MISCELLANY No 66
RECOLLECTIONS OF A TOUR MADE IN SCOTLAND: V
Thursday, August 25th.—We were glad when we
awoke to see that it was a fine morning—the sky was bright blue, with
quick-moving clouds, the hills cheerful, lights and shadows vivid and
distinct. The village looked exceedingly beautiful this morning from the
garret windows—the stream glittering near it, while it flowed under trees
through the level fields to the lake. After breakfast, William and I went
down to the water-side. The roads were as dry as if no drop of rain had
fallen, which added to the pure cheerfulness of the appearance of the village,
and even of the distant prospect, an effect which I always seem to perceive
from clearly bright roads, for they are always brightened by rain, after a
storm; but when we came among the houses I regretted even
more than last night, because the contrast was greater, the slovenliness and
dirt near the doors; and could not but remember, with pain from the contrast,
the cottages of Somersetshire, covered with roses and myrtle, and their small
gardens of herbs and flowers. While lingering by the shore we began to
talk with a man who offered to row us to Inch-ta-vanach; but the sky began to
darken; and the wind being high, we doubted whether we should venture,
therefore made no engagement; he offered to sell me some thread, pointing to his
cottage, and added that many English ladies carried thread away from Luss.
Presently
after Coleridge joined us, and we determined to go to the island. I was
sorry that the man who had been talking with us was not our boatman; William by
some chance had engaged another. We had two rowers and a strong boat; so
I felt myself bold, though there was a great chance of a high wind. The
nearest point of Inch-ta-vanach is not perhaps more than a mile and a quarter
from Luss; we did not land there, but rowed round the end, and landed on that
side which looks towards our favourite cottages, and their own island, which,
wherever seen, is still their own. It rained a little when we landed, and
I took my cloak, which afterwards served us to sit down upon in our road up the
hill, when the day grew much finer, with gleams of sunshine. This island
belongs to Sir James Colquhoun, who has made a convenient road, that winds
gently to the top of it.
We had not
climbed far before we were stopped by a sudden burst of prospect, so singular
and beautiful that it was like a flash of images from another world. We
stood with our backs to the hill of the island, which we
were
ascending, and which shut out Ben Lomond entirely, and all the upper part of
the lake, and we looked towards the foot of the lake, scattered over with
islands without beginning and without end. The sun shone, and the distant
hills were visible, some through sunny mists, others in gloom with patches of
sunshine; the lake was lost under the low and distant hills, and the islands
lost in the lake, which was all in motion with travelling fields of light, or
dark shadows under rainy clouds. There are many hills, but no commanding
eminence at a distance to confine the prospect, so that the land seemed endless
as the water.
What I had
heard of Loch Lomond, or any other place in Great Britain, had given me no idea
of anything like what we beheld: it was an outlandish scene—we might have
believed ourselves in North America. The islands were of every possible
variety of shape and surface—hilly and level, large and small, bare, rocky,
pastoral, or covered with wood. Immediately under my eyes lay one large
flat island, bare and green, so flat and low that it scarcely appeared to rise
above the water, with straggling peat-stacks and a single hut upon one of its
out-shooting promontories—for it was of a very irregular shape, though
perfectly flat. Another, its next neighbour, and still nearer to us, was
covered over with heath and coppice-wood, the surface undulating, with flat or
sloping banks towards the water, and hollow places, cradle-like valleys,
behind. These two islands, with Inch-ta-vanach, where we were standing,
were intermingled with the water, I might say interbedded and interveined with
it, in a manner that was exquisitely pleasing. There were bays
innumerable, straits or passages like calm rivers, landlocked lakes, and, to
the main water, stormy promontories. The solitary hut on the flat green
island seemed unsheltered and desolate, and yet not wholly so,
for it was but a broad river’s breadth from the covert of the wood of the other
island. Near to these is a miniature, an islet covered with trees, on
which stands a small ruin that looks like the remains of a religious house; it
is overgrown with ivy, and were it not that the arch of a window or gateway may
be distinctly seen, it would be difficult to believe that it was not a tuft of
trees growing in the shape of a ruin, rather than a ruin overshadowed by
trees. When we had walked a little further we saw below us, on the
nearest large island, where some of the wood had been cut down, a hut, which we
conjectured to be a bark hut. It appeared to be on the shore of a little
forest lake, enclosed by Inch-ta-vanach, where we were, and the woody island on
which the hut stands.
Beyond we
had the same intricate view as before, and could discover Dumbarton rock with
its double head. There being a mist over it, it had a ghost-like
appearance—as I observed to William and Coleridge, something like the Tor of
Glastonbury from the Dorsetshire hills. Right before us, on the flat
island mentioned before, were several small single trees or shrubs, growing at
different distances from each other, close to the shore, but some optical
delusion had detached them from the land on which they stood, and they had the
appearance of so many little vessels sailing along the coast of it. I
mention the circumstance, because, with the ghostly image of Dumbarton Castle,
and the ambiguous ruin on the small island, it was much in the character of the
scene, which was throughout magical and enchanting—a new world in its great
permanent outline and composition, and changing at every moment in every part
of it by the effect of sun and wind, and mist and shower and
cloud, and the blending lights and deep shades which took place of each other,
traversing the lake in every direction. The whole was indeed a strange
mixture of soothing and restless images, of images inviting to rest, and others
hurrying the fancy away into an activity still more pleasing than repose.
Yet, intricate and homeless, that is, without lasting abiding-place for the
mind, as the prospect was, there was no perplexity; we had still a guide to
lead us forward.
Wherever
we looked, it was a delightful feeling that there was something beyond.
Meanwhile, the sense of quiet was never lost sight of; the little peaceful
lakes among the islands might make you forget that the great water, Loch
Lomond, was so near; and yet are more beautiful, because you know that it is so:
they have their own bays and creeks sheltered within a shelter. When we
had ascended to the top of the island we had a view up to Ben Lomond, over the
long, broad water without spot or rock; and, looking backwards, saw the islands
below us as on a ma This view, as may be supposed, was not nearly so
interesting as those we had seen before. We hunted out all the houses on
the shore, which were very few: there was the village of Luss, the two
gentlemen’s houses, our favourite cottages, and here and there a hut; but I do
not recollect any comfortable-looking farm-houses, and on the opposite shore
not a single dwelling. The whole scene was a combination of natural
wildness, loveliness, beauty, and barrenness, or rather bareness, yet not
comfortless or cold; but the whole was beautiful. We were too far off the
more distant shore to distinguish any particular spots which we might have
regretted were not better cultivated, and near Luss there was no want of
houses.
After we had left the island, having been so much taken
with the beauty of the bark hut and the little lake by which it appeared to
stand, we desired the boatman to row us through it, and we landed at the
hut. Walked upon the island for some time, and found out sheltered places
for cottages. There were several woodman’s huts, which, with some
scattered fir-trees, and others in irregular knots, that made a delicious
murmuring in the wind, added greatly to the romantic effect of the scene.
They were built in the form of a cone from the ground, like savages’ huts, the
door being just large enough for a man to enter with stooping. Straw beds
were raised on logs of wood, tools lying about, and a forked bough of a tree
was generally suspended from the roof in the middle to hang a kettle
upon. It was a place that might have been just visited by new
settlers. I thought of Ruth and her dreams of romantic love:
‘And then he said how sweet it
were,
A fisher or a hunter there,
A gardener in the shade,
Still wandering with an easy mind,
To build a household fire, and find
A home in every glade.’
We found
the main lake very stormy when we had left the shelter of the islands, and
there was again a threatening of rain, but it did not come on. I wanted
much to go to the old ruin, but the boatmen were in a hurry to be at
home. They told us it had been a stronghold built by a man who lived
there alone, and was used to swim over and make depredations on the shore,—that
nobody could ever lay hands on him, he was such a good swimmer, but at last
they caught him in a net. The men pointed out to us an
island belonging to Sir James Colquhoun, on which were a great quantity of
deer.
Arrived at
the inn at about twelve o’clock, and prepared to depart immediately: we should
have gone with great regret if the weather had been warmer and the inn more
comfortable. When we were leaving the door, a party with smart carriage
and servants drove up, and I observed that the people of the house were just as
slow in their attendance upon them as on us, with one single horse and outlandish
Hibernian vehicle.
When we
had travelled about two miles the lake became considerably narrower, the hills
rocky, covered with copses, or bare, rising more immediately from the bed of
the water, and therefore we had not so often to regret the want of inhabitants.
Passed by, or saw at a distance, sometimes a single cottage, or two or three
together, but the whole space between Luss and Tarbet is a solitude to the
eye. We were reminded of Ulswater, but missed the pleasant farms, and the
mountains were not so interesting: we had not seen them in companies or
brotherhoods rising one above another at a long distance. Ben Lomond
stood alone, opposite to us, majestically overlooking the lake; yet there was
something in this mountain which disappointed me,—a want of massiveness and
simplicity, perhaps from the top being broken into three distinct stages.
The road carried us over a bold promontory by a steep and high ascent, and we
had a long view of the lake pushing itself up in a narrow line through an avenue
of mountains, terminated by the mountains at the head of the lake, of which Ben
Lui, if I do not mistake, is the most considerable. The afternoon was
showery and misty, therefore we did not see this prospect so distinctly as we could have wished, but there was a grand obscurity over
it which might make the mountains appear more numerous.
I have
said so much of this lake that I am tired myself, and I fear I must have tired
my friends. We had a pleasant journey to Tarbet; more than half of it on
foot, for the road was hilly, and after we had climbed one small hill we were
not desirous to get into the car again, seeing another before us, and our path
was always delightful, near the lake, and frequently through woods. When
we were within about half a mile of Tarbet, at a sudden turning looking to the
left, we saw a very craggy-topped mountain amongst other smooth ones; the rocks
on the summit distinct in shape as if they were buildings raised up by man, or
uncouth images of some strange creature. We called out with one voice,
‘That’s what we wanted!’ alluding to the frame-like uniformity of the
side-screens of the lake for the last five or six miles. As we
conjectured, this singular mountain was the famous Cobbler, near
Arrochar. Tarbet was before us in the recess of a deep, large bay, under
the shelter of a hill. When we came up to the village we had to inquire
for the inn, there being no signboard. It was a well-sized white house,
the best in the place. We were conducted up-stairs into a sitting-room
that might make any good-humoured travellers happy—a square room, with windows
on each side, looking, one way, towards the mountains, and across the lake to
Ben Lomond, the other.
There was
a pretty stone house before (i.e. towards the lake) some huts, scattered
trees, two or three green fields with hedgerows, and a little brook making its
way towards the lake; the fields are almost flat, and screened on that side nearest the head of the lake by a hill, which, pushing
itself out, forms the bay of Tarbet, and, towards the foot, by a gentle slope
and trees. The lake is narrow, and Ben Lomond shuts up the prospect,
rising directly from the water. We could have believed ourselves to be by
the side of Ulswater, at Glenridden, or in some other of the inhabited
retirements of that lake. We were in a sheltered place among mountains;
it was not an open joyous bay, with a cheerful populous village, like Luss; but
a pastoral and retired spot, with a few single dwellings. The people of
the inn stared at us when we spoke, without giving us an answer immediately,
which we were at first disposed to attribute to coarseness of manners, but
found afterwards that they did not understand us at once, Erse being the
language spoken in the family. Nothing but salt meat and eggs for
dinner—no potatoes; the house smelt strongly of herrings, which were hung to
dry over the kitchen fire.
Walked in
the evening towards the head of the lake; the road was steep over the hill, and
when we had reached the top of it we had long views up and down the
water. Passed a troop of women who were resting themselves by the
roadside, as if returning from their day’s labour. Amongst them was a
man, who had walked with us a considerable way in the morning, and told us he
was just come from America, where he had been for some years,—was going to his
own home, and should return to America. He spoke of emigration as a
glorious thing for them who had money. Poor fellow! I do not think that
he had brought much back with him, for he had worked his passage over: I much
suspected that a bundle, which he carried upon a stick, tied in a
pocket-handkerchief, contained his all. He was almost blind, he said, as
were many of the
crew.
He intended crossing the lake at the ferry; but it was stormy, and he thought
he should not be able to get over that day. I could not help smiling when
I saw him lying by the roadside with such a company about him, not like a
wayfaring man, but seeming as much at home and at his ease as if he had just
stepped out of his hut among them, and they had been neighbours all their
lives.
b
Passed one pretty house, a large thatched dwelling with out-houses, but the
prospect above and below was solitary.
The sun
had long been set before we returned to the inn. As travellers, we were
glad to see the moon over the top of one of the hills, but it was a cloudy
night, without any peculiar beauty or solemnity. After tea we made
inquiries respecting the best way to go to Loch Ketterine; the landlord could
give but little information, and nobody seemed to know anything distinctly of
the place, though it was but ten miles off. We applied to the
maid-servant who waited on us: she was a fine-looking young woman, dressed in a
white bed-gown, her hair fastened up by a comb, and without shoes and
stockings. When we asked her about the Trossachs she could give us no
information, but on our saying, ‘Do you know Loch Ketterine?’ she answered with
a smile, ‘I should know that loch, for I was bred and born there.’
After much difficulty we learned from her that the Trossachs were at the foot
of the lake, and that by the way we were to go we should come upon them at the
head, should have to travel ten miles to the foot of the water, and that
there was no inn by the way. The girl spoke English very distinctly; but
she had few words, and found it difficult to understand
us. She did not much encourage us to go, because the roads were bad, and
it was a long way, ‘and there was no putting-up for the like of us.’ We
determined, however, to venture, and throw ourselves upon the hospitality of
some cottager or gentleman. We desired the landlady to roast us a couple
of fowls to carry with us. There are always plenty of fowls at the doors
of a Scotch inn, and eggs are as regularly brought to table at breakfast as
bread and butter.
Friday, August 26th.—We did not set off till
between ten and eleven o’clock, much too late for a long day’s journey.
Our boatman lived at the pretty white house which we saw from the windows: we
called at his door by the way, and, even when we were near the house, the
outside looked comfortable; but within I never saw anything so miserable from
dirt, and dirt alone: it reminded one of the house of a decayed weaver in the
suburbs of a large town, with a sickly wife and a large family; but William
says it was far worse, that it was quite Hottentotish.
After long
waiting, and many clumsy preparations, we got ourselves seated in the boat; but
we had not floated five yards before we perceived that if any of the party—and
there was a little Highland woman who was going over the water with us, the
boatman, his helper, and ourselves—should stir but a few inches, leaning to one
side or the other, the boat would be full in an instant, and we at the bottom;
besides, it was very leaky, and the woman was employed to lade out the water
continually. It appeared that this crazy vessel was not the man’s own,
and that his was lying in a bay at a little distance. He said he
would take us to it as fast as possible, but I was so much
frightened I would gladly have given up the whole day’s journey; indeed not one
of us would have attempted to cross the lake in that boat for a thousand
pounds. We reached the larger boat in safety after coasting a
considerable way near the shore, but just as we were landing, William dropped
the bundle which contained our food into the water. The fowls were no
worse, but some sugar, ground coffee, and pepper-cake seemed to be entirely
spoiled. We gathered together as much of the coffee and sugar as we could
and tied it up, and again trusted ourselves to the lake. The sun shone,
and the air was calm—luckily it had been so while we were in the crazy boat—we
had rocks and woods on each side of us, or bare hills; seldom a single cottage
and there was no rememberable place till we came opposite to a waterfall of no
inconsiderable size, that appeared to drop directly into the lake: close to it
was a hut, which we were told was the ferry-house. On the other side of
the lake was a pretty farm under the mountains, beside a river, the cultivated
grounds lying all together, and sloping towards the lake from the mountain
hollow down which the river came. It is not easy to conceive how
beautiful these spots appeared after moving on so long between the solitary
steeps.
We went a
considerable way further, and landed at Rob Roy’s Caves, which are in fact no
caves, but some fine rocks on the brink of the lake, in the crevices of which a
man might hide himself cunningly enough; the water is very deep below them, and
the hills above steep and covered with wood. The little Highland woman,
who was in size about a match for our guide at Lanerk, accompanied us hither.
There was something very gracious in the
manners of
this woman; she could scarcely speak five English words, yet she gave me,
whenever I spoke to her, as many intelligible smiles as I had needed English
words to answer me, and helped me over the rocks in the most obliging
manner. She had left the boat out of good-will to us, or for her own
amusement. She had never seen these caves before; but no doubt had heard
of them, the tales of Rob Roy’s exploits being told familiarly round the
‘ingles’ hereabouts, for this neighbourhood was his home. We landed at
Inversneyde, the ferry-house by the waterfall, and were not sorry to part with
our boatman, who was a coarse hard-featured man, and, speaking of the French,
uttered the basest and most cowardly sentiments. His helper, a youth
fresh from the Isle of Skye, was innocent of this fault, and though but a bad
rower, was a far better companion; he could not speak a word of English, and
sang a plaintive Gaelic air in a low tone while he plied his oar.
The
ferry-house stood on the bank a few yards above the landing-place where the
boat lies. It is a small hut under a steep wood, and a few yards to the
right, looking towards the hut, is the waterfall. The fall is not very
high, but the stream is considerable, as we could see by the large black stones
that were lying bare, but the rains, if they had reached this place, had had
little effect upon the waterfall; its noise was not so great as to form a
contrast with the stillness of the bay into which it falls, where the boat, and
house, and waterfall itself seemed all sheltered and protected. The
Highland woman was to go with us the two first miles of our journey. She
led us along a bye foot-path a shorter way up the hill from the
ferry-house. There is a considerable settling in the hills that border
Loch Lomond, at the passage by which we were to cross to Loch Ketterine;
Ben
Lomond, terminating near the ferry-house, is on the same side of the water with
it, and about three miles above Tarbet.
We had to
climb right up the hill, which is very steep, and, when close under it, seemed
to be high, but we soon reached the top, and when we were there had lost sight
of the lake; and now our road was over a moor, or rather through a wide
moorland hollow. Having gone a little way, we saw before us, at the
distance of about half a mile, a very large stone building, a singular
structure, with a high wall round it, naked hill above, and neither field nor
tree near; but the moor was not overgrown with heath merely, but grey grass, such
as cattle might pasture upon. We could not conjecture what this building
was; it appeared as if it had been built strong to defend it from storms; but
for what purpose? William called out to us that we should observe that
place well, for it was exactly like one of the spittals of the Alps, built for
the reception of travellers, and indeed I had thought it must be so before he
spoke. This building, from its singular structure and appearance, made
the place, which is itself in a country like Scotland nowise remarkable, take a
character of unusual wildness and desolation—this when we first came in view of
it; and afterwards, when we had passed it and looked back, three pyramidal
mountains on the opposite side of Loch Lomond terminated the view, which under certain
accidents of weather must be very grand. Our Highland companion had not
English enough to give us any information concerning this strange building; we
could only get from her that it was a ‘large house,’ which was plain enough.
We walked
about a mile and a half over the moor without seeing any other dwelling but one
hut by the burn-side,
with a
peat-stack and a ten-yards’-square enclosure for potatoes; then we came to
several clusters of houses, even hamlets they might be called, but where there is
any land belonging to the Highland huts there are so many outbuildings near,
which differ in no respect from the dwelling-houses except that they send out
no smoke, that one house looks like two or three. Near these houses was a
considerable quantity of cultivated ground, potatoes and corn, and the people
were busy making hay in the hollow places of the open vale, and all along the
sides of the becks. It was a pretty sight altogether—men and women, dogs,
the little running streams, with linen bleaching near them, and cheerful sunny
hills and rocks on every side. We passed by one patch of potatoes that a
florist might have been proud of; no carnation-bed ever looked more gay than
this square plot of ground on the waste common. The flowers were in very large
bunches, and of an extraordinary size, and of every conceivable shade of
colouring from snow-white to deep purple. It was pleasing in that place,
where perhaps was never yet a flower cultivated by man for his own pleasure, to
see these blossoms grow more gladly than elsewhere, making a summer garden near
the mountain dwellings.
At one of
the clusters of houses we parted with our companion, who had insisted on
bearing my bundle while she stayed with us: I often tried to enter into
conversation with her, and seeing a small tarn before us, was reminded of the
pleasure of fishing and the manner of living there, and asked her what sort of
food was eaten in that place, if they lived much upon fish, or had mutton from
the hills; she looked earnestly at me, and shaking her head, replied, ‘Oh yes!
eat fish—no papistes, eat everything.’
The tarn
had one small island covered with wood; the stream that runs from it falls into
Loch Ketterine, which, after we had gone a little beyond the tarn, we saw at
some distance before us.
Pursued
the road, a mountain horse-track, till we came to a corner of what seemed the
head of the lake, and there sate down completely tired, and hopeless as to the
rest of our journey. The road ended at the shore, and no houses were to be
seen on the opposite side except a few widely parted huts, and on the near side
was a trackless heath. The land at the head of the lake was but a
continuation of the common we had come along, and was covered with heather,
intersected by a few straggling foot-paths.
Coleridge
and I were faint with hunger, and could go no further till we had refreshed
ourselves, so we ate up one of our fowls, and drank of the water of Loch
Ketterine; but William could not be easy till he had examined the coast, so he
left us, and made his way along the moor across the head of the lake.
Coleridge and I, as we sate, had what seemed to us but a dreary prospect—a
waste of unknown ground which we guessed we must travel over before it was
possible for us to find a shelter. We saw a long way down the lake; it
was all moor on the near side; on the other the hills were steep from the
water, and there were large coppice-woods, but no cheerful green fields, and no
road that we could see; we knew, however, that there must be a road from house
to house; but the whole lake appeared a solitude—neither boats, islands, nor
houses, no grandeur in the hills, nor any loveliness in the shores. When
we first came in view of it we had said it was like a barren Ulswater—Ulswater
dismantled of its grandeur, and cropped of its lesser beauties. When I
had swallowed my dinner I hastened after William, and
Coleridge followed me. Walked through the heather with some labour for
perhaps half a mile, and found William sitting on the top of a small eminence,
whence we saw the real head of the lake, which was pushed up into the vale a
considerable way beyond the promontory where we now sate. The view up the
lake was very pleasing, resembling Thirlemere below Armath. There were
rocky promontories and woody islands, and, what was most cheering to us, a neat
white house on the opposite shore; but we could see no boats, so, in order to
get to it we should be obliged to go round the head of the lake, a long and
weary way.
After
Coleridge came up to us, while we were debating whether we should turn back or
go forward, we espied a man on horseback at a little distance, with a boy
following him on foot, no doubt a welcome sight, and we hailed him. We
should have been glad to have seen either man, woman, or child at this time,
but there was something uncommon and interesting in this man’s appearance,
which would have fixed our attention wherever we had met him. He was a
complete Highlander in dress, figure, and face, and a very fine-looking man,
hardy and vigorous, though past his prime. While he stood waiting for us
in his bonnet and plaid, which never look more graceful than on horseback, I
forgot our errand, and only felt glad that we were in the Highlands.
William accosted him with, ‘Sir, do you speak English?’ He replied, ‘A
little.’ He spoke however, sufficiently well for our purpose, and very
distinctly, as all the Highlanders do who learn English as a foreign language;
but in a long conversation they want words; he informed us that he himself was
going beyond the Trossachs, to Callander, that no boats were kept to ‘let;’ but
there were two gentlemen’s houses at this end of the lake,
one of which we could not yet see, it being hidden from us by a part of the
hill on which we stood. The other house was that which we saw opposite to
us; both the gentlemen kept boats, and probably might be able to spare one of
their servants to go with us. After we had asked many questions, which
the Highlander answered with patience and courtesy, he parted from us, going along
a sort of horse-track, which a foot-passenger, if he once get into it, need not
lose if he be careful.
When he
was gone we again debated whether we should go back to Tarbet, or throw
ourselves upon the mercy of one of the two gentlemen for a night’s
lodging. What we had seen of the main body of the lake made us little
desire to see more of it; the Highlander upon the naked heath, in his Highland
dress, upon his careful-going horse, with the boy following him, was worth it
all; but after a little while we resolved to go on, ashamed to shrink from an
adventure. Pursued the horse-track, and soon came in sight of the other
gentleman’s house, which stood on the opposite side of the vale, a little above
the lake. It was a white house; no trees near it except a new plantation
of firs; but the fields were green, sprinkled over with haycocks, and the brook
which comes down the valley and falls into the lake ran through them. It
was like a new-made farm in a mountain vale, and yet very pleasing after the
depressing prospect which had been before us.
Our road
was rough, and not easy to be kept. It was between five and six o’clock
when we reached the brook side, where Coleridge and I stopped, and William went
up towards the house, which was in a field, where about half a dozen people
were at work. He addressed himself to one who appeared
like the master, and all drew near him, staring at William as nobody could have
stared but out of sheer rudeness, except in such a lonely place. He told
his tale, and inquired about boats; there were no boats, and no lodging nearer
than Callander, ten miles beyond the foot of the lake. A laugh was on
every face when William said we were come to see the Trossachs; no doubt they
thought we had better have stayed at our own homes. William endeavoured
to make it appear not so very foolish, by informing them that it was a place
much celebrated in England, though perhaps little thought of by them, and that
we only differed from many of our countrymen in having come the wrong way in
consequence of an erroneous direction.
After a
little time the gentleman said we should be accommodated with such beds as they
had, and should be welcome to rest in their house if we pleased. William
came back for Coleridge and me; the men all stood at the door to receive us,
and now their behaviour was perfectly courteous. We were conducted into
the house by the same man who had directed us hither on the other side of the
lake, and afterwards we learned that he was the father of our hostess. He
showed us into a room up-stairs, begged we would sit at our ease, walk out, or
do just as we pleased. It was a large square deal wainscoted room, the
wainscot black with age, yet had never been painted: it did not look like an
English room, and yet I do not know in what it differed, except that in England
it is not common to see so large and well-built a room so ill-furnished: there
were two or three large tables, and a few old chairs of different sorts, as if
they had been picked up one did not know how, at sales, or had belonged to
different rooms of the house ever since it was built. We sat perhaps three-quarters of an hour, and I was about to carry down our
wet coffee and sugar and ask leave to boil it, when the mistress of the house
entered, a tall fine-looking woman, neatly dressed in a dark-coloured gown,
with a white handkerchief tied round her head; she spoke to us in a very
pleasing manner, begging permission to make tea for us, an offer which we
thankfully accepted. Encouraged by the sweetness of her manners, I went
down-stairs to dry my feet by the kitchen fire; she lent me a pair of
stockings, and behaved to me with the utmost attention and kindness. She
carried the tea-things into the room herself, leaving me to make tea, and set
before us cheese and butter and barley cakes. These cakes are as thin as
our oat-bread, but, instead of being crisp, are soft and leathery, yet we,
being hungry, and the butter delicious, ate them with great pleasure, but when
the same bread was set before us afterwards we did not like it.
After tea
William and I walked out; we amused ourselves with watching the Highlanders at
work: they went leisurely about everything, and whatever was to be done, all
followed, old men, and young, and little children. We were driven into
the house by a shower, which came on with the evening darkness, and the people
leaving their work paused at the same time. I was pleased to see them a
while after sitting round a blazing fire in the kitchen, father and son-in-law,
master and man, and the mother with her little child on her knee. When I
had been there before tea I had observed what a contrast there was between the
mistress and her kitchen; she did not differ in appearance from an English
country lady; but her kitchen, roof, walls, and floor of mud, was all black
alike; yet now, with the light of a bright fire upon so many
happy countenances, the whole room made a pretty sight.
We heard
the company laughing and talking long after we were in bed; indeed I believe
they never work till they are tired. The children could not speak a word
of English: they were very shy at first; but after I had caressed the eldest,
and given her a red leather purse, with which she was delighted, she took hold
of my hand and hung about me, changing her side-long looks for pretty
smiles. Her mother lamented they were so far from school, they should be
obliged to send the children down into the Lowlands to be taught reading and
English. Callander, the nearest town, was twenty miles from them, and it was
only a small place: they had their groceries from Glasgow. She said that
at Callander was their nearest church, but sometimes ‘got a preaching at the
Garrison.’ In explaining herself she informed us that the large building
which had puzzled us in the morning had been built by Government, at the
request of one of the Dukes of Montrose, for the defence of his domains against
the attacks of Rob Roy. I will not answer for the truth of this; perhaps
it might have been built for this purpose, and as a check on the Highlands in
general; certain it is, however, that it was a garrison; soldiers used to be
constantly stationed there, and have only been withdrawn within the last
thirteen or fourteen years. Mrs. Macfarlane attended me to my room; she
said she hoped I should be able to sleep upon blankets, and said they were
‘fresh from the fauld.’
To be
continued
A fisher or a hunter there,
A gardener in the shade,
Still wandering with an easy mind,
To build a household fire, and find
A home in every glade.’
