A TRAMP-TRIP THROUGH THE HIGHLANDS.
His Royal Highness and a Demand for Fresh Air—A Boy in his Father’s
Clothes—Among the Common People—Nature’s Stronghold—Treason Found
in Trust—Body Quartered and Exposed on Iron Spikes—Receiving a
Royal Salute—Following no Road but a Winding River—Sleeveless
Dresses and Dyed Hands—Obelisk to a Novelist and Poet—On the
Scotch Lakes—Eyes to See but See Not—A Night of Rest and a
Morning of Surprise—A Terrestrial Heaven—A Poetic Inspiration—A
Deceptive Mountain—A Glittering Crown—Hard to Climb—An Adventure
and a Narrow Escape—Johnson Gives Out—Put to Bed on the Mountain
Side—On and Up—A Summit at Last—Niagara Petrified—Overtaken
by the Night—Johnson Lost in the Mountains—A Fruitless
Search—Bewildered—Exhausted—Sick.
AFTER a sojourn of ten days, I left Edinburgh, the site of Scottish
nobility. While there I heard so much of Dukes and Earls, of Lords and
Nobles, of Her Majesty and His Royal Highness, etc., that it became
necessary for me to seek some mountain peak where I could get a full
supply of fresh air. If there is such a thing, I have a pious contempt
for high-sounding titles of honor and nobility, and especially when,
as is too often the case, the appellations themselves are of more
consequence than the men who wear them. A man may indeed have a _great
name_ “thrust upon him,” but _greatness itself_ is not thus attained. I
like to see a son inherit his father’s good qualities, and the more of
them the better, but as for honors and titles, let him win those for
himself. I saw a “Duke” the other day who reminded me of a half-grown
boy on the streets wearing his father’s worn-out pants and coat and hat.
Well, as I started out to say, I became so nauseated with these
inherited, worn-out, loose-fitting titles of nobility that I determined
to leave the rendezvous of “honor,” and get out into the country
among the common people. Accordingly I left Edinburgh, a week ago
to-day, for an extended tramp-trip through the Highlands. I came first
by rail, via Glasgow, to Dunbarton, a ship-building town of 13,000
inhabitants, on the river Clyde. Thence, a pleasant walk of three
miles brought me to Dunbarton Castle, which I saw from the steamer
as we were coming from America, and which was barely mentioned in a
previous chapter. “This Castle,” says the Scottish historian, “is one
of the strongest in Europe, if not in the world.” It is, as before
stated, a great moss-covered rock, standing in the river, measuring a
mile in circumference, and rising nearly three hundred feet high. In
the first century of the Christian era, the Romans gained possession
of, and fortified themselves in, this Castle. By the treachery of John
Monmouth, Sir William Wallace, while on this rock, was betrayed, in
1305, into the hands of the British, who took him to London and struck
off his head, after which his body was quartered and exposed upon
spikes of iron on London Bridge. A long two-handed sword, once used by
Wallace, and other ancient relics of warfare, are shown to the visitor.
From the top of the Castle, one gets a commanding view of the
surrounding country. While there, looking northward, I saw Ben Lomond,
more than twenty miles away. I could not refrain from taking off my
hat to this “Mountain Monarch.” And, as if to return my salute, the
clouds just then were lifted, leaving the snow-covered head of the
mountain bare for a moment. For this act of civility, I determined
to pay His Royal Highness a visit. Hence, with felt hats pulled down
over our eyes, with canes in hand, and small leather satchels strapped
across our backs, my traveling companion and I set out on foot for the
Highlands.
We followed no road, being guided by the river only, which flows from
Loch Lomond into the Clyde. The general scenery along this route is
nothing unusual; but the river itself is surpassingly beautiful, its
water being transparent, and flowing deep, smooth and swift, but
silent, between its level green banks.
Just before entering a small town, on the river, called Renton, we
met hundreds of girls and young women homeward bound, all wearing
sleeveless dresses, and carrying tin buckets. Their dyed hands and
arms bespoke their occupation. They were factory girls, employed in
the paint works the largest in Scotland. In this town, is a splendid
obelisk to Tobias Smollet, the novelist and poet, who was born here in
1721.
By eight o’clock we reached a wayside inn, where a few shillings
secured us comfortable accommodations. Next morning was dark and
cloudy. A few hours’ walk found us at the head of Loch Lomond, where
we took shipping on the neat little steamer, “Prince Consort.” We had
several tourists, artists, poets, musicians, and other persons of taste
and culture, on board, all of whom, like ourselves, had come to see and
enjoy “Bonnie Scotland.” But the clouds were so dark and low, the mist
so dense and heavy, that we could see little or nothing of the beauty
and grandeur by which we were surrounded. Before nightfall, though the
whole day seemed almost like night, “The Prince” touched at a landing
called Tarbet, where we disembarked and secured lodging. The day was
damp, cold and dark; everything around us wore a gloomy aspect. We were
tired. We could see nothing to interest the mind or delight the eye. So
Morpheus soon claimed us as his captives for the night. But, ere those
nocturnal hours passed away, God’s own hand removed the clouds and
curtains which, the day before, hid the works of Nature from our view.
Next morning, the sound of the clock striking eight disturbed the
“spirit of my dreams.” The reader can better imagine, than I can
describe, my feelings when I arose and looked around me. I found that
it was a warm, bright, beautiful spring morning, and that I was in the
loveliest spot on earth. I was in the midst of a large flower-garden,
laid out with great care and excellent taste, containing a fine variety
of shrubbery and a rich profusion of delicate and fragrant flowers.
Behind me was a range of mountains, high and lifted up, extending also
to the right hand and to the left, leaving the flower-garden just in a
graceful curve of the mountain chain. Before me, and toward the east,
was Loch Lomond, the Queen of the Highland Lakes. Her waters were clear
as crystal, and her bosom was unruffled by a single wave, there being
just motion enough upon the mirror-like surface to cause the sunbeams
falling upon the water to glisten like a sea of sparkling diamonds.
Across the Loch, and just one mile away, was Ben Lomond, the lordliest
mountain in all Scotland—the same that returned my salute from
Dunbarton Castle. While the foot of this majestic mountain was washed
by the waters of the lake, its brow was wrapped in the snow of winter
and bathed in the clouds of heaven. Thus the beautiful lake is
surrounded by
“Mountains that like giants stand
To sentinel the enchanted land.”
And each towering crag and cliff and mountain peak was seen reflected
in the silver mirror lying at their feet.
In addition to all these attractions, that morning when I awoke it
seemed as if all the birds of the country, with their merry voices
and bright plumage, had assembled to hold their spring carnival. One
of their number was unlike any of the feathered tribe I had seen
before. It had a dove-colored breast; night and morning were delicately
interwoven in its wings, and it sang “as if every tiny bone in its body
were a golden flute.” A good old lady living there told me that when
Dr. Thomas Chalmers stood where I was standing that morning, and saw
and heard what then greeted my eyes and ears, he exclaimed: “I wonder
if there will be such scenery and music as this in heaven!”
Ah! this is Scotland, “Bonnie Scotland,” whose picturesque scenery has
waked the harp of so many bards, and has often set the artist’s eye
“in fine frenzy rolling.” I am not surprised that the mantle of poesy
fell upon Burns while following the plow; my only wonder is that all
Scotchmen are not poets. In fact, when I awoke that morning and found
myself in that terrestrial heaven, I did not know what was the matter
with me. There was a fluttering underneath my ribs. It was a deep and
strong, yet a pleasing and delightful sensation. I thought it was a
poet’s soul in me! Rushing to the desk with hair uncombed, I arranged
my stationery, and sat with pen in hand waiting for the light to break
in upon me—but—but—the spell passed off before I could get hold of
the first rhyme. What a pity!
After being here a short time, Johnson and I decide to take a trip
through the mountains and visit Loch Long, a few miles west. We are not
at all disappointed when we arrive at the Loch. The scenery is wild,
savage, grand! Beyond the lake, or loch, we see the Cobbler, a towering
mountain, covered with snow. The mountain is apparently not far off,
seemingly about two hours’ walk. Now this, the Cobbler, is not the
highest mountain in Scotland, but is said to be the hardest one in the
whole country to climb.
Not knowing the difficulty of our undertaking, we determine to plant
our feet in the snow glittering upon the Cobbler’s crown. We are almost
exhausted when we reach the base, but, after resting a few minutes,
I say: “Johnson, renew your strength, and let us go.” For awhile the
ascent is comparatively easy; but we soon come to great walls of black
rock, rough and steep, some places being almost perpendicular. We try
to go around the worst places, determining, however, that when we
come to a rock which we can not go around, we will go over it. This
we manage to do by the assistance of the grass and twigs growing in
the crevices of the rock, but the climbing is exceedingly difficult
and tiresome, and often dangerous. One time in particular my escape is
narrow. I am standing on a narrow shelf of rock. Below me is a yawning
chasm, some sixty feet deep. Above is a wall almost straight up and
down, eighteen feet high. With dire apprehensions I start up. When
about two-thirds of the way up, a bush, whose fastenings in the crevice
of the rock are not as strong as I thought, gives way with me. Down I
come on the narrow rock-shelf, and almost into the chasm below. For
some minutes I am unable to move, though I am worse frightened than
injured. Johnson excitedly calls out: “Whittle, Whittle, are you hurt?”
I reply, “No, I am like a cat—always catch on foot. Besides, ‘A man’s
greatness consists not in his never falling, but in always rising after
a fall.’”
The day before this memorable tramp, a heavy rain had fallen and the
grass, with which many parts of the mountain are covered, is very wet,
hence our feet are soon as wet as water can make them. Under these
difficulties, we have not gotten more than two-thirds of the way up
the mountain, before my companion, who, like a mountain goat, loves to
climb, gives out completely. He has neither the strength to go to the
top, nor the spirit to start down. Rest is the only hope. So, with two
overcoats for a pallet, a round stone for a pillow, and the blue sky
for a covering, I put Johnson to bed, and he is to sleep while I am to
continue my journey to the top of the mountain, and hasten back with
some snow for dinner.
The summit is more distant, and the way more difficult and perilous,
than we had supposed. However, I have started to the top, and I am
determined to go there, “if it takes all the summer.” And I do. But
in order to accomplish my purpose I must go around and approach the
long-sought brow from the opposite side. I reach the very top! And,
although my trembling limbs are so weak and weary that I can scarcely
stand, yet I feel fully repaid for all my toil. The snow under my feet
is five feet deep. About a half mile beyond me is another mountain
towering up apparently a thousand feet above me, and covered with
snow from head to foot. It looks frightful; and almost unwittingly
I exclaim: “Niagara petrified! A mountain of snow falling from the
clouds!” The sight is grand, but I can not prolong my stay, for obvious
reasons. I am wet with perspiration, and, having left my overcoat with
Johnson, I am now suffering—the cold and cutting wind pierces to the
bone; and besides night is coming on.
Now a new trouble begins. I can not find Johnson. I do not know on
which side of the mountain I left him. I have no idea as to where he
is! But the worst of all is that Johnson, after sleeping three hours,
wakens, and, as I have not returned, becomes uneasy about me. He
supposes that I have either gotten into the snow and can not get out,
or have fallen over some precipice and hurt or killed myself. So he,
out of the goodness of his heart, sets out in search of me. Each hunts
for the other until night without success. Fortunately, however, we
agreed in the morning on a place to spend the night. On reaching the
place agreed upon, I find that he is not there—nor has he been seen!
While I am making preparations to go back, with assistance, to hunt for
him the door flies open and in steps Johnson, completely exhausted, and
sick besides. Thus ends our first day among the mountains!