"Yonder Is The Island Where Douglass Concealed His
Daughter.
Under that broad oak, whose boughs almost dip into the water,
was the place where her skiff was moored.
On that rock, covered with
heath, Fitz James stood and wound his bugle. Near it, but out of sight, is
the silver strand where the skiff received him on board."
Further on, he pointed out, on the south side of the lake, half way up
among the rocks of the mountain, the place of the Goblin Cave, and still
beyond it
"The wild pass, where birches wave,
Of Beal-a-nam-bo."
On the north shore, the hills had a gentler slope, and on their skirts,
which spread into something like a meadow, we saw a solitary dwelling. "In
that," said he, "Rob Roy was born." In about two hours, our strong-armed
rowers had brought us to the head of the lake. Before we reached it, we
saw the dark crest of Ben Lomond, loftier than any of the mountains around
us, peering over the hills which formed the southern rampart of Loch
Katrine. We landed, and proceeded - the men on foot and the women on ponies
- through a wild craggy valley, overgrown with low shrubs, to Inversnaid,
on Loch Lomond, where a stream freshly swollen by rains tumbled down a
pretty cascade into the lake. As we descended the steep bank, we saw a man
and woman sitting on the grass weaving baskets; the woman, as we passed,
stopped her work to beg; and the children, chubby and ruddy, came running
after us with "Please give me a penny to buy a scone."
At Iversnaid we embarked in a steamboat which took us to the northern
extremity of the lake, where it narrows into a channel like a river. Here
we stopped to wait the arrival of a coach, and, in the mean time, the
passengers had an hour to wander in the grassy valley of Glenfalloch,
closed in by high mountains. I heard the roar of mountain-streams, and
passing northward, found myself in sight of two torrents, one from the
east, and the other from the west side of the valley, throwing themselves,
foaming and white, from precipice to precipice, till their waters, which
were gathered in the summit of the mountains, reached the meadows, and
stole through the grass to mingle with those of the lake.
The coach at length arrived, and we were again taken on board the steamer,
and conveyed the whole length of Loch Lomond to its southern extremity. We
passed island after island, one of which showed among its thick trees the
remains of a fortress, erected in the days of feudal warfare and robbery,
and another was filled with deer. Towards the southern end of the lake,
the towering mountains, peak beyond peak, which overlook the lake, subside
into hills, between which the stream called Leven-water flows out through
a rich and fertile valley.
Coaches were waiting at Balloch, where we landed, to take us to Dumbarton.
Near the lake we passed a magnificent park, in the midst of which stood a
castle, a veritable castle, a spacious massive building of stone, with a
tower and battlements, on which a flag was flying. "It belongs to a
dry-goods merchant in Glasgow," said the captain of the steamboat, who was
in the coach with us; "and the flag is put up by his boys. The merchants
are getting finer seats than the nobility." I am sorry to say that I have
forgotten both the name of the merchant and that of his castle. He was, as
I was told, a liberal, as well as an opulent man; had built a school-house
in the neighborhood, and being of the Free Church party, was then engaged
in building a church.
Near Renton, on the banks of the Leven, I saw a little neighborhood,
embosomed in old trees. "There," said our captain, "Smollet was born." A
column has been erected to his memory in the town of Renton, which we saw
as we passed. The forked rock, on which stands Dumbarton Castle, was now
in sight overlooking the Clyde; we were whirled into the town, and in a
few minutes were on board a steamer which, as evening set in, landed us at
Glasgow.
I must reserve what I have to tell of Glasgow and Ayrshire for yet another
letter.
Letter XXIV.
Glasgow. - Ayr. - Alloway.
Dublin, _July_ 24, 1845.
I promised another letter concerning Scotland, but I had not time to write
it until the Irish Channel lay between me and the Scottish coast.
When we reached Glasgow on the 18th of July, the streets were swarming
with people. I inquired the occasion, and was told that this was the
annual fair. The artizans were all out with their families, and great
numbers of country people were sauntering about. This fair was once, what
its name imports, an annual market for the sale of merchandise; but it is
now a mere holiday in which the principal sales, as it appeared to me,
were of gingerbread and whisky. I strolled the next morning to the Green,
a spacious open ground that stretches along the Clyde. One part of it was
occupied with the booths and temporary theatres and wagons of showmen,
around and among which a vast throng was assembled, who seemed to delight
in being deafened with the cries of the showmen and the music of their
instruments. In one place a band was playing, in another a gong was
thundering, and from one of the balconies a fellow in regal robes and a
pasteboard crown, surrounded by several persons of both sexes in tawdry
stage-dresses, who seemed to have just got out of bed and were yawning and
rubbing their eyes, was vociferating to the crowd in praise of the
entertainment which was shortly to be offered them, while not far off the
stentor of a rival company, under a flag which announced a new pantomime
for a penny, was declaiming with equal vehemence.
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