Without entering into minute comparisons, it may be truly said that Glen
Ogle is one of the grandest and wildest of mountain passes in the
highlands of Perthshire. Unlike the Trossachs, which Sir Walter Scott
has immortalised in his "Lady of the Lake," Glen Ogle is a wild, rugged,
rocky pass, almost entirely destitute of trees, except at its lower
extremity; and of shrubs, except along the banks of the little burn
which meanders like a silver thread down the centre of the glen. High
precipitous mountains rise on either hand--those on the left being more
rugged and steep than those on the right. The glen is very narrow
throughout--a circumstance which adds to its wildness; and which, in
gloomy weather, imparts to the spot a truly savage aspect. Masses of
_debris_ and fallen rocks line the base of the precipices, or speckle
the sides of the mountains in places where the slopes, being less
precipitous than elsewhere, have served to check the fallen matter; and
the whole surface of the narrow vale is dotted with rocks of various
sizes, which have bounded from the cliffs, and, overleaping every
obstacle, have found a final resting-place on a level with the little
stream.
The road follows the course of the stream at the foot of the glen; but,
as it advances, it ascends the mountains on the right, and runs along
their sides until the head of the pass is gained. Here it crosses, by
means of a rude stone bridge, a deep chasm, at the bottom of which the
waters of the burn leap and roar among chaotic rocks--a foretaste of the
innumerable rushes, leaps, tumbles, and plunges, which await them all
down the glen. Just beyond this bridge is a small level patch of
mingled rocky and mossy ground. It is the summit of the mountain ridge;
yet the highest peaks rise above it, and so hem it in that it resembles
the arena of a rude amphitheatre. In the centre of this spot lies a
clear, still lake, or tarn, not more than a hundred yards in diameter.
This is the fountain-head of two streams. From the pools and springs,
within a stone's cast of the tarn, arise the infant waters of the burn
already mentioned, which, descending Glen Ogle, find their way to the
Firth of Tay, through Strath Earn. From the opposite side of the tarn
issues another brook, which, leaping down the other side of the
mountains, mingles its waters with Loch Tay, and finds its way, by a
much more circuitous route, to the same firth. The whole region is
desolate and lonely in the extreme, and so wild that a Rocky Mountain
hunter, transported thither by fairy power, might find himself quite at
home, except in the matter of big-horned goats and grisly bears. But,
for the matter of that, he would find mountain sheep with very
respectable horns in their way; and, as to bears, the hill-sides are
bare enough to satisfy any hunter of moderate expectations.
Up to this elevated tarn, among the hoary mountain peaks, the Sudberry
Family struggled one hot, sunny, lovely forenoon. Bent on a long and
bold flight, they had travelled by the stage-coach to the foot of the
glen, near the head of Loch Earn. Here they were deposited at the door
of a picturesque white-washed house, which was styled the Inn, and from
this point they toiled up the glen on foot, intoxicating themselves on
the way with deep draughts of mingled excitement, fresh air, and
romance.
The whole family were out upon this occasion, including Mrs Brown,
Hobbs, and Peter. The delicate Tilly was also there, and to her Master
Jacky devoted himself with an assiduity worthy of even a _good_ boy. He
took occasion several times, however, to tell Peter, in a grave way,
that, whenever he felt tired, he would be glad to carry his basket for
him, and himself too, for the matter of that, if he should get quite
knocked up. He indemnified himself for these concessions on the side of
virtue by inflicting various little torments on the bodies and minds of
Mrs Brown and his mother, such as hiding himself at some distance
ahead, and suddenly darting out from behind a rock with a hideous yell;
or coming up behind with eyes staring and hair flying, and screaming
"mad bull," with all the force of his lungs.
Hector and Flora Macdonald were also of the party. George and Fred were
particularly attentive to Flora, and Hector was ditto to Lucy. He
carried her botanical box, and gave her a good deal of information in
regard to plants and wild flowers, in which Lucy professed a deep
interest, insomuch that she stopped frequently to gather specimens and
listen to Hector's learned observations, until they were more than once
left a considerable way behind the rest of the party. Indeed, Lucy's
interest in science was so great that she unwittingly pulled two or
three extremely rare specimens to pieces while listening to these
eloquent discourses, and was only made conscious of her wickedness by a
laughing remark from Hector that she "must surely have the bump of
destructiveness largely developed."
Arrived at the tarn, each individual deposited his and her basket or
bundle on a selected spot of dry ground, and the ladies began to spread
out the viands, while Mr Sudberry took the exact bearings of the spot
by compass. While thus philosophically engaged, he observed that fish
were rising in the tarn.
"Hallo! Hector; why, I see fish in the pond."
"True," replied the young man, "plenty of trout; but they are small."
"I'll fish," said Mr Sudberry.
"So will I," cried George.
And fish they did for half an hour, at the end of which period they were
forcibly torn away from the water-side and made to sit down and eat
sandwiches--having caught between them two dozen of trout, the largest
of which was about five inches long.
"Why, how did ever the creatures get up into such a lake?" inquired Mr
Sudberry, eyeing the trout in surprise: "they could never jump up all
the waterfalls that we have passed to-day."
"I suppose they were born in the lake," suggested Hector, with a smile.
"Born in it?" murmured Mr Sudberry, pondering the idea; "but the
_first_ ones could not have been born in it. How did the first ones get
there?"
"The same way as what the first fishes came into the sea, of course,"
said Jacky, looking very pompous.
Unfortunately he unintentionally tried to perform that impossible feat,
which is called swallowing a crumb down the wrong throat, thereby nearly
choking himself; and throwing his mother into a flutter of agitation.
There was something so exhilarating in the atmosphere of that elevated
region that none of the party felt inclined to waste much time over
luncheon. Mr Sudberry, in particular, was very restless and migratory.
His fishing propensities had been aroused, and could not be quieted.
He had, in the course of a quarter of an hour, gobbled what he deemed it
his duty to eat and drink, and, during the remainder of the meal, had
insisted on helping everybody to everything, moving about as he did so,
and thereby causing destruction to various articles of crockery. At
last he declared that he was off to fish down the burn, and that the
rest of the party would pick him up on their way back to the coach,
which was to start from the inn at Loch Earn Head at five in the
afternoon.
"Now don't be late," said he; "be at the inn by half-past four
precisely."
"Ay, ay; yes, yes," from everybody; and away he went alone to enjoy his
favourite sport.
The rest of the party scattered. Some went to good points for
sketching, some to botanise, and others to ascend the highest of the
neighbouring peaks. Mrs Brown and Hobbs were left in charge of the
_debris_ of luncheon, to the eating up of which they at once devoted
themselves with the utmost avidity as soon as the others were gone.
"Come, this is wot I calls comfortable," said Hobbs; (he spoke huskily,
through an immense mouthful of sandwich.) "Ain't it, Mrs Brown?"
"Humph!" said Mrs Brown.
It is to be remarked that Mrs Brown was out of temper--not that that
was an unusual thing; but she had found the expedition more trying than
she had anticipated, and the torments of mind and body to which Jacky
had subjected her were of an uncommonly irritating nature.
"Wot," continued Hobbs, attacking a cold tongue, "d'you think of the
natives of this 'ere place?"
"Nothink at all," was Mrs Brown's prompt rejoinder.
Hobbs, who was naturally of a jolly, sociable disposition, felt a little
depressed at Mrs Brown's repellent manner; so he changed his mode of
address.
"Try some of this 'ere fowl, Mrs Brown, it's remarkably tender, it is;
just suited to the tender lips of--dear me, Mrs Brown, how improvin'
the mountain hair is to your complexion, if I may wenture to speak of
improvin' that w'ich is perfect already."
"Get along, Hobbs!" said Mrs Brown, affecting to be displeased.
"My dear, I'm gettin' along like a game chicken, perhaps I might say
like Dan, who's got the most uncommon happetite as I ever did see. He's
a fine fellow, Dan is, ain't he, Mrs Brown?"
"Brute," said Mrs Brown; "they're all brutes."
"Ah!" said Hobbs, shaking his head, "strong language, Mrs Brown. But,
admitting that, (merely for the sake of argument, of course), you cannot
deny that they are raither clever brutes."
"I do deny it," retorted Mrs Brown, taking a savage bite out of the leg
of a chicken, as if it represented the whole Celtic race. "Don't they
talk the most arrant stuff?--specially that McAllister, who is forever
speakin' about things that he don't understand, and that nobody else
does!"
"Speak for yourself; ma'am," said Hobbs, drawing himself up with as much
dignity as was compatible with a sitting posture.
"I _do_ speak for myself. Moreover, I speak for _some_ whom I might
name, and who ain't _verra_ far away."
"If, ma'am, you mean that insinivation to apply--"
"I make no insinivations. Hand me that pot of jam--no, the unopened
one."
Hobbs did as he was required with excruciating politeness, and
thereafter took refuge in dignified silence; suffering, however, an
expression of lofty scorn to rest on his countenance. Mrs Brown
observed this, and her irate spirit was still further chafed by it. She
meditated giving utterance to some withering remarks, while, with
agitated fingers, she untied the string of the little pot of
cranberry-jam. Worthy Mrs Brown was particularly fond of
cranberry-jam. She had put up this pot in her own basket expressly for
her own private use. She now opened it with the determination to enjoy
it to the full, to smack her lips very much and frequently, and offer
none of it to Hobbs. When the cover was removed she gazed into the pot
with a look of intense horror, uttered a piercing shriek, and fell back
in a dead faint.
This extraordinary result is easily accounted for. Almost every human
being has one grand special loathing. There is everywhere some creature
which to some individual is an object of dread--a creature to be shrunk
from and shuddered at. Mrs Brown's horror was frogs. Jacky knew this
well. He also knew of Mrs Brown's love for cranberry-jam, and her
having put up a special pot. To abstract the pot, replace it by a
similar pot with a live frog imprisoned therein, and then retire to
chuckle in solitude and devour the jam, was simple and natural. That
the imp had done this; that he had watched with delight the deceived
woman pant up Glen Ogle with the potted frog on her arm and perspiration
on her brow; that he had asked for a little cranberry-jam on the way,
with an expression of countenance that almost betrayed him; and that he
had almost shrieked with glee, when he observed the anxiety with which
Mrs Brown--having tripped and fallen--opened her basket and smiled to
observe that the pot was _not_ broken; that the imp, we say, had been
guilty of all this, was known only to himself; but much of it became
apparent to the mind of Hobbs, when, on Mrs Brown's fainting, he heard
a yell of triumph, and, on looking up, beheld Master Jacky far up the
heights, clearly defined against the bright sky, and celebrating the
success of his plot with a maniacal edition of the Highland fling.
At a quarter-past four all the party assembled at the inn except Mr
Sudberry.
Five arrived--no Mr Sudberry. The coach could not wait! The
gentlemen, in despair, rushed up the bed of the stream, and found him
fishing, in a glow of excitement, with his basket and all his pockets
full of splendid trout.
The result was that the party had to return home in a large wagon, and
it was night when at last they embarked in their boat and rowed down
their own lake. It was a profound calm. The air was mild and balmy.
There was just enough of light to render the surrounding mountains
charmingly mysterious, and the fatigues of the day made the repose of
the boat agreeable. Even Mrs Sudberry enjoyed that romantic night-trip
on the water. It was so dark that there was a tendency to keep silence
on landing to speak in low tones; but a little burst of delight broke
forth when they surmounted the dark shoulder of the hill, and came at
last in sight of the windows of the White House, glowing a ruddy welcome
home.