MISCELLANY No 63
RECOLLECTIONSOF A TOUR MADE IN SCOTLAND: II
Saturday, August 20th.—Left Leadhills at nine o’clock, regretting much that we could not stay another day, that we might have made more minute inquiries respecting the manner of living of the miners, and been able to form an estimate, from our own observation, of the degree of knowledge, health, and comfort that there was among them. The air was keen and cold; we might have supposed it to be three months later in the season and two hours earlier in the day. The landlady had not lighted us a fire; so I was obliged to get myself toasted in the kitchen, and when we set off I put on both grey cloak and spencer.
Our road
carried us down the valley, and we soon lost sight of Leadhills, for the valley
made a turn almost immediately, and we saw two miles, perhaps, before us; the
glen sloped somewhat rapidly—heathy, bare, no hut or house. Passed by a
shepherd, who was sitting upon the ground, reading, with the book on his knee,
screened from the wind by his plaid, while a flock of sheep were feeding near
him among the rushes and coarse grass—for, as we descended we came among lands
where grass grew with the heather. Travelled through several reaches of
the glen, which somewhat resembled the valley of Menock on the other side of
Wanlockhead; but it was not near so beautiful; the forms of the mountains did
not melt so exquisitely into each other, and there was a coldness, and, if I
may so speak, a want of simplicity in the surface of the earth; the heather was
poor, not covering a whole hillside; not in luxuriant streams and beds
interveined with rich verdure; but patchy and stunted, with here and there
coarse grass and rushes. But we soon came in sight of a spot that
impressed us very much. At the lower end of this new reach of the vale
was a decayed tree, beside a decayed cottage, the vale spreading out into a
level area which was one large field, without fence and without division, of a
dull yellow colour; the vale seemed to partake of the desolation of the
cottage, and to participate in its decay. And yet the spot was in its
nature so dreary that one would rather have wondered how it ever came to be
tenanted by man, than lament that it was left to waste and solitude. Yet
the encircling hills were so exquisitely formed that it was impossible to
conceive anything more lovely than this place would have
been if the valley and hill-sides had been interspersed with trees, cottages,
green fields, and hedgerows. But all was desolate; the one large field
which filled up the area of the valley appeared, as I have said, in decay, and
seemed to retain the memory of its connexion with man in some way analogous to
the ruined building; for it was as much of a field as Mr. King’s best pasture
scattered over with his fattest cattle.
We went
on, looking before us, the place losing nothing of its hold upon our minds,
when we discovered a woman sitting right in the middle of the field, alone,
wrapped up in a grey cloak or plaid. She sat motionless all the time we
looked at her, which might be nearly half an hour. We could not conceive
why she sat there, for there were neither sheep nor cattle in the field; her
appearance was very melancholy. In the meantime our road carried us
nearer to the cottage, though we were crossing over the hill to the left,
leaving the valley below us, and we perceived that a part of the building was
inhabited, and that what we had supposed to be one blasted tree was
eight trees, four of which were entirely blasted; the others partly so, and
round about the place was a little potato and cabbage garth, fenced with
earth. No doubt, that woman had been an inhabitant of the cottage.
However this might be, there was so much obscurity and uncertainty about her,
and her figure agreed so well with the desolation of the place, that we were
indebted to the chance of her being there for some of the most interesting
feelings that we had ever had from natural objects connected with man in dreary
solitariness.
We had
been advised to go along the new road, which would have carried us down
the vale; but we met some travellers who recommended us to
climb the hill, and go by the village of Crawfordjohn as being much
nearer. We had a long hill, and after having reached the top, steep and
bad roads, so we continued to walk for a considerable way. The air was
cold and clear—the sky blue. We walked cheerfully along in the sunshine,
each of us alone, only William had the charge of the horse and car, so he
sometimes took a ride, which did but poorly recompense him for the trouble of
driving. I never travelled with more cheerful spirits than this
day. Our road was along the side of a high moor. I can always walk
over a moor with a light foot; I seem to be drawn more closely to nature in
such places than anywhere else; or rather I feel more strongly the power of
nature over me, and am better satisfied with myself for being able to find
enjoyment in what unfortunately to many persons is either dismal or
insipid. This moor, however, was more than commonly interesting; we could
see a long way, and on every side of us were larger or smaller tracts of
cultivated land. Some were extensive farms, yet in so large a waste they
did but look small, with farm-houses, barns, etc., others like little cottages,
with enough to feed a cow, and supply the family with vegetables. In
looking at these farms we had always one feeling. Why did the plough stop
there? Why might not they as well have carried it twice as far?
There were no hedgerows near the farms, and very few trees. As we were
passing along, we saw an old man, the first we had seen in a Highland bonnet,
walking with a staff at a very slow pace by the edge of one of the moorland
cornfields; he wore a grey plaid, and a dog was by his side. There was a
scriptural solemnity in this man’s figure, a sober simplicity which was most
impressive. Scotland is the country above all others
that I have seen, in which a man of imagination may carve out his own
pleasures. There are so many inhabited solitudes, and the
employments of the people are so immediately connected with the places where
you find them, and their dresses so simple, so much alike, yet, from their
being folding garments, admitting of an endless variety, and falling often so
gracefully.
After some
time we descended towards a broad vale, passed one farm-house, sheltered by fir
trees, with a burn close to it; children playing, linen bleaching. The
vale was open pastures and corn-fields unfenced, the land poor. The
village of Crawfordjohn on the slope of a hill a long way before us to the
left. Asked about our road of a man who was driving a cart; he told us to
go through the village, then along some fields, and we should come to a ‘herd’s
house by the burn side.’ The highway was right through the vale, unfenced
on either side; the people of the village, who were making hay, all stared at
us and our carriage. We inquired the road of a middle-aged man, dressed
in a shabby black coat, at work in one of the hay fields; he looked like the
minister of the place, and when he spoke we felt assured that he was so, for he
was not sparing of hard words, which, however, he used with great propriety,
and he spoke like one who had been accustomed to dictate. Our car wanted
mending in the wheel, and we asked him if there was a blacksmith in the
village. ‘Yes,’ he replied, but when we showed him the wheel he told William
that he might mend it himself without a blacksmith, and he would put him in the
way; so he fetched hammer and nails and gave his directions, which William
obeyed, and repaired the damage entirely to his own satisfaction and the
priest’s, who did not offer to lend any assistance himself;
not as if he would not have been willing in case of need; but as if it were
more natural for him to dictate, and because he thought it more fit that
William should do it himself. He spoke much about the propriety of every
man’s lending all the assistance in his power to travellers, and with some
ostentation or self-praise. Here I observed a honey-suckle and some
flowers growing in a garden, the first I had seen in Scotland. It is a
pretty cheerful-looking village, but must be very cold in winter; it stands on
a hillside, and the vale itself is very high ground, unsheltered by trees.
Left the
village behind us, and our road led through arable ground for a considerable
way, on which were growing very good crops of corn and potatoes. Our
friend accompanied us to show us the way, and Coleridge and he had a scientific
conversation concerning the uses and properties of lime and other
manures. He seemed to be a well-informed man; somewhat pedantic in his
manners; but this might be only the difference between Scotch and English.
Soon after
he had parted from us, we came upon a stony, rough road over a black moor; and
presently to the ‘herd’s house by the burn side.’ We could hardly cross
the burn dry-shod, over which was the only road to the cottage. In
England there would have been stepping-stones or a bridge; but the Scotch need
not be afraid of wetting their bare feet. The hut had its little
kail-garth fenced with earth; there was no other enclosure—but the common,
heathy with coarse grass. Travelled along the common for some miles,
before we joined the great road from Longtown to Glasgow—saw on the bare
hill-sides at a distance, sometimes a solitary farm, now and
then a plantation, and one very large wood, with an appearance of richer ground
above; but it was so very high we could not think it possible. Having
descended considerably, the common was no longer of a peat-mossy brown heath
colour, but grass with rushes was its chief produce; there was sometimes a
solitary hut, no enclosures except the kail-garth, and sheep pasturing in
flocks, with shepherd-boys tending them. I remember one boy in
particular; he had no hat on, and only had a grey plaid wrapped about
him. It is nothing to describe, but on a bare moor, alone with his sheep,
standing, as he did, in utter quietness and silence, there was something
uncommonly impressive in his appearance, a solemnity which recalled to our minds
the old man in the corn-field. We passed many people who were mowing, or
raking the grass of the common; it was little better than rushes; but they did
not mow straight forward, only here and there, where it was the best; in such a
place hay-cocks had an uncommon appearance to us.
After a
long descent we came to some plantations which were not far from Douglas
Mill. The country for some time had been growing into cultivation, and
now it was a wide vale with large tracts of corn; trees in clumps, no hedgerows,
which always make a country look bare and unlovely. For my part, I was
better pleased with the desert places we had left behind, though no doubt the
inhabitants of this place think it ‘a varra bonny spot,’ for the Scotch are
always pleased with their own abode, be it what it may; and afterwards at
Edinburgh, when we were talking with a bookseller of our travels, he observed
that it was ‘a fine country near Douglas Mill.’ Douglas Mill is a single
house, a large inn, being one of the regular stages between Longtown
and Glasgow, and therefore a fair specimen of the best of the country inns of
Scotland. As soon as our car stopped at the door we felt the
difference. At an English inn of this size, a waiter, or the master or
mistress, would have been at the door immediately, but we remained some time
before anybody came; then a barefooted lass made her appearance, but she only
looked at us and went away. The mistress, a remarkably handsome woman,
showed us into a large parlour; we ordered mutton-chops, and I finished my
letter to Mary; writing on the same window-ledge on which William had written
to me two years before.
After
dinner, William and I sat by a little mill-race in the garden. We had
left Leadhills and Wanlockhead far above us, and now were come into a warmer
climate; but there was no richness in the face of the country. The shrubs
looked cold and poor, and yet there were some very fine trees within a little
distance of Douglas Mill, so that the reason, perhaps, why the few low shrubs
and trees which were growing in the gardens seemed to be so unluxuriant, might
be, that there being no hedgerows, the general appearance of the country was
naked, and I could not help seeing the same coldness where, perhaps, it did not
exist in itself to any great degree, for the corn crops are abundant, and I
should think the soil is not bad. While we were sitting at the door, two
of the landlady’s children came out; the elder, a boy about six years old, was
running away from his little brother, in petticoats; the ostler called out,
‘Sandy, tak’ your wee brither wi’ you;’ another voice from the window, ‘Sawny,
dinna leave your wee brither;’ the mother then came, ‘Alexander, tak’ your wee
brother by the hand;’ Alexander obeyed, and the two went off in peace together.
We were charged eightpence for hay at this inn,
another
symptom of our being in Scotland. Left Douglas Mill at about three
o’clock; travelled through an open corn country, the tracts of corn large and
unenclosed. We often passed women or children who were watching a single
cow while it fed upon the slips of grass between the corn. William asked
a strong woman, about thirty years of age, who looked like the mistress of a
family—I suppose moved by some sentiment of compassion for her being so employed,—if
the cow would eat the corn if it were left to itself: she smiled at his
simplicity. It is indeed a melancholy thing to see a full-grown woman
thus waiting, as it were, body and soul devoted to the poor beast; yet even
this is better than working in a manufactory the day through.
We came to
a moorish tract; saw before us the hills of Loch Lomond, Ben Lomond and
another, distinct each by itself. Not far from the roadside were some
benches placed in rows in the middle of a large field, with a sort of covered
shed like a sentry-box, but much more like those boxes which the Italian
puppet-showmen in London use. We guessed that it was a pulpit or tent for
preaching, and were told that a sect met there occasionally, who held that
toleration was unscriptural, and would have all religions but their own
exterminated. I have forgotten what name the man gave to this sect; we
could not learn that it differed in any other respect from the Church of
Scotland. Travelled for some miles along the open country, which was all
without hedgerows, sometimes arable, sometimes moorish, and often whole tracts
covered with grunsel.
There was one field, which one might have believed had been sown with grunsel,
it was so regularly covered with it—a large square field upon a slope, its
boundary marked to
our eyes
only by the termination of the bright yellow; contiguous to it were other
fields of the same size and shape, one of clover, the other of potatoes, all
equally regular crops. The oddness of this appearance, the grunsel being
uncommonly luxuriant, and the field as yellow as gold, made William
laugh. Coleridge was melancholy upon it, observing that there was land
enough wasted to rear a healthy child.
We left
behind us, considerably to the right, a single high mountain; I have forgotten its name; we had had it long in
view. Saw before us the river Clyde, its course at right angles to our
road, which now made a turn, running parallel with the river; the town of
Lanerk in sight long before we came to it. I was somewhat disappointed
with the first view of the Clyde:
b
the banks, though swelling and varied, had a poverty in their appearance,
chiefly from the want of wood and hedgerows. Crossed the river and
ascended towards Lanerk, which stands upon a hill. When we were within
about a mile of the town, William parted from Coleridge and me, to go to the
celebrated waterfalls. Coleridge did not attempt to drive the horse; but
led him all the way. We inquired for the best inn, and were told that the
New Inn was the best; but that they had very ‘genteel apartments’ at the Black
Bull, and made less charges, and the Black Bull was at the entrance of the
town, so we thought we would stop there, as the horse was obstinate and
weary. But when we came to the Black Bull we had no wish to enter the
apartments; for it seemed the abode of dirt and poverty, yet it was a large
building. The town showed a sort of French face, and would have done much
more, had it not been for the true British tinge
of
coal-smoke; the doors and windows dirty, the shops dull, the women too seemed
to be very dirty in their dress. The town itself is not ugly; the houses
are of grey stone, the streets not very narrow, and the market-place
decent. The New Inn is a handsome old stone building, formerly a
gentleman’s house. We were conducted into a parlour, where people had
been drinking; the tables were unwiped, chairs in disorder, the floor dirty,
and the smell of liquors was most offensive. We were tired, however, and
rejoiced in our tea.
The
evening sun was now sending a glorious light through the street, which ran from
west to east; the houses were of a fire red, and the faces of the people as
they walked westward were almost like a blacksmith when he is at work by
night. I longed to be out, and meet with William, that we might see the
Falls before the day was gone. Poor Coleridge was unwell, and could not
go. I inquired my road, and a little girl told me she would go with me to
the porter’s lodge, where I might be admitted. I was grieved to hear that
the Falls of the Clyde were shut up in a gentleman’s grounds, and to be viewed
only by means of lock and key. Much, however, as the pure feeling with
which one would desire to visit such places is disturbed by useless,
impertinent, or even unnecessary interference with nature, yet when I was there
the next morning I seemed to feel it a less disagreeable thing than in smaller
and more delicate spots, if I may use the phrase. My guide, a sensible
little girl, answered my inquiries very prettily. She was eight years
old, read in the ‘Collection,’ a book which all the Scotch children whom I have
questioned read in. I found it was a collection of hymns; she could
repeat several of Dr. Watts’. We passed through a great part
of the town, then turned down a steep hill, and came in view of a long range of
cotton mills,
the largest and loftiest I had ever seen;
climbed upwards again, our road leading us along the top of the left bank of
the river; both banks very steep and richly wooded. The girl left me at
the porter’s lodge. Having asked after William, I was told that no person
had been there, or could enter but by the gate. The night was coming on,
therefore I did not venture to go in, as I had no hope of meeting William.
I had a delicious walk alone through the wood; the sound of the water was very
solemn, and even the cotton mills in the fading light of evening had somewhat
of the majesty and stillness of the natural objects. It was nearly dark
when I reached the inn. I found Coleridge sitting by a good fire, which
always makes an inn room look comfortable. In a few minutes William
arrived; he had heard of me at the gate, and followed as quickly as he could,
shouting after me. He was pale and exceedingly tired.
After he
had left us he had taken a wrong road, and while looking about to set himself
right had met with a barefooted boy, who said he would go with him. The
little fellow carried him by a wild path to the upper of the Falls, the Boniton
Linn, and coming down unexpectedly upon it, he was exceedingly affected by the
solemn grandeur of the place. This fall is not much admired or spoken of
by travellers; you have never a full, breast view of it; it does not make a
complete self-satisfying place, an abode of its own, as a perfect waterfall
seems to me to do; but the river, down which you look through a long vista of
steep and ruin-like rocks, the roaring of the waterfall, and the solemn evening
lights, must have been most impressive. One of the rocks on the near
bank, even in broad daylight, as we saw it the next morning,
is exactly like the fractured arch of an abbey. With the lights and
shadows of evening upon it, the resemblance must have been much more striking.
William’s
guide was a pretty boy, and he was exceedingly pleased with him. Just as
they were quitting the waterfall, William’s mind being full of the majesty of
the scene, the little fellow pointed to the top of a rock, ‘There’s a fine
slae-bush there.’ ‘Ay,’ said William, ‘but there are no slaes upon it,’
which was true enough; but I suppose the child remembered the slaes of another
summer, though, as he said, he was but ‘half seven years old,’ namely, six and
a half. He conducted William to the other fall, and as they were going along
a narrow path, they came to a small cavern, where William lost him, and looking
about, saw his pretty figure in a sort of natural niche fitted for a statue,
from which the boy jumped out laughing, delighted with the success of his
trick. William told us a great deal about him, while he sat by the fire,
and of the pleasure of his walk, often repeating, ‘I wish you had been with
me.’ Having no change, he gave the boy sixpence, which was certainly, if
he had formed any expectations at all, far beyond them; but he received it with
the utmost indifference, without any remark of surprise or pleasure; most
likely he did not know how many halfpence he could get for it, and twopence
would have pleased him more. My little girl was delighted with the
sixpence I gave her, and said she would buy a book with it on Monday
morning. What a difference between the manner of living and education of
boys and of girls among the lower classes of people in towns! she had never
seen the Falls of the Clyde, nor had ever been further than the porter’s lodge;
the boy, I daresay, knew every hiding-place in every accessible rock, as well
as the fine ‘slae bushes’.
To be continued
To be continued
