MISCELLANY No 64
RECOLLECTIONS OF A TOUR MADE IN SCOTLAND: III
SECOND WEEK.
Sunday, August 21st.—The morning was very hot,
a morning to tempt us to linger by the water-side. I wished to have had
the day before us, expecting so much from what William had seen; but when we
went there, I did not desire to stay longer than till the hour which we had prescribed
to ourselves; for it was a rule not to be broken in upon, that the person who
conducted us to the Falls was to remain by our side till we chose to
depart. We left our inn immediately after breakfast. The lanes were
full of people going to church; many of the middle-aged women wore long scarlet
cardinals, and were without hats: they brought to my mind the women of Goslar
as they used to go to church in their silver or gold caps, with their long
cloaks, black or coloured.
The banks
of the Clyde from Lanerk to the Falls rise immediately from the river; they are
lofty and steep, and covered with wood. The road to the Falls is along
the top of one of the banks, and to the left you have a prospect of the open
country, corn fields and scattered houses. To the right, over the river,
the country spreads out, as it were, into a plain covered over with hills, no
one hill much higher than another, but hills all over; there were endless
pastures overgrown with broom, and scattered trees, without hedges or fences of
any kind, and no distinct footpaths. It was delightful to see the lasses
in gay dresses running like cattle among the broom, making
their way straight forward towards the river, here and there as it might
chance. They waded across the stream, and, when they had reached the top
of the opposite bank, sat down by the road-side, about half a mile from the
town, to put on their shoes and cotton stockings, which they brought tied up in
pocket-handkerchiefs. The porter’s lodge is about a mile from Lanerk, and
the lady’s house—for the whole belongs to a lady, whose name I have forgotten —is upon a hill at a little distance. We walked,
after we had entered the private grounds, perhaps two hundred yards along a
gravel carriage-road, then came to a little side gate, which opened upon a
narrow gravel path under trees, and in a minute and a half, or less, were
directly opposite to the great waterfall. I was much affected by the
first view of it. The majesty and strength of the water, for I had never
before seen so large a cataract, struck me with astonishment, which died away,
giving place to more delightful feelings; though there were some buildings that
I could have wished had not been there, though at first unnoticed. The
chief of them was a neat, white, lady-like house, very near to the
waterfall. William and Coleridge however were in a better and perhaps
wiser humour, and did not dislike the house; indeed, it was a very nice-looking
place, with a moderate-sized garden, leaving the green fields free and open.
This house is on the side of the river opposite to the grand house and the
pleasure-grounds. The waterfall Cora Linn is composed of two falls, with
a sloping space, which appears to be about twenty yards between, but is
much more. The basin which receives the fall is enclosed by noble rocks,
with trees, chiefly hazels, birch, and ash growing out of
their sides whenever there is any hold for them; and a magnificent
resting-place it is for such a river; I think more grand than the Falls
themselves.
After
having stayed some time, we returned by the same footpath into the main
carriage-road, and soon came upon what William calls an ell-wide gravel walk,
from which we had different views of the Linn. We sat upon a bench,
placed for the sake of one of these views, whence we looked down upon the
waterfall, and over the open country, and saw a ruined tower, called Wallace’s
Tower, which stands at a very little distance from the fall, and is an
interesting object. A lady and gentleman, more expeditious tourists than
ourselves, came to the spot; they left us at the seat, and we found them again
at another station above the Falls. Coleridge, who is always good-natured
enough to enter into conversation with anybody whom he meets in his way, began
to talk with the gentleman, who observed that it was a majestic
waterfall. Coleridge was delighted with the accuracy of the epithet,
particularly as he had been settling in his own mind the precise meaning of the
words grand, majestic, sublime, etc., and had discussed the subject with
William at some length the day before. ‘Yes, sir,’ says Coleridge, ‘it is
a majestic waterfall.’ ‘Sublime and beautiful,’ replied his friend.
Poor Coleridge could make no answer, and, not very desirous to continue the
conversation, came to us and related the story, laughing heartily.
The
distance from one Linn to the other may be half a mile or more, along the same
ell-wide walk. We came to a pleasure-house, of which the little girl had
the key; she said it was called the Fog-house, because it was lined with ‘fog,’
namely moss. On the outside it resembled some of the huts in the prints
belonging to Captain Cook’s Voyages, and within was like a
hay-stack scooped out. It was circular, with a dome-like roof, a seat all
round fixed to the wall, and a table in the middle,—seat, wall, roof and table
all covered with moss in the neatest manner possible. It was as snug as a
bird’s nest; I wish we had such a one at the top of our orchard, only a great
deal smaller. We afterwards found that huts of the same kind were common
in the pleasure-grounds of Scotland; but we never saw any that were so
beautifully wrought as this. It had, however, little else to recommend
it, the situation being chosen without judgment; there was no prospect from it,
nor was it a place of seclusion and retirement, for it stood close to the
ell-wide gravel walk. We wished we could have shoved it about a hundred
yards further on, when we arrived at a bench which was also close to the walk,
for just below the bench, the walk elbowing out into a circle, there was a
beautiful spring of clear water, which we could see rise up continually, at the
bottom of a round stone basin full to the brim, the water gushing out at a
little outlet and passing away under the walk. A reason was wanted for
placing the hut where it is; what a good one would this little spring have
furnished for bringing it hither! Along the whole of the path were
openings at intervals for views of the river, but, as almost always happens in
gentlemen’s grounds, they were injudiciously managed; you were prepared for a
dead stand—by a parapet, a painted seat, or some other device.
We stayed
some time at the Boniton Fall, which has one great advantage over the other
falls, that it is at the termination of the pleasure-grounds, and we see no
traces of the boundary-line; yet, except under some accidental circumstances,
such as a sunset like that of the preceding evening, it is
greatly inferior to the Cora Linn. We returned to the inn to
dinner. The landlord set the first dish upon the table, as is common in
England, and we were well waited upon. This first dish was true
Scottish—a boiled sheep’s head, with the hair singed off; Coleridge and I ate
heartily of it; we had barley broth, in which the sheep’s head had been
boiled. A party of tourists whom we had met in the pleasure-grounds drove
from the door while we were waiting for dinner; I guess they were fresh from
England, for they had stuffed the pockets of their carriage with bundles of
heather, roots and all, just as if Scotland grew no heather but on the banks of
the Clyde. They passed away with their treasure towards Loch
Lomond. A party of boys, dressed all alike in blue, very neat, were
standing at the chaise-door; we conjectured they were charity scholars; but
found on inquiry that they were apprentices to the cotton factory; we were told
that they were well instructed in reading and writing. We had seen in the
morning a flock of girls dressed in grey coming out of the factory, probably
apprentices also.
After
dinner set off towards Hamilton, but on foot, for we had to turn aside to the
Cartland Rocks, and our car was to meet us on the road. A guide attended
us, who might almost in size, and certainly in activity, have been compared
with William’s companion who hid himself in the niche of the cavern. His
method of walking and very quick step soon excited our attention. I could
hardly keep up with him; he paddled by our side, just reaching to my shoulder,
like a little dog, with his long snout pushed before him—for he had an enormous
nose, and walked with his head foremost. I said to him, ‘How quick you
walk!’ he replied, ‘That was not quick walking,’ and when I asked
him what he called so, he said ‘Five miles an hour,’ and
then related in how many hours he had lately walked from Lanerk to Edinburgh,
done some errands, and returned to Lanerk—I have forgotten the particulars, but
it was a very short time—and added that he had an old father who could walk at
the rate of four miles an hour, for twenty-four miles, any day, and had never
had an hour’s sickness in his life. ‘Then,’ said I, ‘he has not drunk
much strong liquor?’ ‘Yes, enough to drown him.’ From his eager
manner of uttering this, I inferred that he himself was a drinker; and the man
who met us with the car told William that he gained a great deal of money as an
errand-goer, but spent it all in tippling. He had been a shoemaker, but
could not bear the confinement on account of a weakness in his chest.
The
neighbourhood of Lanerk is exceedingly pleasant; we came to a sort of district
of glens or little valleys that cleave the hills, leaving a cheerful, open
country above them, with no superior hills, but an undulating surface.
Our guide pointed to the situation of the Cartland Crags. We were to cross
a narrow valley, and walk down on the other side, and then we should be at the
spot; but the little fellow made a sharp turn down a footpath to the left,
saying, ‘We must have some conversation here.’ He paddled on with his
small pawing feet till we came right opposite to a gentleman’s house on the
other side of the valley, when he halted, repeating some words, I have
forgotten what, which were taken up by the most distinct echo I ever heard—this
is saying little: it was the most distinct echo that it is possible to
conceive. It shouted the names of our fireside friends in the very tone
in which William and Coleridge spoke; but it seemed to make
a joke of me, and I could not help laughing at my own voice, it was so shrill
and pert, exactly as if some one had been mimicking it very successfully, with
an intention of making me ridiculous. I wished Joanna had
been there to laugh, for the echo is an excellent laugher, and would have
almost made her believe that it was a true story which William has told of her
and the mountains. We turned back, crossed the valley, went through the
orchard and plantations belonging to the gentleman’s house. By the bye,
we observed to our guide that the echo must bring many troublesome visitors to
disturb the quiet of the owner of that house. ‘Oh no,’ said he, ‘he
glories in much company.’ He was a native of that neighbourhood, had made
a moderate fortune abroad, purchased an estate, built the house, and raised the
plantations; and further, had made a convenient walk through his woods to the
Cartland Crags. The house was modest and neat, and though not adorned in
the best taste, and though the plantations were of fir, we looked at it with
great pleasure, there was such true liberality and kind-heartedness in leaving
his orchard path open, and his walks unobstructed by gates. I hope this
goodness is not often abused by plunderers of the apple-trees, which were hung
with tempting apples close to the path.
At the
termination of the little valley, we descended through a wood along a very
steep path to a muddy stream running over limestone rocks; turned up to the
left along the bed of the stream, and soon we were closed in by rocks on each
side. They were very lofty—of limestone, trees starting out of them, high
and low, overhanging the stream or shooting up towards the sky. No place
of the kind could be more beautiful if the stream had been clear, but it was of a muddy yellow colour; had it been a large river,
one might have got the better of the unpleasantness of the muddy water in the
grandeur of its roaring, the boiling up of the foam over the rocks, or the
obscurity of its pools.
We had
been told that the Cartland Crags were better worth going to see than the Falls
of the Clyde. I did not think so; but I have seen rocky dells resembling
this before, with clear water instead of that muddy stream, and never saw
anything like the Falls of the Clyde. It would be a delicious spot to
have near one’s house; one would linger out many a day in the cool shade of the
caverns, and the stream would soothe one by its murmuring; still, being an old
friend, one would not love it the less for its homely face. Even we, as
we passed along, could not help stopping for a long while to admire the beauty
of the lazy foam, for ever in motion, and never moved away, in a still place of
the water, covering the whole surface of it with streaks and lines and
ever-varying circles. Wild marjoram grew upon the rocks in great
perfection and beauty; our guide gave me a bunch, and said he should come hither
to collect a store for tea for the winter, and that it was ‘varra hale-some:’
he drank none else. We walked perhaps half a mile along the bed of the
river; but it might seem to be much further than it was, owing to the
difficulty of the path, and the sharp and many turnings of the glen.
Passed two of Wallace’s Caves. There is scarce a noted glen in Scotland
that has not a cave for Wallace or some other hero. Before we left the
river the rocks became less lofty, turned into a wood through which was a
convenient path upwards, met the owner of the house and the echo-ground, and
thanked him for the pleasure which he had provided for us
and other travellers by making such pretty pathways.
It was
four o’clock when we reached the place where the car was waiting. We were
anxious to be off, as we had fifteen miles to go; but just as we were seating
ourselves we found that the cushions were missing. William was forced to
go back to the town, a mile at least, and Coleridge and I waited with the car.
It rained, and we had some fear that the evening would be wet, but the rain
soon ceased, though the sky continued gloomy—an unfortunate circumstance, for
we had to travel through a beautiful country, and of that sort which is most
set off by sunshine and pleasant weather.
Travelled
through the Vale or Trough of the Clyde, as it is called, for ten or
eleven miles, having the river on our right. We had fine views both up
and down the river for the first three or four miles, our road being not close
to it, but above its banks, along the open country, which was here occasionally
intersected by hedgerows.
Left our
car in the road, and turned down a field to the Fall of Stonebyres, another of
the falls of the Clyde, which I had not heard spoken of; therefore it gave me
the more pleasure. We saw it from the top of the bank of the river at a
little distance. It has not the imposing majesty of Cora Linn; but it has
the advantage of being left to itself, a grand solitude in the heart of a
populous country. We had a prospect above and below it, of cultivated
grounds, with hay-stacks, houses, hills; but the river’s banks were lonesome,
steep, and woody, with rocks near the fall.
A little
further on, came more into company with the river; sometimes we were close to
it, sometimes above it, but always at no great distance; and
now the vale became more interesting and amusing. It is very populous,
with villages, hamlets, single cottages, or farm-houses embosomed in orchards,
and scattered over with gentlemen’s houses, some of them very ugly, tall and
obtrusive, others neat and comfortable. We seemed now to have got into a
country where poverty and riches were shaking hands together; pears and apples,
of which the crop was abundant, hung over the road, often growing in orchards
unfenced; or there might be bunches of broom along the road-side in an
interrupted line, that looked like a hedge till we came to it and saw the
gaps. Bordering on these fruitful orchards perhaps would be a patch, its
chief produce being gorse or broom. There was nothing like a moor or
common anywhere; but small plots of uncultivated ground were left high and low,
among the potatoes, corn, cabbages, which grew intermingled, now among trees,
now bare. The Trough of the Clyde is, indeed, a singular and very
interesting region; it is somewhat like the upper part of the vale of Nith, but
above the Nith is much less cultivated ground—without hedgerows or orchards, or
anything that looks like a rich country. We met crowds of people coming
from the kirk; the lasses were gaily dressed, often in white gowns, coloured
satin bonnets, and coloured silk handkerchiefs, and generally with their shoes
and stockings in a bundle hung on their arm. Before we left the river the
vale became much less interesting, resembling a poor English country, the
fields being large, and unluxuriant hedges.
It had
been dark long before we reached Hamilton, and William had some difficulty in
driving the tired horse through the town. At the inn they hesitated about
being able to give us beds, the house being brim-full—lights at every window. We were rather alarmed for our
accommodations during the rest of the tour, supposing the house to be filled
with tourists; but they were in general only regular travellers for out
of the main road from town to town we saw scarcely a carriage, and the inns
were empty. There was nothing remarkable in the treatment we met with at
this inn, except the lazy impertinence of the waiter. It was a townish
place, with a great larder set out; the house throughout dirty.
Monday, August 22d.—Immediately after
breakfast walked to the Duke of Hamilton’s house to view the picture-gallery,
chiefly the famous picture of Daniel in the Lions’ Den, by Rubens. It is
a large building, without grandeur, a heavy, lumpish mass, after the fashion of
the Hopetoun H,
only five times the size, and with longer
legs, which makes it gloomy. We entered the gate, passed the porter’s
lodge, where we saw nobody, and stopped at the front door, as William had done
two years before with Sir William Rush’s family. We were met by a little
mean-looking man, shabbily dressed, out of livery, who, we found, was the
porter. After scanning us over, he told us that we ought not to have come
to that door. We said we were sorry for the mistake, but as one of our
party had been there two years before, and was admitted by the same entrance,
we had supposed it was the regular way. After many hesitations, and
having kept us five minutes waiting in the large hall, while he went to consult
with the housekeeper, he informed us that we could not be admitted at that time,
the housekeeper being unwell; but that we might return in an hour: he then conducted us through long gloomy passages to an obscure
door at the corner of the house. We asked if we might be permitted to
walk in the park in the meantime; and he told us that this would not be
agreeable to the Duke’s family. We returned to the inn discontented
enough, but resolved not to waste an hour, if there were anything else in the
neighbourhood worth seeing. The waiter told us there was a curious place
called Baroncleugh, with gardens cut out in rocks, and we determined to go
thither. We had to walk through the town, which may be about as large as
Penrith, and perhaps a mile further, along a dusty turnpike road. The
morning was hot, sunny, and windy, and we were half tired before we reached the
place; but were amply repaid for our trouble.
The
general face of the country near Hamilton is much in the ordinary English
style; not very hilly, with hedgerows, corn fields, and stone houses. The
Clyde is here an open river with low banks, and the country spreads out so wide
that there is no appearance of a regular vale. Baroncleugh is in a
beautiful deep glen through which runs the river Avon, a stream that falls into
the Clyde. The house stands very sweetly in complete retirement; it has
its gardens and terraces one above another, with flights of steps between,
box-trees and yew-trees cut in fantastic shapes, flower-borders and
summer-houses; and, still below, apples and pears were hanging in abundance on
the branches of large old trees, which grew intermingled with the natural wood,
elms, beeches, etc., even to the water’s edge. The whole place is in
perfect harmony with the taste of our ancestors, and the yews and hollies are
shaven as nicely, and the gravel walks and flower-borders kept in as exact
order, as if the spirit of the first architect of the terraces still presided over them. The opposite bank of the river is
left in its natural wildness, and nothing was to be seen higher up but the deep
dell, its steep banks being covered with fine trees, a beautiful relief or
contrast to the garden, which is one of the most elaborate old things ever
seen, a little hanging garden of Babylon.
I was
sorry to hear that the owner of this sweet place did not live there
always. He had built a small thatched house to eke out the old one: it
was a neat dwelling, with no false ornaments. We were exceedingly sorry
to quit this spot, which is left to nature and past times, and should have
liked to have pursued the glen further up; we were told that there was a ruined
castle; and the walk itself must be very delightful; but we wished to reach
Glasgow in good time, and had to go again to Hamilton House. Returned to
the town by a much shorter road, and were very angry with the waiter for not
having directed us to it; but he was too great a man to speak three words more
than he could help.
We stopped
at the proper door of the Duke’s house, and seated ourselves humbly upon a
bench, waiting the pleasure of the porter, who, after a little time, informed
us that we could not be admitted, giving no reason whatever. When we got
to the inn, we could just gather from the waiter that it was not usual to
refuse admittance to strangers; but that was all: he could not, or would not,
help us, so we were obliged to give it up, which mortified us, for I had wished
much to see the picture. William vowed that he would write that very
night to Lord Archibald Hamilton, stating the whole matter, which he did from
Glasgow.
I ought to
have mentioned the park, though, as we were not allowed to walk there, we saw
but little of it. It looked pleasant,
as all parks with fine trees must be, but, as it seemed to be only a large,
nearly level, plain, it could not be a particularly beautiful park, though it
borders upon the Clyde, and the Avon runs, I believe, through it, after leaving
the solitude of the glen of Baroncleugh.
Quitted
Hamilton at about eleven o’clock. There is nothing interesting between
Hamilton and Glasgow till we came to Bothwell Castle, a few miles from
Hamilton. The country is cultivated, but not rich, the fields large, a
perfect contrast to the huddling together of hills and trees, corn and pasture
grounds, hay-stacks, cottages, orchards, broom and gorse, but chiefly broom,
that had amused us so much the evening before in passing through the Trough of
the Clyde. A native of Scotland would not probably be satisfied with the
account I have given of the Trough of the Clyde, for it is one of the most
celebrated scenes in Scotland. We certainly received less pleasure from
it than we had expected; but it was plain that this was chiefly owing to the
unfavourable circumstances under which we saw it—a gloomy sky and a cold
blighting wind. It is a very beautiful district, yet there, as in all the
other scenes of Scotland celebrated for their fertility, we found something
which gave us a notion of barrenness, of what was not altogether genial.
The new fir and larch plantations, here as in almost every other part of
Scotland, contributed not a little to this effect.
Crossed
the Clyde not far from Hamilton, and had the river for some miles at a distance
from us, on our left; but after having gone, it might be, three miles, we came
to a porter’s lodge on the left side of the road, where we were to turn to Bothwell
Castle, which is in Lord Douglas’s grounds. The woman who keeps the gate
brought us a
book, in
which we wrote down our names. Went about half a mile before we came to
the pleasure-grounds. Came to a large range of stables, where we were to
leave the car; but there was no one to unyoke the horse, so William was obliged
to do it himself, a task which he performed very awkwardly, being then new to
it. We saw the ruined castle embosomed in trees, passed the house, and
soon found ourselves on the edge of a steep brow immediately above and
overlooking the course of the river Clyde through a deep hollow between woods
and green steeps. We had approached at right angles from the main road to
the place over a flat, and had seen nothing before us but a nearly level
country terminated by distant slopes, the Clyde hiding himself in his deep
bed. It was exceedingly delightful to come thus unexpectedly upon such a
beautiful region.
The Castle
stands nobly, overlooking the Clyde. When we came up to it I was hurt to
see that flower-borders had taken place of the natural overgrowings of the
ruin, the scattered stones and wild plants. It is a large and grand pile,
of red freestone, harmonizing perfectly with the rocks of the river, from
which, no doubt, it has been hewn. When I was a little accustomed to the
unnaturalness of a modern garden, I could not help admiring the excessive
beauty and luxuriance of some of the plants, particularly the purple-flowered
clematis, and a broad-leaved creeping plant without flowers, which scrambled up
the castle wall along with the ivy, and spread its vine-like branches so
lavishly that it seemed to be in its natural situation, and one could not help
thinking that, though not self-planted among the ruins of this country, it must
somewhere have its natural abode in such places. If Bothwell Castle had
not been close to the Douglas mansion we should have been
disgusted with the possessor’s miserable conception of ‘adorning’ such a
venerable ruin; but it is so very near to the house that of necessity the
pleasure-grounds must have extended beyond it, and perhaps the neatness of a
shaven lawn and the complete desolation natural to a ruin might have made an
unpleasing contrast; and besides, being within the precincts of the pleasure-grounds,
and so very near to the modern mansion of a noble family, it has forfeited in
some degree its independent majesty, and becomes a tributary to the mansion;
its solitude being interrupted, it has no longer the same command over the mind
in sending it back into past times, or excluding the ordinary feelings which we
bear about us in daily life. We had then only to regret that the castle
and house were so near to each other; and it was impossible not to regret it;
for the ruin presides in state over the river, far from city or town, as if it
might have had a peculiar privilege to preserve its memorials of past ages and
maintain its own character and independence for centuries to come.
We sat
upon a bench under the high trees, and had beautiful views of the different
reaches of the river above and below. On the opposite bank, which is
finely wooded with elms and other trees, are the remains of an ancient priory,
built upon a rock: and rock and ruin are so blended together that it is
impossible to separate the one from the other. Nothing can be more
beautiful than the little remnants of this holy place; elm trees—for we were
near enough to distinguish them by their branches—grow out of the walls, and
overshadow a small but very elegant window. It can scarcely be conceived
what a grace the castle and priory impart to each other; and the river Clyde
flows on smooth and unruffled below, seeming to my thoughts
more in harmony with the sober and stately images of former times, than if it
had roared over a rocky channel, forcing its sound upon the ear. It
blended gently with the warbling of the smaller birds and chattering of the
larger ones that had made their nests in the ruins. In this fortress the
chief of the English nobility were confined after the battle of
Bannockburn. If a man is to be a prisoner, he scarcely could have a more
pleasant place to solace his captivity; but I thought that for close
confinement I should prefer the banks of a lake or the sea-side. The
greatest charm of a brook or river is in the liberty to pursue it through its
windings; you can then take it in whatever mood you like; silent or noisy,
sportive or quiet. The beauties of a brook or river must be sought, and
the pleasure is in going in search of them; those of a lake or of the sea come
to you of themselves. These rude warriors cared little perhaps about
either; and yet if one may judge from the writings of Chaucer and from the old
romances, more interesting passions were connected with natural objects in the
days of chivalry than now, though going in search of scenery, as it is called,
had not then been thought of. I had heard nothing of Bothwell Castle, at
least nothing that I remembered, therefore, perhaps, my pleasure was greater,
compared with what I received elsewhere, than others might feel.
At our
return to the stables we found an inferior groom, who helped William to yoke
the horse, and was very civil. We grew hungry before we had travelled
many miles, and seeing a large public-house—it was in a walled court some yards
from the road—Coleridge got off the car to inquire if we could dine there, and
was told we could have nothing but eggs. It was a miserable place, very
like a French house; indeed we observed, in almost every
part of Scotland, except Edinburgh, that we were reminded ten times of France
and Germany for once of England.
Saw
nothing remarkable after leaving Bothwell, except the first view of Glasgow, at
some miles distance, terminated by the mountains of Loch Lomond. The
suburbs of Glasgow extend very far, houses on each side of the highway,—all
ugly, and the inhabitants dirty. The roads are very wide; and everything
seems to tell of the neighbourhood of a large town. We were annoyed by
carts and dirt, and the road was full of people, who all noticed our car in one
way or other; the children often sent a hooting after us.
Wearied
completely, we at last reached the town, and were glad to walk, leading the car
to the first decent inn, which was luckily not far from the end of the
town. William, who gained most of his road-knowledge from ostlers, had
been informed of this house by the ostler at Hamilton; it proved quiet and
tolerably cheap, a new building—the Saracen’s Head. I shall never forget
how glad I was to be landed in a little quiet back-parlour, for my head was
beating with the noise of carts which we had left, and the wearisomeness of the
disagreeable objects near the highway; but with my first pleasant sensations
also came the feeling that we were not in an English inn—partly from its half-unfurnished
appearance, which is common in Scotland, for in general the deal wainscots and
doors are unpainted, and partly from the dirtiness of the floors. Having
dined, William and I walked to the post-office, and after much seeking found
out a quiet timber-yard wherein to sit down and read our letter. We then
walked a considerable time in the streets, which are perhaps as handsome as
streets can be, which derive no particular effect from their
situation in connexion with natural advantages, such as rivers, sea, or
hills. The Trongate, an old street, is very picturesque—high houses, with
an intermixture of gable fronts towards the street. The New Town is built
of fine stone, in the best style of the very best London streets at the west
end of the town, but, not being of brick, they are greatly superior. One
thing must strike every stranger in his first walk through Glasgow—an
appearance of business and bustle, but no coaches or gentlemen’s carriages;
during all the time we walked in the streets I only saw three carriages, and
these were travelling chaises. I also could not but observe a want of
cleanliness in the appearance of the lower orders of the people, and a dulness
in the dress and outside of the whole mass, as they moved along. We returned
to the inn before it was dark. I had a bad headache, and was tired, and
we all went to bed soon.
To be continued
