fields won from the
mountain, its warm out-houses in irregular stages one above another on
the side of the hill, the rocks, the stream, and sheltering bay, must at
all times be interesting objects. The household boat lay at anchor,
chained to a rock, which, like the whole border of the lake, was edged
with sea-weed, and some fishing-nets were hung upon poles,--affecting
images, which led our thoughts out to the wide ocean, yet made these
solitudes of the mountains bear the impression of greater safety and
more deep seclusion.
The rain became so heavy that we should certainly have turned back if we
had not felt more than usual courage from the pleasure we had enjoyed,
which raised hope where none was. There were some houses a little higher
up, and we determined to go thither and make further inquiries. We
could now hardly see to the other side of the lake, yet continued to go
on, and presently heard some people pushing through a thicket close to
us, on which the boatman called out, "There's one that can tell us
something about the road to Glen Coe, for he was born there." We looked
up and saw a ragged, lame fellow, followed by some others, with a
fishing-rod over his shoulder; and he was making such good speed through
the boughs that one might have half believed he was the better for his
lame leg. He was the head of a company of tinkers, who, as the men told
us, travel with their fishing-rods as duly as their hammers. On being
hailed by us the whole company stopped; and their lame leader and our
boatmen shouted to each other in Erse--a savage cry to our ears, in that
lonely and romantic place. We could not learn from the tinker all we
wished to know, therefore when we came near to the houses William landed
again with the owner of the boat. The rain was now so heavy that we
could see nothing at all--not even the houses whither William was going.
We had given up all thought of proceeding further at that time, but were
desirous to know how far that road to Glen Coe was practicable for us.
They met with an intelligent man, who was at work with others in a hay
field, though it rained so heavily; he gave them the information they
desired, and said that there was an acquaintance of his between that
place and Glen Coe, who, he had no doubt, would gladly accommodate us
with lodging and anything else we might need. When William returned to
the boat we shaped our course back again down the water, leaving the
head of Loch Etive not only unvisited, but unseen--to our great regret.
The rain was very heavy; the wind had risen, and both wind and tide were
against us, so that it was hard labour for the boatmen to push us on.
They kept as close to the shore as they could, to be under the wind; but
at the doubling of many of the rocky points the tide was so strong that
it was difficult to get on at all, and I was sometimes afraid that we
should be dashed against the rocks, though I believe, indeed, there was
not much danger.
Came down the same side of the lake under Ben Durinish, and landed at a
ferry-house opposite to Bunawe, where we gave the men a glass of whisky;
but our chief motive for landing was to look about the place, which had
a most wild aspect at that time. It was a low promontory, pushed far
into the water, narrowing the lake exceedingly; in the obscurity
occasioned by the mist and rain it appeared to be an island; it was
stained and weatherbeaten, a rocky place, seeming to bear no produce but
such as might be cherished by cold and storms, lichens or the
incrustations of sea rocks. We rowed right across the water to the mouth
of the river of Loch Awe, our boat following the ferry-boat which was
conveying the tinker crew to the other side, whither they were going to
lodge, as the men told us, in some kiln, which they considered as their
right and privilege--a lodging always to be found where there was any
arable land--for every farm has its kiln to dry the corn in: another
proof of the wetness of the climate. The kilns are built of stone,
covered in, and probably as good a shelter as the huts in which these
Highland vagrants were born. They gather sticks or heather for their
fire, and, as they are obstinate beggars, for the men said they would
not be denied, they probably have plenty of food with little other
trouble than that of wandering in search of it, for their smutty faces
and tinker equipage serve chiefly for a passport to a free and careless
life. It rained very heavily, and the wind blew when we crossed the
lake, and their boat and ours went tilting over the high waves. They
made a romantic appearance; three women were of the party; two men rowed
them over; the lame fellow sate at one end of the boat, and his
companion at the other, each with an enormous fishing-rod, which looked
very graceful, something like masts to the boat. When we had landed at
the other side we saw them, after having begged at the ferry-house,
strike merrily through the fields, no doubt betaking themselves to their
shelter for the night.
We were completely wet when we reached the inn; the landlady wanted to
make a fire for me upstairs, but I went into her own parlour to undress,
and her daughter, a pretty little girl, who could speak a few words of
English, waited on me; I rewarded her with one of the penny books bought
at Dumfries for Johnny, with which she was greatly delighted. We had an
excellent supper--fresh salmon, a fowl, gooseberries and cream, and
potatoes; good beds; and the next morning boiled milk and bread, and
were only charged seven shillings and sixpence for the whole--horse,
liquor, supper, and the two breakfasts. We thought they had made a
mistake, and told them so--for it was only just half as much as we had
paid the day before at Dalmally, the case being that Dalmally is in the
main road of the tourists. The landlady insisted on my bringing away a
little cup instead of our tin can, which she told me had been taken from
the car by some children: we set no little value on this cup as a
memorial of the good woman's honesty and kindness, and hoped to have
brought it home....
_Friday, September 2nd._--Departed at about seven o'clock this morning,
having to travel eight miles down Loch Etive, and then to cross a ferry.
Our road was at first at a considerable distance from the lake, and out
of sight of it, among undulating hills covered with coppice woods,
resembling the country between Coniston and Windermere, but it
afterwards carried us close to the water's edge; and in this part of our
ride we were disappointed. We knew that the high mountains were all at
the head of the lake, therefore had not expected the same awful grandeur
which we beheld the day before, and perceived by glimpses; but the
gentleman whom we met with at Dalmally had told us that there were many
fine situations for gentlemen's seats on this part of the lake, which
had made us expect greater loveliness near the shores, and better
cultivation. It is true there are pleasant bays, with grounds prettily
sloping to the water, and coppice woods, where houses would stand in
shelter and sun, looking on the lake; but much is yet wanting--waste
lands to be ploughed, peat-mosses drained, hedgerows reared; and the
woods demand a grant of longer life than is now their privilege.
But after we had journeyed about six miles a beautiful scene opened upon
us. The morning had been gloomy, and at this time the sun shone out,
scattering the clouds. We looked right down the lake, that was covered
with streams of dazzling sunshine, which revealed the indentings of the
dark shores. On a bold promontory, on the same side of the loch where we
were, stood an old castle, an irregular tall building, not without
majesty; and beyond, with leagues of water between, our eyes settled
upon the island of Mull, a high mountain, green in the sunshine, and
overcast with clouds,--an object as inviting to the fancy as the evening
sky in the west, and though of a terrestrial green, almost as visionary.
We saw that it was an island of the sea, but were unacquainted with its
name; it was of a gem-like colour, and as soft as the sky. The shores of
Loch Etive, in their moorish, rocky wildness, their earthly bareness, as
they lay in length before us, produced a contrast which, with the pure
sea, the brilliant sunshine, the long distance, contributed to the
aërial and romantic power with which the mountain island was invested.
Soon after, we came to the ferry. The boat being on the other shore, we
had to wait a considerable time, though the water was not wide, and our
call was heard immediately. The boatmen moved with surly tardiness, as
if glad to make us know that they were our masters. At this point the
lake was narrowed to the breadth of not a very wide river by a round ear
or promontory on the side on which we were, and a low ridge of
peat-mossy ground on the other. It was a dreary place, shut out from
the beautiful prospect of the Isle of Mull, and Dunstaffnage Castle--so
the fortress was called. Four or five men came over with the boat; the
horse was unyoked, and being harshly driven over rough stones, which
were as slippery as ice, with slimy seaweed, he was in terror before he
reached the boat, and they completed the work by beating and pushing him
by main force over the ridge of the boat, for there was no open end, or
plank, or any other convenience for shipping either horse or carriage. I
was very uneasy when we were launched on the water. A blackguard-looking
fellow, blind of one eye, which I could not but think had been put out
in some strife or other, held him by force like a horse-breaker, while
the poor creature fretted, and stamped with his feet against the bare
boards, frightening himself more and more with every stroke; and when we
were in the middle of the water I would have given a thousand pounds to
have been sure that we should reach the other side in safety. The tide
was rushing violently in, making a strong eddy with the stream of the
loch, so that the motion of the boat and the noise and foam of the waves
terrified him still more, and we thought it would be impossible to keep
him in the boat, and when we were just far enough from the shore to have
been all drowned he became furious, and, plunging desperately, his
hind-legs were in the water, then, recovering himself, he beat with such
force against the boat-side that we were afraid he should send his feet
through. All the while the men were swearing terrible oaths, and cursing
the poor beast, redoubling their curses when we reached the
landing-place, and whipping him ashore in brutal triumph.
We had only room for half a heartful of joy when we set foot on dry
land, for another ferry was to be crossed five miles further. We had
intended breakfasting at this house if it had been a decent place; but
after this affair we were glad to pay the men off and depart, though I
was not well and needed refreshment. The people made us more easy by
assuring us that we might easily swim the horse over the next ferry. The
first mile or two of our road was over a peat-moss; we then came near to
the sea-shore, and had beautiful views backwards towards the Island of
Mull and Dunstaffnage Castle, and forward where the sea ran up between
the hills. In this part, on the opposite side of the small bay or elbow
of the sea, was a gentleman's house on a hillside,[12] and a building on
the hill-top which we took for a lighthouse, but were told that it
belonged to the mansion, and was only lighted up on rejoicing days--the
laird's birthday, for instance.
[Footnote 12: Lochnell House.--J. C. S.]
Before we had left the peat-moss to travel close to the sea-shore we
delighted ourselves with looking on a range of green hills, in shape
like those bordering immediately upon the sea, abrupt but not high; they
were, in fact, a continuation of the same; but retiring backwards, and
rising from the black peat-moss. These hills were of a delicate green,
uncommon in Scotland; a foaming rivulet ran down one part, and near it
lay two herdsmen full in the sun, with their dogs, among a troop of
black cattle which were feeding near, and sprinkled over the whole range
of hills--a pastoral scene, to our eyes the more beautiful from knowing
what a delightful prospect it must overlook. We now came under the
steeps by the sea-side, which were bold rocks, mouldering scars, or
fresh with green grass. Under the brow of one of these rocks was a
burying-ground, with many upright grave-stones and hay-cocks between,
and fenced round by a wall neatly sodded. Near it were one or two
houses, with out-houses under a group of trees, but no chapel. The
neatness of the burying-ground would in itself have been noticeable in
any part of Scotland where we have been; but it was more interesting
from its situation than for its own sake--within the sound of the
gentlest waves of the sea, and near so many quiet and beautiful
objects. There was a range of hills opposite, which we were here first
told were the hills of Morven, so much sung of by Ossian. We consulted
with some men respecting the ferry, who advised us by all means to send
our horse round the loch, and go ourselves over in the boat: they were
very civil, and seemed to be intelligent men, yet all disagreed about
the length of the loch, though we were not two miles from it: one said
it was only six miles long, another ten or fifteen, and afterwards a man
whom we met told us it was twenty.
We lost sight of the sea for some time, crossing a half-cultivated
space, then reached Loch Creran, a large irregular sea loch, with low
sloping banks, coppice woods, and uncultivated grounds, with a
scattering of corn fields; as it appeared to us, very thinly inhabited:
mountains at a distance. We found only women at home at the ferry-house.
I was faint and cold, and went to sit by the fire, but, though very much
needing refreshment, I had not heart to eat anything there--the house
was so dirty, and there were so many wretchedly dirty women and
children; yet perhaps I might have got over the dirt, though I believe
there are few ladies who would not have been turned sick by it, if there
had not been a most disgusting combination of laziness and coarseness in
the countenances and manners of the women, though two of them were very
handsome. It was a small hut, and four women were living in it: one, the
mother of the children and mistress of the house; the others I supposed
to be lodgers, or perhaps servants; but there was no work amongst them.
They had just taken from the fire a great pan full of potatoes, which
they mixed up with milk, all helping themselves out of the same vessel,
and the little children put in their dirty hands to dig out of the mess
at their pleasure. I thought to myself, How light the labour of such a
house as this! Little sweeping, no washing of floors, and as to scouring
the table, I believe it was a thing never thought of.
After a long time the ferryman came home; but we had to wait yet another
hour for the tide. In the meanwhile our horse took fright in consequence
of his terror at the last ferry, ran away with the car, and dashed out
umbrellas, greatcoats, etc.; but luckily he was stopped before any
serious mischief was done. We had determined, whatever it cost, not to
trust ourselves with him again in the boat; but sending him round the
lake seemed almost out of the question, there being no road, and
probably much difficulty in going round with a horse; so after some
deliberation with the ferryman it was agreed that he should swim over.
The usual place of ferrying was very broad, but he was led to the point
of a peninsula at a little distance. It being an unusual
affair,--indeed, the people of the house said that he was the first
horse that had ever swum over,--we had several men on board, and the
mistress of the house offered herself as an assistant: we supposed for
the sake of a share in eighteen-pennyworth of whisky which her husband
called for without ceremony, and of which she and the young lasses, who
had helped to push the boat into the water, partook as freely as the
men. At first I feared for the horse: he was frightened, and strove to
push himself under the boat; but I was soon tolerably easy, for he went
on regularly and well, and after from six to ten minutes' swimming
landed in safety on the other side. Poor creature! he stretched out his
nostrils and stared wildly while the man was trotting him about to warm
him, and when he put him into the car he was afraid of the sound of the
wheels. For some time our road was up a glen, the banks chiefly covered
with coppice woods, an unpeopled, but, though without grandeur, not a
dreary tract.
Came to a moor and descended into a broad vale, which opened to Loch
Linnhe, an arm of the sea, the prospect being shut in by high mountains,
on which the sun was shining among mists and resting clouds. A village
and chapel stood on the opposite hill; the hills sloped prettily down
to the bed of the vale, a large level area--the grounds in general
cultivated, but not rich. We went perhaps half a mile down the vale,
when our road struck right across it towards the village on the
hill-side. We overtook a tall, well-looking man, seemingly about thirty
years of age, driving a cart, of whom we inquired concerning the road,
and the distance to Portnacroish, our baiting-place. We made further
inquiries respecting our future journey, which he answered in an
intelligent manner, being perfectly acquainted with the geography of
Scotland. He told us that the village which we saw before us and the
whole tract of country was called Appin. William said that it was a
pretty, wild place, to which the man replied, "Sir, it is a very bonny
place if you did but see it on a fine day," mistaking William's praise
for a half-censure; I must say, however, that we hardly ever saw a
thoroughly pleasing place in Scotland, which had not something of
wildness in its aspect of one sort or other. It came from many causes
here: the sea, or sea-loch, of which we only saw as it were a glimpse
crossing the vale at the foot of it, the high mountains on the opposite
shore, the unenclosed hills on each side of the vale, with black cattle
feeding on them, the simplicity of the scattered huts, the
half-sheltered, half-exposed situation of the village, the imperfect
culture of the fields, the distance from any city or large town, and the
very names of Morven and Appin, particularly at such a time, when old
Ossian's old friends, sunbeams and mists, as like ghosts as any in the
mid-afternoon could be, were keeping company with them. William did all
he could to efface the unpleasant impression he had made on the
Highlander, and not without success, for he was kind and communicative
when we walked up the hill towards the village. He had been a great
traveller, in Ireland and elsewhere; but I believe that he had visited
no place so beautiful to his eyes as his native home, the strath of
Appin under the heathy hills.
We arrived at Portnacroish soon after parting from this man. It is a
small village--a few huts and an indifferent inn by the side of the
loch. Ordered a fowl for dinner, had a fire lighted, and went a few
steps from the door up the road, and turning aside into a field stood at
the top of a low eminence, from which, looking down the loch to the sea
through a long vista of hills and mountains, we beheld one of the most
delightful prospects that, even when we dream of fairer worlds than
this, it is possible for us to conceive in our hearts. A covering of
clouds rested on the long range of the hills of Morven, mists floated
very near to the water on their sides, and were slowly shifting about:
yet the sky was clear, and the sea, from the reflection of the sky, of
an ethereal or sapphire blue, which was intermingled in many places, and
mostly by gentle gradations, with beds of bright dazzling sunshine;
green islands lay on the calm water, islands far greener, for so it
seemed, than the grass of other places; and from their excessive beauty,
their unearthly softness, and the great distance of many of them, they
made us think of the islands of the blessed in the _Vision of Mirza_--a
resemblance more striking from the long tract of mist which rested on
the top of the steeps of Morven. The view was endless, and though not so
wide, had something of the intricacy of the islands and water of Loch
Lomond as we saw them from Inch-ta-vannach; and yet how different! At
Loch Lomond we could never forget that it was an inland lake of fresh
water, nor here that it was the sea itself, though among multitudes of
hills. Immediately below us, on an island a few yards from the shore,
stood an old keep or fortress;[13] the vale of Appin opened to the
water-side, with cultivated fields and cottages. If there were trees
near the shore they contributed little to the delightful effect of the
scene: it was the immeasurable water, the lofty mist-covered steeps of
Morven to the right, the emerald islands without a bush or tree, the
celestial colour and brightness of the calm sea, and the innumerable
creeks and bays, the communion of land and water as far as the eye could
travel. My description must needs be languid; for the sight itself was
too fair to be remembered. We sate a long time upon the hill, and
pursued our journey at about four o'clock. Had an indifferent dinner,
but the cheese was so excellent that William wished to buy the
remainder; but the woman would not consent to sell it, and forced us to
accept a large portion of it.
[Footnote 13: Castle Stalker.--J. C. S.]
We had to travel up the loch, leaving behind us the beautiful scene
which we had viewed with such delight before dinner. Often, while we
were climbing the hill, did we stop to look back, and when we had gone
twenty or thirty yards beyond the point where we had the last view of
it, we left the car to the care of some children who were coming from
school, and went to take another farewell, always in the hope of bearing
away a more substantial remembrance. Travelled for some miles along a
road which was so smooth it was more like a gravel walk in a gentleman's
grounds than a public highway. Probably the country is indebted for this
excellent road to Lord Tweeddale,[14] now a prisoner in France. His
house stands upon an eminence within a mile of Portnacroish, commanding
the same prospect which I have spoken of, except that it must lose
something in not having the old fortress at the foot of it--indeed, it
is not to be seen at all from the house or grounds.
[Footnote 14: George, seventh Marquis of Tweeddale, being in France in
1803, was detained by Bonaparte, and died at Verdun, 9th August
1804.--J. C. S.]
We travelled under steep hills, stony or smooth, with coppice-woods and
patches of cultivated land, and houses here and there; and at every
hundred yards, I may almost venture to say, a streamlet, narrow as a
ribbon, came tumbling down, and, crossing our road, fell into the lake
below. On the opposite shore, the hills--namely, the continuation of the
hills of Morven--were stern and severe, rising like upright walls from
the water's edge, and in colour more resembling rocks than hills, as
they appeared to us. We did not see any house, or any place where it was
likely a house could stand, for many miles; but as the loch was broad we
could not perhaps distinguish the objects thoroughly. A little after
sunset our road led us from the vale of the loch. We came to a small
river, a bridge, a mill, and some cottages at the foot of a hill, and
close to the loch.
Did not cross the bridge, but went up the brook, having it on our left,
and soon found ourselves in a retired valley, scattered over with many
grey huts, and surrounded on every side by green hills. The hay grounds
in the middle of the vale were unenclosed, which was enough to keep
alive the Scottish wildness, here blended with exceeding beauty; for
there were trees growing irregularly or in clumps all through the
valley, rocks or stones here and there, which, with the people at work,
hay-cocks sprinkled over the fields, made the vale look full and
populous. It was a sweet time of the evening: the moon was up; but there
was yet so much of day that her light was not perceived. Our road was
through open fields; the people suspended their work as we passed along,
and leaning on their pitchforks or rakes, with their arms at their
sides, or hanging down, some in one way, some in another, and no two
alike, they formed most beautiful groups, the outlines of their figures
being much more distinct than by day, and all that might have been harsh
or unlovely softened down. The dogs were, as usual, attendant on their
masters, and, watching after us, they barked aloud; yet even their
barking hardly disturbed the quiet of the place.
I cannot say how long this vale was; it made the larger half of a
circle, or a curve deeper than that of half a circle, before it opened
again upon the loch. It was less thoroughly cultivated and woody after
the last turning--the hills steep and lofty. We met a very tall stout
man, a fine figure, in a Highland bonnet, with a little girl, driving
home their cow: he accosted us, saying that we were late travellers, and
that we had yet four miles to go before we should reach Ballachulish--a
long way, uncertain as we were respecting our accommodations. He told us
that the vale was called the Strath of Duror, and when we said it was a
pretty place, he answered, Indeed it was, and that they lived very
comfortably there, for they had a good master, Lord Tweeddale, whose
imprisonment he lamented, speaking earnestly of his excellent qualities.
At the end of the vale we came close upon a large bay of the loch,
formed by a rocky hill, a continuation of the ridge of high hills on the
left side of the strath, making a very grand promontory, under which was
a hamlet, a cluster of huts, at the water's edge, with their little
fleet of fishing-boats at anchor, and behind, among the rocks, a hundred
slips of corn, slips and patches, often no bigger than a garden such as
a child, eight years old, would make for sport: it might have been the
work of a small colony from China. There was something touching to the
heart in this appearance of scrupulous industry, and excessive labour of
the soil, in a country where hills and mountains, and even valleys, are
left to the care of nature and the pleasure of the cattle that feed
among them. It was, indeed, a very interesting place, the more so being
in perfect contrast with the few houses at the entrance of the strath--a
sea hamlet, without trees, under a naked stony mountain, yet perfectly
sheltered, standing in the middle of a large bay which half the winds
that travel over the lake can never visit. The other, a little bowery
spot, with its river, bridge, and mill, might have been a hundred miles
from the sea-side.
The moon was now shining, and though it reminded us how far the evening
was advanced, we stopped for many minutes before we could resolve to go
on; we saw nothing stirring, neither men, women, nor cattle; but the
linen was still bleaching by the stony rivulet, which ran near the
houses in water-breaks and tiny cataracts. For the first half mile
after we had left this scene there was nothing remarkable; and
afterwards we could only see the hills, the sky, the moon, and moonlight
water. When we came within, it might be, half a mile of Ballachulish,
the place where we were to lodge, the loch narrowed very much, the hills
still continuing high. I speak inaccurately, for it split into two
divisions, the one along which we went being called Loch Leven.
The road grew very bad, and we had an anxious journey till we saw a
light before us, which with great joy we assured ourselves was from the
inn; but what was our distress when, on going a few steps further, we
came to a bridge half broken down, with bushes laid across to prevent
travellers from going over. After some perplexity we determined that I
should walk on to the house before us--for we could see that the bridge
was safe for foot-passengers--and ask for assistance. By great good
luck, at this very moment four or five men came along the road towards
us and offered to help William in driving the car through the water,
which was not very deep at that time, though, only a few days before,
the damage had been done to the bridge by a flood.
I walked on to the inn, ordered tea, and was conducted into a
lodging-room. I desired to have a fire, and was answered with the old
scruple about "giving fire,"--with, at the same time, an excuse "that it
was so late,"--the girl, however, would ask the landlady, who was
lying-in; the fire was brought immediately, and from that time the girl
was very civil. I was not, however, quite at ease, for William stayed
long, and I was going to leave my fire to seek after him, when I heard
him at the door with the horse and car. The horse had taken fright with
the roughness of the river-bed and the rattling of the wheels--the
second fright in consequence of the ferry--and the men had been obliged
to unyoke him and drag the car through, a troublesome affair for
William; but he talked less of the trouble and alarm than of the
pleasure he had felt in having met with such true goodwill and ready
kindness in the Highlanders. They drank their glass of whisky at the
door, wishing William twenty good wishes, and asking him twice as many
questions,--if he was married, if he had an estate, where he lived, etc.
etc. This inn is the ferry-house on the main road up into the Highlands
by Fort-William, and here Coleridge, though unknown to us, had slept
three nights before.
_Saturday, September 3rd._--When we have arrived at an unknown place by
moonlight, it is never a moment of indifference when I quit it again
with the morning light, especially if the objects have appeared
beautiful, or in any other way impressive or interesting. I have kept
back, unwilling to go to the window, that I might not lose the picture
taken to my pillow at night. So it was at Ballachulish: and instantly I
felt that the passing away of my own fancies was a loss. The place had
appeared exceedingly wild by moonlight; I had mistaken corn-fields for
naked rocks, and the lake had appeared narrower and the hills more steep
and lofty than they really were.
We rose at six o'clock, and took a basin of milk before we set forward
on our journey to Glen Coe. It was a delightful morning, the road
excellent, and we were in good spirits, happy that we had no more
ferries to cross, and pleased with the thought that we were going among
the grand mountains which we saw before us at the head of the loch. We
travelled close to the water's edge, and were rolling along a smooth
road, when the horse suddenly backed, frightened by the upright shafts
of a roller rising from behind the wall of a field adjoining the road.
William pulled, whipped, and struggled in vain; we both leapt upon the
ground, and the horse dragged the car after him, he going backwards down
the bank of the loch, and it was turned over, half in the water, the
horse lying on his back, struggling in the harness, a frightful sight!
I gave up everything; thought that the horse would be lamed, and the car
broken to pieces. Luckily a man came up in the same moment, and assisted
William in extricating the horse, and, after an hour's delay, with the
help of strings and pocket-handkerchiefs, we mended the harness and set
forward again, William leading the poor animal all the way, for the
regular beating of the waves frightened him, and any little gushing
stream that crossed the road would have sent him off. The village where
the blacksmith lived was before us--a few huts under the mountains, and,
as it seemed, at the head of the loch; but it runs further up to the
left, being narrowed by a hill above the village, near which, at the
edge of the water, was a slate quarry, and many large boats with masts,
on the water below, high mountains shutting in the prospect, which stood
in single, distinguishable shapes, yet clustered together--simple and
bold in their forms, and their surfaces of all characters and all
colours--some that looked as if scarified by fire, others green; and
there was one that might have been blasted by an eternal frost, its
summit and sides for a considerable way down being as white as
hoar-frost at eight o'clock on a winter's morning. No clouds were on the
hills; the sun shone bright, but the wind blew fresh and cold.
When we reached the blacksmith's shop, I left William to help to take
care of the horse, and went into the house. The mistress, with a child
in her arms and two or three running about, received me very kindly,
making many apologies for the dirty house, which she partly attributed
to its being Saturday; but I could plainly see that it was dirt of all
days. I sat in the midst of it with great delight, for the woman's
benevolent, happy countenance almost converted her slovenly and lazy way
of leaving all things to take care of themselves into a comfort and a
blessing.
It was not a Highland hut, but a slated house built by the master of the
quarry for the accommodation of his blacksmith,--the shell of an
English cottage, as if left unfinished by the workmen, without plaster,
and with floor of mud. Two beds, with not over-clean bedclothes, were in
the room. Luckily for me, there was a good fire and a boiling kettle.
The woman was very sorry she had no butter; none was to be had in the
village: she gave me oaten and barley bread. We talked over the fire; I
answered her hundred questions, and in my turn put some to her. She
asked me, as usual, if I was married, how many brothers I had, etc. etc.
I told her that William was married, and had a fine boy; to which she
replied, "And the man's a decent man too." Her next-door neighbour came
in with a baby on her arm, to request that I would accept of some fish,
which I broiled in the ashes. She joined in our conversation, but with
more shyness than her neighbour, being a very young woman. She happened
to say that she was a stranger in that place, and had been bred and born
a long way off. On my asking her where, she replied, "At Leadhills"; and
when I told her that I had been there, a joy lighted up her countenance
which I shall never forget, and when she heard that it was only a
fortnight before, her eyes filled with tears. I was exceedingly affected
with the simplicity of her manners; her tongue was now let loose, and
she would have talked for ever of Leadhills, of her mother, of the
quietness of the people in general, and the goodness of Mrs. Otto, who,
she told me, was a "varra discreet woman." She was sure we should be
"well put up" at Mrs. Otto's, and praised her house and furniture;
indeed, it seemed she thought all earthly comforts were gathered
together under the bleak heights that surround the villages of
Wanlockhead and Leadhills: and afterwards, when I said it was a wild
country thereabouts, she even seemed surprised, and said it was not half
so wild as where she lived now. One circumstance which she mentioned of
Mrs. Otto I must record, both in proof of her "discretion," and the
sobriety of the people at Leadhills, namely, that no liquor was ever
drunk in her house after a certain hour of the night--I have forgotten
what hour; but it was an early one, I am sure not later than ten.
The blacksmith, who had come in to his breakfast, was impatient to
finish our job, that he might go out into the hay-field, for, it being a
fine day, every plot of hay-ground was scattered over with hay-makers.
On my saying that I guessed much of their hay must be spoiled, he told
me no, for that they had high winds, which dried it quickly,--the people
understood the climate, "were clever at the work, and got it in with a
blink." He hastily swallowed his breakfast, dry bread and a basin of
weak tea without sugar, and held his baby on his knee till he had done.
The women and I were again left to the fireside, and there were no
limits to their joy in me, for they discovered another bond of
connexion. I lived in the same part of England from which Mr. Rose,
the superintendent of the slate-quarries, and his wife, had come.
"Oh!" said Mrs. Stuart--so her neighbour called her, they not giving
each other their Christian names, as is common in Cumberland and
Westmoreland,--"Oh!" said she, "what would not I give to see anybody
that came from within four or five miles of Leadhills?" They both
exclaimed that I must see Mrs. Rose; she would make much of me--she
would have given me tea and bread and butter and a good breakfast. I
learned from the two women, Mrs. Stuart and Mrs. Duncan--so the other
was called--that Stuart had come from Leadhills for the sake of better
wages, to take the place of Duncan, who had resigned his office of
blacksmith to the quarries, as far as I could learn, in a pet, intending
to go to America, that his wife was averse to go, and that the scheme,
for this cause and through other difficulties, had been given up. He
appeared to be a good-tempered man, and made us a most reasonable charge
for mending the car. His wife told me that they must give up the house
in a short time to the other blacksmith; she did not know whither they
should go, but her husband, being a good workman, could find employment
anywhere. She hurried me out to introduce me to Mrs. Rose, who was at
work in the hay-field; she was exceedingly glad to see one of her
country-women, and entreated that I would go up to her house. It was a
substantial plain house, that would have held half-a-dozen of the common
huts. She conducted me into a sitting-room up-stairs, and set before me
red and white wine, with the remnant of a loaf of wheaten bread, which
she took out of a cupboard in the sitting-room, and some delicious
butter. She was a healthy and cheerful-looking woman, dressed like one
of our country lasses, and had certainly had no better education than
Peggy Ashburner, but she was as a chief in this secluded place, a Madam
of the village, and seemed to be treated with the utmost respect.
In our way to and from the house we met several people who interchanged
friendly greetings with her, but always as with one greatly superior.
She attended me back to the blacksmith's, and would not leave me till
she had seen us set forward again on our journey. Mrs. Duncan and Mrs.
Stuart shook me cordially, nay, affectionately, by the hand. I tried to
prevail upon the former, who had been my hostess, to accept of some
money, but in vain; she would not take a farthing, and though I told her
it was only to buy something for her little daughter, even seemed
grieved that I should think it possible. I forgot to mention that while
the blacksmith was repairing the car, we walked to the slate-quarry,
where we saw again some of the kind creatures who had helped us in our
difficulties the night before. The hovel under which they split their
slates stood upon an outjutting rock, a part of the quarry rising
immediately out of the water, and commanded a fine prospect down the
loch below Ballachulish, and upwards towards the grand mountains, and
the other horn of the vale where the lake was concealed. The blacksmith
drove our car about a mile of the road; we then hired a man and horse
to take me and the car to the top of Glen Coe, being afraid that if the
horse backed or took fright we might be thrown down some precipice.
But before we departed we could not resist our inclination to climb up
the hill which I have mentioned as appearing to terminate the loch. The
mountains, though inferior to those of Glen Coe, on the other side are
very majestic; and the solitude in which we knew the unseen lake was
bedded at their feet was enough to excite our longings. We climbed steep
after steep, far higher than they appeared to us, and I was going to
give up the accomplishment of our aim, when a glorious sight on the
mountain before us made me forget my fatigue. A slight shower had come
on, its skirts falling upon us, and half the opposite side of the
mountain was wrapped up in rainbow light, covered as by a veil with one
dilated rainbow: so it continued for some minutes; and the shower and
rainy clouds passed away as suddenly as they had come, and the sun shone
again upon the tops of all the hills. In the meantime we reached the
wished-for point, and saw to the head of the loch. Perhaps it might not
be so beautiful as we had imaged it in our thoughts, but it was
beautiful enough not to disappoint us,--a narrow deep valley, a perfect
solitude, without house or hut. One of the hills was thinly sprinkled
with Scotch firs, which appeared to be the survivors of a large forest:
they were the first natural wild Scotch firs we had seen. Though thinned
of their numbers, and left, comparatively, to a helpless struggle with
the elements, we were much struck with the gloom, and even grandeur, of
the trees.
Hastened back again to join the car, but were tempted to go a little out
of our way to look at a nice white house belonging to the laird of Glen
Coe, which stood sweetly in a green field under the hill near some tall
trees and coppice woods. At this house the horrible massacre of Glen Coe
began, which we did not know when we were there; but the house must
have been rebuilt since that time. We had a delightful walk through
fields, among copses, and by a river-side: we could have fancied
ourselves in some part of the north of England unseen before, it was so
much like it, and yet so different. I must not forget one place on the
opposite side of the water, where we longed to live--a snug white house
on the mountain-side, surrounded by its own green fields and woods, the
high mountain above, the loch below, and inaccessible but by means of
boats. A beautiful spot indeed it was; but in the retired parts of
Scotland a comfortable white house is itself such a pleasant sight, that
I believe, without our knowing how or why, it makes us look with a more
loving eye on the fields and trees than for their own sakes they
deserve.
At about one o'clock we set off, William on our own horse, and I with my
Highland driver. He was perfectly acquainted with the country, being a
sort of carrier or carrier-merchant or shopkeeper, going frequently to
Glasgow with his horse and cart to fetch and carry goods and
merchandise. He knew the name of every hill, almost every rock; and I
made good use of his knowledge; but partly from laziness, and still more
because it was inconvenient, I took no notes, and now I am little better
for what he told me. He spoke English tolerably; but seldom understood
what was said to him without a "What's your wull?" We turned up to the
right, and were at the foot of the glen--the laird's house cannot be
said to be _in_ the glen. The afternoon was delightful,--the sun shone,
the mountain-tops were clear, the lake glittered in the great vale
behind us, and the stream of Glen Coe flowed down to it glittering among
alder-trees. The meadows of the glen were of the freshest green; one
new-built stone house in the first reach, some huts, hillocks covered
with wood, alder-trees scattered all over. Looking backward, we were
reminded of Patterdale and the head of Ulswater, but forward the
greatness of the mountains overcame every other idea.
The impression was, as we advanced up to the head of this first reach,
as if the glen were nothing, its loneliness and retirement--as if it
made up no part of my feeling: the mountains were all in all. That which
fronted us--I have forgotten its name--was exceedingly lofty, the
surface stony, nay, the whole mountain was one mass of stone, wrinkled
and puckered up together. At the second and last reach--for it is not a
winding vale--it makes a quick turning almost at right angles to the
first; and now we are in the depths of the mountains; no trees in the
glen, only green pasturage for sheep, and here and there a plot of
hay-ground, and something that tells of former cultivation. I observed
this to the guide, who said that formerly the glen had had many
inhabitants, and that there, as elsewhere in the Highlands, there had
been a great deal of corn where now the lands were left waste, and
nothing fed upon them but cattle. I cannot attempt to describe the
mountains. I can only say that I thought those on our right--for the
other side was only a continued high ridge or craggy barrier, broken
along the top into petty spiral forms--were the grandest I had ever
seen. It seldom happens that mountains in a very clear air look
exceedingly high, but these, though we could see the whole of them to
their very summits, appeared to me more majestic in their own nakedness
than our imaginations could have conceived them to be, had they been
half hidden by clouds, yet showing some of their highest pinnacles. They
were such forms as Milton might be supposed to have had in his mind when
he applied to Satan that sublime expression--
His stature reached the sky.
The first division of the glen, as I have said, was scattered over with
rocks, trees, and woody hillocks, and cottages were to be seen here and
there. The second division is bare and stony, huge mountains on all
sides, with a slender pasturage in the bottom of the valley; and towards
the head of it is a small lake or tarn, and near the tarn a single
inhabited dwelling, and some unfenced hay-ground--a simple impressive
scene! Our road frequently crossed large streams of stones, left by the
mountain-torrents, losing all appearance of a road. After we had passed
the tarn the glen became less interesting, or rather the mountains, from
the manner in which they are looked at; but again, a little higher up,
they resume their grandeur. The river is, for a short space, hidden
between steep rocks: we left the road, and, going to the top of one of
the rocks, saw it foaming over stones, or lodged in dark black dens;
birch-trees grew on the inaccessible banks, and a few old Scotch firs
towered above them. At the entrance of the glen the mountains had been
all without trees, but here the birches climb very far up the side of
one of them opposite to us, half concealing a rivulet, which came
tumbling down as white as snow from the very top of the mountain.
Leaving the rock, we ascended a hill which terminated the glen. We often
stopped to look behind at the majestic company of mountains we had left.
Before us was no single paramount eminence, but a mountain waste,
mountain beyond mountain, and a barren hollow or basin into which we
were descending.
We parted from our companion at the door of a whisky hovel, a building
which, when it came out of the workmen's hands with its unglassed
windows, would, in that forlorn region, have been little better than a
howling place for the winds, and was now half unroofed. On seeing a
smoke, I exclaimed, "Is it possible any people can live there?" when at
least half a dozen, men, women, and children, came to the door. They
were about to rebuild the hut, and I suppose that they, or some other
poor creatures, would dwell there through the winter, dealing out whisky
to the starved travellers. The sun was now setting, the air very cold,
the sky clear; I could have fancied that it was winter-time, with hard
frost. Our guide pointed out King's House to us, our resting-place for
the night. We could just distinguish the house at the bottom of the
moorish hollow or basin--I call it so, for it was nearly as broad as
long--lying before us, with three miles of naked road winding through
it, every foot of which we could see. The road was perfectly white,
making a dreary contrast with the ground, which was of a dull earthy
brown. Long as the line of road appeared before us, we could scarcely
believe it to be three miles--I suppose owing to its being unbroken by
any one object, and the moor naked as the road itself, but we found it
the longest three miles we had yet travelled, for the surface was so
stony we had to walk most of the way.
The house looked respectable at a distance--a large square building,
cased in blue slates to defend it from storms,--but when we came close
to it the outside forewarned us of the poverty and misery within. Scarce
a blade of grass could be seen growing upon the open ground; the
heath-plant itself found no nourishment there, appearing as if it had
but sprung up to be blighted. There was no enclosure for a cow, no
appropriated ground but a small plot like a church-yard, in which were a
few starveling dwarfish potatoes, which had, no doubt, been raised by
means of the dung left by travellers' horses: they had not come to
blossoming, and whether they would either yield fruit or blossom I know
not. The first thing we saw on entering the door was two sheep hung up,
as if just killed from the barren moor, their bones hardly sheathed in
flesh. After we had waited a few minutes, looking about for a guide to
lead us into some corner of the house, a woman, seemingly about forty
years old, came to us in a great bustle, screaming in Erse, with the
most horrible guinea-hen or peacock voice I ever heard, first to one
person, then another. She could hardly spare time to show us up-stairs,
for crowds of men were in the house--drovers, carriers, horsemen,
travellers, all of whom she had to provide with supper, and she was, as
she told us, the only woman there.
Never did I see such a miserable, such a wretched place,--long rooms
with ranges of beds, no other furniture except benches, or perhaps one
or two crazy chairs, the floors far dirtier than an ordinary house could
be if it were never washed,--as dirty as a house after a sale on a rainy
day, and the rooms being large, and the walls naked, they looked as if
more than half the goods had been sold out. We sate shivering in one of
the large rooms for three-quarters of an hour before the woman could
find time to speak to us again; she then promised a fire in another
room, after two travellers, who were going a stage further, had finished
their whisky, and said we should have supper as soon as possible. She
had no eggs, no milk, no potatoes, no loaf-bread, or we should have
preferred tea. With length of time the fire was kindled, and, after
another hour's waiting, supper came,--a shoulder of mutton so hard that
it was impossible to chew the little flesh that might be scraped off the
bones, and some sorry soup made of barley and water, for it had no other
taste.
After supper, the woman, having first asked if we slept on blankets,
brought in two pair of sheets, which she begged that I would air by the
fire, for they would be dirtied below-stairs. I was very willing, but
behold! the sheets were so wet, that it would have been at least a
two-hours' job before a far better fire than could be mustered at King's
House,--for, that nothing might be wanting to make it a place of
complete starvation, the peats were not dry, and if they had not been
helped out by decayed wood dug out of the earth along with them, we
should have had no fire at all. The woman was civil, in her fierce, wild
way. She and the house, upon that desolate and extensive Wild, and
everything we saw, made us think of one of those places of rendezvous
which we read of in novels--Ferdinand Count Fathom, or Gil Blas,--where
there is one woman to receive the booty, and prepare the supper at
night. She told us that she was only a servant, but that she had now
lived there five years, and that, when but a "young lassie," she had
lived there also. We asked her if she had always served the same master,
"Nay, nay, many masters, for they were always changing." I verily
believe that the woman was attached to the place like a cat to the empty
house when the family who brought her up are gone to live elsewhere. The
sheets were so long in drying that it was very late before we went to
bed. We talked over our day's adventures by the fireside, and often
looked out of the window towards a huge pyramidal mountain[15] at the
entrance of Glen Coe. All between, the dreary waste was clear, almost,
as sky, the moon shining full upon it. A rivulet ran amongst stones near
the house, and sparkled with light: I could have fancied that there was
nothing else, in that extensive circuit over which we looked, that had
the power of motion.
[Footnote 15: Buchail, the Shepherd of Etive.--J. C. S.]
In comparing the impressions we had received at Glen Coe, we found that
though the expectations of both had been far surpassed by the grandeur
of the mountains, we had upon the whole both been disappointed, and from
the same cause: we had been prepared for images of terror, had expected
a deep, den-like valley with overhanging rocks, such as William has
described in these lines, speaking of the Alps:--
Brook and road
Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy Pass,
And with them did we journey several hours
At a slow step. The immeasurable height
Of woods decaying, never to be decayed!
The stationary blasts of waterfalls;
And everywhere along the hollow rent
Winds thwarting winds, bewilder'd and forlorn;
The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky,
The rocks that mutter'd close upon our ears,
Black drizzling crags that spake by the way-side
As if a voice were in them; the sick sight
And giddy prospect of the raving stream;
The unfetter'd clouds, and region of the heavens,
Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light,
Were all like workings of one mind, the features
Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree,
Characters of the great Apocalypse,
The Types and Symbols of Eternity,
Of first, and last, and midst, and without end.[16]
[Footnote 16: See _The Simplon Pass_, in "Poetical Works,"
vol. ii. p. 69.--ED.]
The place had nothing of this character, the glen being open to the eye
of day, the mountains retiring in independent majesty. Even in the upper
part of it, where the stream rushed through the rocky chasm, it was but
a deep trench in the vale, not the vale itself, and could only be seen
when we were close to it.
_FOURTH WEEK_
_Sunday, September 4th._--We had desired to be called at six o'clock,
and rose at the first summons. Our beds had proved better than we
expected, and we had not slept ill; but poor Coleridge had passed a
wretched night here four days before. This we did not know; but since,
when he told us of it, the notion of what he must have suffered, with
the noise of drunken people about his ears all night, himself sick and
tired, has made our discomfort cling to my memory, and given these
recollections a twofold interest. I asked if it was possible to have a
couple of eggs boiled before our departure: the woman hesitated; she
thought I might, and sent a boy into the out-houses to look about, who
brought in one egg after long searching. Early as we had risen it was
not very early when we set off, for everything at King's House was in
unison--equally uncomfortable. As the woman had told us the night
before, "They had no hay and that was a loss." There were neither stalls
nor bedding in the stable, so that William was obliged to watch the
horse while it was feeding, for there were several others in the stable,
all standing like wild beasts, ready to devour each other's portion of
corn: this, with the slowness of the servant and other hindrances, took
up much time, and we were completely starved, for the morning was very
cold, as I believe all the mornings in that desolate place are.
When we had gone about a quarter of a mile I recollected that I had left
the little cup given me by the kind landlady at Taynuilt, which I had
intended that John should hereafter drink out of, in memory of our
wanderings. I would have turned back for it, but William pushed me on,
unwilling that we should lose so much time, though indeed he was as
sorry to part with it as myself.
Our road was over a hill called the Black Mount. For the first mile, or
perhaps more, after we left King's House, we ascended on foot; then came
upon a new road, one of the finest that was ever trod; and, as we went
downwards almost all the way afterwards, we travelled very quickly. The
motion was pleasant, the different reaches and windings of the road were
amusing; the sun shone, the mountain-tops were clear and cheerful, and
we in good spirits, in a bustle of enjoyment, though there never was a
more desolate region: mountains behind, before, and on every side; I do
not remember to have seen either patch of grass, flower, or flowering
heather within three or four miles of King's House. The low ground was
not rocky, but black, and full of white frost-bleached stones, the
prospect only varied by pools, seen everywhere both near and at a
distance, as far as the ground stretched out below us: these were
interesting spots, round which the mind assembled living objects, and
they shone as bright as mirrors in the forlorn waste. We passed neither
tree nor shrub for miles--I include the whole space from Glen Coe--yet
we saw perpetually traces of a long decayed forest, pieces of black
mouldering wood.
Through such a country as this we had travelled perhaps seven and a half
miles this morning, when, after descending a hill, we turned to the
right, and saw an unexpected sight in the moorland hollow into which we
were entering, a small lake bounded on the opposite side by a grove of
Scotch firs, two or three cottages at the head of it, and a lot of
cultivated ground with scattered hay-cocks. The road along which we were
going, after having made a curve considerably above the tarn, was seen
winding through the trees on the other side, a beautiful object, and,
luckily for us, a drove of cattle happened to be passing there at the
very time, a stream coursing the road, with off-stragglers to the
borders of the lake, and under the trees on the sloping ground.
In conning over our many wanderings I shall never forget the gentle
pleasure with which we greeted the lake of Inveroran and its few grey
cottages: we suffered our horse to slacken his pace, having now no need
of the comfort of quick motion, though we were glad to think that one of
those cottages might be the public-house where we were to breakfast. A
forest--now, as it appeared, dwindled into the small grove bordering the
lake--had, not many years ago, spread to that side of the vale where we
were: large stumps of trees which had been cut down were yet remaining
undecayed, and there were some single trees left alive, as if by their
battered black boughs to tell us of the storms that visit the valley
which looked now so sober and peaceful. When we arrived at the huts, one
of them proved to be the inn, a thatched house without a sign-board. We
were kindly received, had a fire lighted in the parlour, and were in
such good humour that we seemed to have a thousand comforts about us;
but we had need of a little patience in addition to this good humour
before breakfast was brought, and at last it proved a disappointment:
the butter not eatable, the barley-cakes fusty, the oat-bread so hard I
could not chew it, and there were only four eggs in the house, which
they had boiled as hard as stones.
Before we had finished breakfast two foot-travellers came in, and seated
themselves at our table; one of them was returning, after a long
absence, to Fort-William, his native home; he had come from Egypt, and,
many years ago, had been on a recruiting party at Penrith, and knew many
people there. He seemed to think his own country but a dismal land.
There being no bell in the parlour, I had occasion to go several times
and ask for what we wanted in the kitchen, and I would willingly have
given twenty pounds to have been able to take a lively picture of it.
About seven or eight travellers, probably drovers, with as many dogs,
were sitting in a complete circle round a large peat-fire in the middle
of the floor, each with a mess of porridge, in a wooden vessel, upon his
knee; a pot, suspended from one of the black beams, was boiling on the
fire; two or three women pursuing their household business on the
outside of the circle, children playing on the floor. There was nothing
uncomfortable in this confusion: happy, busy, or vacant faces, all
looked pleasant; and even the smoky air, being a sort of natural indoor
atmosphere of Scotland, served only to give a softening, I may say
harmony, to the whole.
We departed immediately after breakfast; our road leading us, as I have
said, near the lake-side and through the grove of firs, which extended
backward much further than we had imagined. After we had left it we came
again among bare moorish wastes, as before, under the mountains, so that
Inveroran still lives in our recollection as a favoured place, a flower
in the desert.
Descended upon the whole, I believe very considerably, in our way to
Tyndrum; but it was a road of long ups and downs, over hills and through
hollows of uncultivated ground; a chance farm perhaps once in three
miles, a glittering rivulet bordered with greener grass than grew on the
broad waste, or a broken fringe of alders or birches, partly concealing
and partly pointing out its course.
Arrived at Tyndrum at about two o'clock. It is a cold spot. Though, as I
should suppose, situated lower than Inveroran, and though we saw it in
the hottest time of the afternoon sun, it had a far colder aspect from
the want of trees. We were here informed that Coleridge, who, we
supposed, was gone to Edinburgh, had dined at this very house a few days
before, in his road to Fort-William. By the help of the cook, who was
called in, the landlady made out the very day: it was the day after we
parted from him; as she expressed it, the day after the "great speet,"
namely, the great rain. We had a moorfowl and mutton-chops for dinner,
well cooked, and a reasonable charge. The house was clean for a Scotch
inn, and the people about the doors were well dressed. In one of the
parlours we saw a company of nine or ten, with the landlady, seated
round a plentiful table,--a sight which made us think of the fatted calf
in the alehouse pictures of the Prodigal Son. There seemed to be a whole
harvest of meats and drinks, and there was something of festivity and
picture-like gaiety even in the fresh-coloured dresses of the people and
their Sunday faces. The white table-cloth, glasses, English dishes,
etc., were all in contrast with what we had seen at Inveroran: the
places were but about nine miles asunder, both among hills; the rank of
the people little different, and each house appeared to be a house of
plenty.
We were I think better pleased with our treatment at this inn than any
of the lonely houses on the road, except Taynuilt; but Coleridge had not
fared so well, and was dissatisfied, as he has since told us, and the
two travellers who breakfasted with us at Inveroran had given a bad
account of the house.
Left Tyndrum at about five o'clock; a gladsome afternoon; the road
excellent, and we bowled downwards through a pleasant vale, though not
populous, or well cultivated, or woody, but enlivened by a river that
glittered as it flowed. On the side of a sunny hill a knot of men and
women were gathered together at a preaching. We passed by many droves of
cattle and Shetland ponies, which accident stamped a character upon
places, else unrememberable--not an individual character, but the soul,
the spirit, and solitary simplicity of many a Highland region.
We had about eleven miles to travel before we came to our lodging, and
had gone five or six, almost always descending, and still in the same
vale, when we saw a small lake before us after the vale had made a
bending to the left; it was about sunset when we came up to the lake;
the afternoon breezes had died away, and the water was in perfect
stillness. One grove-like island, with a ruin that stood upon it
overshadowed by the trees, was reflected on the water. This building,
which, on that beautiful evening, seemed to be wrapped up in religious
quiet, we were informed had been raised for defence by some Highland
chieftain. All traces of strength, or war, or danger are passed away,
and in the mood in which we were we could only look upon it as a place
of retirement and peace. The lake is called Loch Dochart. We passed by
two others of inferior beauty, and continued to travel along the side of
the same river, the Dochart, through an irregular, undetermined
vale,--poor soil and much waste land.
At that time of the evening when, by looking steadily, we could discover
a few pale stars in the sky, we saw upon an eminence, the bound of our
horizon, though very near to us, and facing the bright yellow clouds of
the west, a group of figures that made us feel how much we wanted in not
being painters. Two herdsmen, with a dog beside them, were sitting on
the hill, overlooking a herd of cattle scattered over a large meadow by
the river-side. Their forms, looked at through a fading light, and
backed by the bright west, were exceedingly distinct, a beautiful
picture in the quiet of a Sabbath evening, exciting thoughts and images
of almost patriarchal simplicity and grace. We were much pleased with
the situation of our inn, where we arrived between eight and nine
o'clock. The river was at the distance of a broad field from the door;
we could see it from the upper windows and hear its murmuring; the moon
shone, enlivening the large corn fields with cheerful light. We had a
bad supper, and the next morning they made us an unreasonable charge;
and the servant was uncivil, because, forsooth! we had no wine.
_N.B._--The travellers in the morning had spoken highly of this inn.[17]
[Footnote 17: Suie.--J. C. S. _Quære_, Luib.--ED.]
_Monday, September 5th._--After drinking a basin of milk we set off
again at a little after six o'clock--a fine morning--eight miles to
Killin--the river Dochart always on our left. The face of the country
not very interesting, though not unpleasing, reminding us of some of the
vales of the north of England, though meagre, nipped-up, or shrivelled
compared with them. There were rocks, and rocky knolls, as about
Grasmere and Wytheburn, and copses, but of a starveling growth; the
cultivated ground poor. Within a mile or two of Killin the land was
better cultivated, and, looking down the vale, we had a view of Loch
Tay, into which the Dochart falls. Close to the town, the river took up
a roaring voice, beating its way over a rocky descent among large black
stones: islands in the middle turning the stream this way and that; the
whole course of the river very wide. We crossed it by means of three
bridges, which make one continued bridge of a great length. On an island
below the bridge is a gateway with tall pillars, leading to an old
burying-ground belonging to some noble family.[18] It has a singular
appearance, and the place is altogether uncommon and romantic--a remnant
of ancient grandeur: extreme natural wildness--the sound of roaring
water, and withal, the ordinary half-village, half-town bustle of an
every-day place.
[Footnote 18: The burial-place of Macnab of Macnab.--J. C. S.]
The inn at Killin is one of the largest on the Scotch road: it stands
pleasantly, near the chapel, at some distance from the river Dochart,
and out of reach of its tumultuous noise; and another broad, stately,
and silent stream, which you cannot look at without remembering its
boisterous neighbour, flows close under the windows of the inn, and
beside the churchyard, in which are many graves. That river falls into
the lake at the distance of nearly a mile from the mouth of the Dochart.
It is bordered with tall trees and corn fields, bearing plentiful crops,
the richest we had seen in Scotland.
After breakfast we walked onwards, expecting that the stream would lead
us into some considerable vale; but it soon became little better than a
common rivulet, and the glen appeared to be short; indeed, we wondered
how the river had grown so great all at once. Our horse had not been
able to eat his corn, and we waited a long time in the hope that he
would be better. At eleven o'clock, however, we determined to set off,
and give him all the ease possible by walking up the hills, and not
pushing beyond a slow walk. We had fourteen miles to travel to Kenmore,
by the side of Loch Tay. Crossed the same bridge again, and went down
the south side of the lake. We had a delightful view of the village of
Killin, among rich green fields, corn and wood, and up towards the two
horns of the vale of Tay, the valley of the Dochart, and the other
valley with its full-grown river, the prospect terminated by mountains.
We travelled through lanes, woods, or open fields, never close to the
lake, but always near it, for many miles, the road being carried along
the side of a hill, which rose in an almost regularly receding steep
from the lake. The opposite shore did not much differ from that down
which we went, but it seemed more thinly inhabited, and not so well
cultivated. The sun shone, the cottages were pleasant, and the
goings-on of the harvest--for all the inhabitants were at work in the
corn fields--made the way cheerful. But there is an uniformity in the
lake which, comparing it with other lakes, made it appear tiresome. It
has no windings: I should even imagine, although it is so many miles
long, that, from some points not very high on the hills, it may be seen
from one end to the other. There are few bays, no lurking-places where
the water hides itself in the land, no outjutting points or
promontories, no islands; and there are no commanding mountains or
precipices. I think that this lake would be the most pleasing in
spring-time, or in summer before the corn begins to change colour, the
long tracts of hills on each side of the vale having at this season a
kind of patchy appearance, for the corn fields in general were very
small, mere plots, and of every possible shade of bright yellow. When we
came in view of the foot of the lake we perceived that it ended, as it
had begun, in pride and loveliness. The village of Kenmore, with its
neat church and cleanly houses, stands on a gentle eminence at the end
of the water. The view, though not near so beautiful as that of Killin,
is exceedingly pleasing. Left our car, and turned out of the road at
about the distance of a mile from the town, and after having climbed
perhaps a quarter of a mile, we were conducted into a locked-up
plantation, and guessed by the sound that we were near the cascade, but
could not see it. Our guide opened a door, and we entered a dungeon-like
passage, and, after walking some yards in total darkness, found
ourselves in a quaint apartment stuck over with moss, hung about with
stuffed foxes and other wild animals, and ornamented with a library of
wooden books covered with old leather backs, the mock furniture of a
hermit's cell. At the end of the room, through a large bow-window, we
saw the waterfall, and at the same time, looking down to the left, the
village of Kenmore and a part of the lake--a very beautiful prospect.