Dorothy Wordsworth Journal: Recollections of a Tour of Scotland (Part 4)

William and I parted from Mary on Sunday afternoon, August 14th 1803; and William, Coleridge, and I left Keswick on Monday morning, the 15th, at twenty minutes after eleven o’clock. The day was very hot; we walked up the hills, and along all the rough road, which made our walking half the day’s journey.

Travelled under the foot of Carrock, a mountain covered with stones on the lower part; above, it is very rocky, but sheep pasture there; we saw several where there seemed to be no grass to tempt them.

Passed the foot of Grisdale and Mosedale, both pastoral valleys, narrow, and soon terminating in the mountains–green, with scattered trees and houses, and each a beautiful stream. At Grisdale our horse backed upon a steep bank where the road was not fenced, just above a pretty mill at the foot of the valley; and we had a second threatening of a disaster in crossing a narrow bridge between the two dales; but this was not the fault of either man or horse.

Slept at Mr. Younghusband’s public-house, Hesket Newmarket.

 

In the evening walked to Caldbeck Falls, a delicious spot in which to breathe out a summer’s day–limestone rocks, hanging trees, pools, and water-breaks–caves and caldrons which have been honoured with fairy names, and no doubt continue in the fancy of the neighbourhood to resound with fairy revels.

Note: Below is a possible route from Keswick to Carrock to Grisdale to Hesket Newmarket to Caldwell Falls. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

 

Passed Rose Castle upon the Caldew, an ancient building of red stone with sloping gardens, an ivied gateway, velvet lawns, old garden walls, trim flower-borders with stately and luxuriant flowers.

We walked up to the house and stood some minutes watching the swallows that flew about restlessly, and flung their shadows upon the sunbright walls of the old building; the shadows glanced and twinkled, interchanged and crossed each other, expanded and shrunk up, appeared and disappeared every instant; as I observed to William and Coleridge, seeming more like living things than the birds themselves.

Dined at Carlisle; the town in a bustle with the assizes; so many strange faces known in former times and recognised, that it half seemed as if I ought to know them all, and, together with the noise, the fine ladies, etc., they put me into confusion.

This day Hatfield was condemned. I stood at the door of the gaoler’s house, where he was; William entered the house, and Coleridge saw him; I fell into conversation with a debtor, who told me in a dry way that he was “far over-learned,” and another man observed to William that we might learn from Hatfield’s fate “not to meddle with pen and ink.”

Note:

John Hatfield was taken at a village sixteen miles from Swansea soon after. His trial took place at Carlisle on 15 August 1803. To three indictments for forgery Hatfield pleaded not guilty. But the charges were fully proved. He was sentenced to be hanged, and met his death coolly, on Saturday, 3 September.

We gave a shilling to my companion, whom we found out to be a friend of the family, a fellow-sailor with my brother John in “Captain Wordsworth’s ship.”

Note:

Earl of Abergavenny, under the command of Captain John Wordsworth, Snr., left Portsmouth on 13 June 1799, reached Penang on 28 October, and Whampoa on 16 January 1800.

While she was at Canton, Wordsworth became involved in the “Providence Affair” when British sailors brought a wounded Chinese aboard her for medical care. A sentry on the schooner Providence, tender to HMS Madras, had fired on some men in a sampan attempting to cut Providence’s cables, wounding one man. Eventually the Chinese authorities dropped the “Providence Affair.”

Walked upon the city walls, which are broken down in places and crumbling away, and most disgusting from filth. The city and neighbourhood of Carlisle disappointed me; the banks of the river quite flat, and, though the holms are rich, there is not much beauty in the vale from the want of trees–at least to the eye of a person coming from England, and, I scarcely know how, but to me the holms had not a natural look; there was something townish in their appearance, a dulness in their strong deep green.

To Longtown–not very interesting, except from the long views over the flat country; the road rough, chiefly newly mended. Reached Longtown after sunset, a town of brick houses belonging chiefly to the Graham family. Being in the form of a cross and not long, it had been better called Crosstown. There are several shops, and it is not a very small place; but I could not meet with a silver thimble, and bought a half-penny brass one.

Slept at the Graham’s Arms, a large inn. Here, as everywhere else, the people seemed utterly insensible of the enormity of Hatfield’s offences; the ostler told William that he was quite a gentleman, paid every one genteelly, etc. etc. He and “Mary” had walked together to Gretna Green; a heavy rain came on when they were there; a returned chaise happened to pass, and the driver would have taken them up; but “Mr. Hope’s” carriage was to be sent for; he did not choose to accept the chaise-driver’s offer.

Wednesday, August 17th. Left Longtown after breakfast. About half a mile from the town a guidepost and two roads, to Edinburgh and Glasgow; we took the left-hand road, to Glasgow. Here saw a specimen of the luxuriance of the heath-plant, as it grows in Scotland; it was in the enclosed plantations–perhaps sheltered by them. These plantations appeared to be not well grown for their age; the trees were stunted.

Afterwards the road, treeless, over a peat-moss common–the Solway Moss; here and there an earth-built hut with its peat stack, a scanty growing willow hedge round the kail-garth, perhaps the cow pasturing near,–a little lass watching it,–the dreary waste cheered by the endless singing of larks.

We enter Scotland by crossing the River Sark; on the Scotch side of the bridge the ground is unenclosed pasturage; it was very green, and scattered over with that yellow flowered plant which we call grunsel; the hills heave and swell prettily enough; cattle feeding; a few corn fields near the river.

At the top of the hill opposite is Springfield, a village built by Sir William Maxwell–a dull uniformity in the houses, as is usual when all built at one time, or belonging to one individual, each just big enough for two people to live in, and in which a family, large or small as it may happen, is crammed. There the marriages are performed.

Note:

Sir William Maxwell, 3rd Baronet of Springkell (1739–1804), was a Scottish landowner and developer known for founding Springfield village in 1791. He aimed to create a self-sustaining community by dividing farmland into small plots for agriculture and weaving. Inheriting the baronetcy in 1760, he played a role in shaping local settlements.

Further on, though almost contiguous, is Gretna Green, upon a hill and among trees. This sounds well, but it is a dreary place; the stone houses dirty and miserable, with broken windows. There is a pleasant view from the churchyard over Solway Firth to the Cumberland mountains.

Dined at Annan. On our left as we travelled along appeared the Solway Firth and the mountains beyond, but the near country dreary. Those houses by the roadside which are built of stone are comfortless and dirty; but we peeped into a clay “biggin” that was very “canny,” and I daresay will be as warm as a swallow’s nest in winter.

The town of Annan made me think of France and Germany; many of the houses large and gloomy, the size of them outrunning the comforts. One thing which was like Germany pleased me: the shopkeepers express their calling by some device or painting; bread-bakers have biscuits, loaves, cakes, painted on their window-shutters; blacksmiths horses’ shoes, iron tools, etc. etc.; and so on through all trades.

Reached Dumfries at about nine o’clock–market-day; met crowds of people on the road, and every one had a smile for us and our car….

The inn was a large house, and tolerably comfortable; Mr. Rogers and his sister, whom we had seen at our own cottage at Grasmere a few days before, had arrived there that same afternoon on their way to the Highlands; but we did not see them till the next morning, and only for about a quarter of an hour.

Note: Below is a possible route from Longtown to Gretna to Annan to Dumfries. The destinations of Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s walks have been plotted using modern Google Maps for visualization. However, these routes are only approximations, as paths and roads in their time may have differed significantly from today’s landscapes.

August 18, 1803. Went to the churchyard where Burns is buried. A bookseller accompanied us. He showed us the outside of Burns’s house, where he had lived the last three years of his life, and where he died. It has a mean appearance, and is in a bye situation, whitewashed; dirty about the doors, as almost all Scotch houses are; flowering plants in the windows.

Note:

Robert Burns (25 January 1759 – 21 July 1796), also known familiarly as Rabbie Burns, was a Scottish poet and lyricist. He is widely regarded as the national poet of Scotland and is celebrated worldwide. He is the best known of the poets who have written in the Scots language, although much of his writing is in a “light Scots dialect” of English, accessible to an audience beyond Scotland. He also wrote in standard English, and in these writings his political or civil commentary is often at its bluntest.

Went on to visit his grave. He lies at a corner of the churchyard, and his second son, Francis Wallace, beside him. There is no stone to mark the spot; but a hundred guineas have been collected, to be expended on some sort of monument.

Note:

Francis was only thirteen when he died of an unrecorded illness in the family home at Millhole Brae (Burns Street) in Dumfries on 9 July 1803. He was first buried in the family lair, next to his father, in the north-east corner of the churchyard of St Michael’s Kirk, Dumfries. Francis was re-interred together with his father and his brother Maxwell in the vault of the newly erected mausoleum on 19 September 1815.

“There,” said the bookseller, pointing to a pompous monument, “there lies Mr. Such-a-one”–I have forgotten his name,–“a remarkably clever man; he was an attorney, and hardly ever lost a cause he undertook. Burns made many a lampoon upon him, and there they rest, as you see.”

We looked at the grave with melancholy and painful reflections, repeating to each other his own verses:–Is there a man whose judgment clear

Can others teach the course to steer,

Yet runs himself life’s mad career

Wild as the wave?–

Here let him pause, and through a tear

Survey this grave.

The poor Inhabitant below

Was quick to learn, and wise to know

And keenly felt the friendly glow

And softer flame;

But thoughtless follies laid him low,

And stain’d his name.

The churchyard is full of grave-stones and expensive monuments in all sorts of fantastic shapes–obelisk-wise, pillar-wise, etc.

In speaking of Gretna Green, I forgot to mention that we visited the churchyard. The church is like a huge house; indeed, so are all the churches, with a steeple, not a square tower or spire,–a sort of thing more like a glass-house chimney than a Church of England steeple; grave-stones in abundance, few verses, yet there were some–no texts.

Over the graves of married women the maiden name instead of that of the husband, “spouse” instead of “wife,” and the place of abode preceded by “in” instead of “of.”

When our guide had left us, we turned again to Burns‘s house. Mrs. Burns was gone to spend some time by the sea-shore with her children. We spoke to the servant-maid at the door, who invited us forward, and we sate down in the parlour.

The walls were coloured with a blue wash; on one side of the fire was a mahogany desk, opposite to the window a clock, and over the desk a print from the Cotter’s Saturday Night, which Burns mentions in one of his letters having received as a present.

The house was cleanly and neat in the inside, the stairs of stone, scoured white, the kitchen on the right side of the passage, the parlour on the left.

In the room above the parlour the poet died, and his son after him in the same room.

The servant told us she had lived five years with Mrs. Burns, who was now in great sorrow for the death of “Wallace.” She said that Mrs. Burns’s youngest son was at Christ’s Hospital.

We were glad to leave Dumfries, which is no agreeable place to them who do not love the bustle of a town that seems to be rising up to wealth. We could think of little else but poor Burns, and his moving about on that unpoetic ground.

In our road to Brownhill, the next stage, we passed Ellisland at a little distance on our right, his farmhouse. We might there have had more pleasure in looking round, if we had been nearer to the spot; but there is no thought surviving in connexion with Burns’s daily life that is not heart-depressing.

Travelled through the vale of Nith, here little like a vale, it is so broad, with irregular hills rising up on each side, in outline resembling the old-fashioned valances of a bed. There is a great deal of arable land; the corn ripe; trees here and there–plantations, clumps, coppices, and a newness in everything.

So much of the gorse and broom rooted out that you wonder why it is not all gone, and yet there seems to be almost as much gorse and broom as corn; and they grow one among another you know not how.

Crossed the Nith; the vale becomes narrow, and very pleasant; corn fields, green hills, clay cottages; the river’s bed rocky, with woody banks.

Left the Nith about a mile and a half, and reached Brownhill, a lonely inn, where we slept. The view from the windows was pleasing, though some travellers might have been disposed to quarrel with it for its general nakedness; yet there was abundance of corn. It is an open country–open, yet all over hills.

At a little distance were many cottages among trees, that looked very pretty. Brownhill is about seven or eight miles from Ellisland. I fancied to myself, while I was sitting in the parlour, that Burns might have caroused there, for most likely his rounds extended so far, and this thought gave a melancholy interest to the smoky walls.

It was as pretty a room as a thoroughly dirty one could be–a square parlour painted green, but so covered over with smoke and dirt that it looked not unlike green seen through black gauze.

There were three windows, looking three ways, a buffet ornamented with tea-cups, a superfine largeish looking-glass with gilt ornaments spreading far and wide, the glass spotted with dirt, some ordinary alehouse pictures, and above the chimney-piece a print in a much better style–as William guessed, taken from a painting by Sir Joshua Reynolds–of some lady of quality, in the character of Euphrosyne.

“Ay,” said the servant-girl, seeing that we looked at it, “there’s many travellers would give a deal for that, it’s more admired than any in the house.”

We could not but smile; for the rest were such as may be found in the basket of any Italian image and picture hawker.

Note:

Sir Joshua Reynolds (16 July 1723 – 23 February 1792) was an English painter who specialised in portraits. The art critic John Russell called him one of the major European painters of the 18th century, while Lucy Peltz says he was “the leading portrait artist of the 18th-century and arguably one of the greatest artists in the history of art.” He promoted the “Grand Style” in painting, which depended on idealisation of the imperfect. He was a founder and first president of the Royal Academy of Arts and was knighted by George III in 1769.

William and I walked out after dinner; Coleridge was not well, and slept upon the carriage cushions. We made our way to the cottages among the little hills and knots of wood, and then saw what a delightful country this part of Scotland might be made by planting forest trees.

The ground all over heaves and swells like a sea; but for miles there are neither trees nor hedgerows, only “mound” fences and tracts; or slips of corn, potatoes, clover–with hay between, and barren land; but near the cottages many hills and hillocks covered with wood.

We passed some fine trees, and paused under the shade of one close by an old mansion that seemed from its neglected state to be inhabited by farmers. But I must say that many of the “gentlemen’s” houses which we have passed in Scotland have an air of neglect, and even of desolation.

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Friday, August 19th. Open country for a considerable way. Passed through the village of Thornhill, built by the Duke of Oueensberry; the “brother-houses” so small that they might have been built to stamp a character of insolent pride on his own huge mansion of Drumlanrigg, which is full in view on the opposite side of the Nith.

This mansion is indeed very large; but to us, it appeared like a gathering together of little things. The roof is broken into a hundred pieces, cupolas, etc., in the shape of casters, conjuror’s balls, cups, and the like. The situation would be noble if the woods had been left standing; but they have been cut down not long ago, and the hills above and below the house are quite bare.

Note:

William Douglas, 1st Duke of Queensberry (1637–1695), was a Scottish nobleman and statesman who played a key role in the political affairs of his time. A powerful landowner, he established the village of Thornhill near Drumlanrig Castle to promote local trade and settlement. As a loyal supporter of the Crown, he held several high offices, including Lord High Treasurer of Scotland. His influence helped shape both the region and the Douglas family’s lasting legacy.

About a mile and a half from Drumlanrigg is a turnpike gate at the top of a hill. We left our car with the man, and turned aside into a field where we looked down upon the Nith, which runs far below in a deep and rocky channel; the banks woody; the view pleasant down the river towards Thornhill, an open country–corn fields, pastures, and scattered trees.

Returned to the turnpike house, a cold spot upon a common, black cattle feeding close to the door. Our road led us down the hill to the side of the Nith, and we travelled along its banks for some miles. Here were clay cottages perhaps every half or quarter of a mile. The bed of the stream rough with rocks; banks irregular, now woody, now bare; here a patch of broom, there of corn, then of pasturage; and hills green or heathy above.

We were to have given our horse meal and water at a public-house in one of the hamlets we passed through, but missed the house, for, as is common in Scotland, it was without a sign-board. Travelled on, still beside the Nith, till we came to a turnpike house, which stood rather high on the hill-side, and from the door we looked a long way up and down the river. The air coldish, the wind strong.

We asked the turnpike man to let us have some meal and water. He had no meal, but luckily we had part of a feed of corn brought from Keswick, and he procured some hay at a neighboring house. In the meantime, I went into the house, where was an old man with a grey plaid over his shoulders, reading a newspaper.

On the shelf lay a volume of the Scotch Encyclopædia, a History of England, and some other books. The old man was a caller by the way. The man of the house came back, and we began to talk. He was very intelligent; had travelled all over England, Scotland, and Ireland as a gentleman’s servant, and now lived alone in that lonesome place.

He said he was tired of his bargain, for he feared he should lose by it. And he had indeed a troublesome office, for coal-carts without number were passing by, and the drivers seemed to do their utmost to cheat him.

There is always something peculiar in the house of a man living alone. This was but half-furnished, yet nothing seemed wanting for “his” comfort, though a female who had travelled half as far would have needed fifty other things. He had no other meat or drink in the house but oat bread and cheese–the cheese was made with the addition of seeds–and some skimmed milk. He gave us of his bread and cheese, and milk, which proved to be sour.

We had yet ten or eleven miles to travel, and no food with us. William lay under the wind in a corn-field below the house, being not well enough to partake of the milk and bread.

Coleridge gave our host a pamphlet, “The Crisis of the Sugar Colonies”; he was well acquainted with Burns’s poems. There was a politeness and a manly freedom in this man’s manners which pleased me very much.

He told us that he had served a gentleman, a captain in the army–he did not know who he was, for none of his relations had ever come to see him, but he used to receive many letters.

That he had lived near Dumfries till they would let him stay no longer, he made such havoc with the game; his whole delight from morning till night, and the long year through, was in field sports.

He would be on his feet the worst days in winter, and wade through snow up to the middle after his game. If he had company he was in tortures till they were gone; he would then throw off his coat and put on an old jacket not worth half-a-crown.

He drank his bottle of wine every day, and two if he had better sport than usual. Ladies sometimes came to stay with his wife, and he often carried them out in an Irish jaunting-car, and if they vexed him he would choose the dirtiest roads possible, and spoil their clothes by jumping in and out of the car, and treading upon them.

“But for all that”–and so he ended all–“he was a good fellow, and a clever fellow, and he liked him well.” He would have ten or a dozen hares in the larder at once, he half maintained his family with game, and he himself was very fond of eating of the spoil–unusual with true heart-and-soul sportsmen.

The man gave us an account of his farm where he had lived, which was so cheap and pleasant that we thought we should have liked to have had it ourselves. Soon after leaving the turnpike house we turned up a hill to the right, the road for a little way very steep, bare hills, with sheep.

After ascending a little while we heard the murmur of a stream far below us, and saw it flowing downwards on our left, towards the Nith, and before us, between steep green hills, coming along a winding valley. The simplicity of the prospect impressed us very much. There was a single cottage by the brook side; the dell was not heathy, but it was impossible not to think of Peter Bell‘s Highland Girl.

We now felt indeed that we were in Scotland; there was a natural peculiarity in this place. In the scenes of the Nith it had not been the same as England, but yet not simple, naked Scotland.

The road led us down the hill, and now there was no room in the vale but for the river and the road; we had sometimes the stream to the right, sometimes to the left. The hills were pastoral, but we did not see many sheep; green smooth turf on the left, no ferns. On the right the heath-plant grew in abundance, of the most exquisite colour; it covered a whole hill-side, or it was in streams and patches.

We travelled along the vale without appearing to ascend for some miles; all the reaches were beautiful, in exquisite proportion, the hills seeming very high from being so near to us. It might have seemed a valley which nature had kept to herself for pensive thoughts and tender feelings, but that we were reminded at every turning of the road of something beyond by the coal-carts which were travelling towards us. Though these carts broke in upon the tranquillity of the glen, they added much to the picturesque effect of the different views, which indeed wanted nothing, though perfectly bare, houseless, and treeless.

After some time our road took us upwards towards the end of the valley. Now the steeps were heathy all around.

Just as we began to climb the hill we saw three boys who came down the cleft of a brow on our left; one carried a fishing-rod, and the hats of all were braided with honeysuckles; they ran after one another as wanton as the wind. I cannot express what a character of beauty those few honeysuckles in the hats of the three boys gave to the place: what bower could they have come from?

We walked up the hill, met two well-dressed travellers, the woman barefoot. Our little lads before they had gone far were joined by some half-dozen of their companions, all without shoes and stockings. They told us they lived at Wanlockhead, the village above, pointing to the top of the hill; they went to school and learned Latin, Virgil, and some of them Greek, Homer, but when Coleridge began to inquire further, off they ran, poor things! I suppose afraid of being examined.

When, after a steep ascent, we had reached the top of the hill, we saw a village about half a mile before us on the side of another hill, which rose up above the spot where we were, after a descent, a sort of valley or hollow. Nothing grew upon this ground, or the hills above or below, but heather, yet round about the village–which consisted of a great number of huts, all alike, and all thatched, with a few larger slated houses among them, and a single modern-built one of a considerable size–were a hundred patches of cultivated ground, potatoes, oats, hay, and grass.

We were struck with the sight of haycocks fastened down with aprons, sheets, and pieces of sacking—presumably to prevent the wind from blowing them away. We later found that this practice was very common in Scotland.

Every cottage seemed to have its own small plot of land, fenced by a ridge of earth. These plots contained two or three different sections&m

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 hill-side; 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 corn-fields; 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 of self-praise.

Here I observed a honeysuckle 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.[80]

Footnote 80: Probably the Rev. John Aird, minister of the parish,   1801-1815.–J. C. S.

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.

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<span style=”font-family:&quo

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.

• Footnote 84: Lady Mary Ross.–J. C. S.
• Footnote 85: Corehouse.–J. C. S.]

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, we 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<span style=”font-size:12.0pt”&

Monday, August 22nd. — 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,[86] 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.

Note:

The Duke of Hamilton’s House, also known as Hamilton Palace, was a grand estate located in Hamilton, Scotland. Once the seat of the Dukes of Hamilton, it was demolished in the 1920s after financial difficulties. Today, the site where the palace stood is part of a residential development, with only a few remnants of the original structure and parkland remaining.

• Footnote 86: The house belonging to the Earls of Hopetoun at   Leadhills, not that which bears this name about twelve miles from   Edinburgh.–J. C. S.]

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.

• Footnote 86: The house belonging to the Earls of Hopetoun at   Leadhills, not that which bears this name about twelve miles from   Edinburgh.–J. C. S.]

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.

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.

Note:

Lord Archibald Hamilton (1769–1827) was a British naval officer and politician, the ninth son of the 5th Duke of Hamilton. He served as MP for Lanarkshire (1802–1806), advocating for Scottish interests and reform. Mentioned in Dorothy Wordsworth’s Recollections of a Tour Made in Scotland A.D. 1803, he was someone William Wordsworth intended to write to after being denied entry to Hamilton Palace. Known for his influence in local governance and politics, he played a role in shaping early 19th-century Scottish affairs.

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.

<span style=”font-si

Tuesday, August 23rd. –A cold morning. Walked to the bleaching-ground,[87] a large field bordering on the Clyde, the banks of which are perfectly flat, and the general face of the country is nearly so in the neighbourhood of Glasgow.

This field, the whole summer through, is covered with women of all ages, children, and young girls spreading out their linen, and watching it while it bleaches. The scene must be very cheerful on a fine day, but it rained when we were there, and though there was linen spread out in all parts, and great numbers of women and girls were at work, yet there would have been many more on a fine day, and they would have appeared happy, instead of stupid and cheerless.

In the middle of the field is a wash-house, whither the inhabitants of this large town, rich and poor, send or carry their linen to be washed. There are two very large rooms, with each a cistern in the middle for hot water; and all round the rooms are benches for the women to set their tubs upon.

Both the rooms were crowded with washers; there might be a hundred, or two, or even three; for it is not easy to form an accurate notion of so great a number; however, the rooms were large, and they were both full. It was amusing to see so many women, arms, head, and face all in motion, all busy in an ordinary household employment, in which we are accustomed to see, at the most, only three or four women employed in one place.

The women were very civil. I learnt from them the regulations of the house; but I have forgotten the particulars. The substance of them is, that “so much” is to be paid for each tub of water, “so much” for a tub, and the privilege of washing for a day, and, “so much” to the general overlookers of the linen, when it is left to be bleached.

An old man and woman have this office, who were walking about, two melancholy figures.

• Footnote 87: Glasgow Green.–J. C. S.]

The shops at Glasgow are large, and like London shops, and we passed by the largest coffee-room I ever saw.

You look across the piazza of the Exchange, and see to the end of the coffee-room, where there is a circular window, the width of the room. Perhaps there might be thirty gentlemen sitting on the circular bench of the window, each reading a newspaper.

They had the appearance of figures in a fantoccine, or men seen at the extremity of the opera-house, diminished into puppets.

I am sorry I did not see the High Church: both William and I were tired, and it rained very hard after we had left the bleaching-ground; besides, I am less eager to walk in a large town than anywhere else; so we put it off, and I have since repented of my irresolution.

Dined, and left Glasgow at about three o’clock, in a heavy rain. We were obliged to ride through the streets to keep our feet dry, and, in spite of the rain, every person as we went along stayed his steps to look at us; indeed, we had the pleasure of spreading smiles from one end of Glasgow to the other—for we travelled the whole length of the town.

A set of schoolboys, perhaps there might be eight, with satchels over their shoulders, and, except one or two, without shoes and stockings, yet very well dressed in jackets and trousers, like gentlemen’s children, followed us in great delight, admiring the car and longing to jump up. At last, though we were seated, they made several attempts to get on behind; and they looked so pretty and wild, and at the same time so modest, that we wished to give them a ride.

There being a little hill near the end of the town, we got off, and four of them who still remained, the rest having dropped into their homes by the way, took our places; and indeed I would have walked two miles willingly, to have had the pleasure of seeing them so happy. When they were to ride no longer, they scampered away, laughing and rejoicing.

New houses are rising up in great numbers round Glasgow, citizen-like houses, and new plantations, chiefly of fir. The fields are frequently enclosed by hedgerows, but there is no richness, nor any particular beauty for some miles.

The first object that interested us was a gentleman’s house upon a green plain or holm, almost close to the Clyde, sheltered by tall trees, a quiet modest mansion. Though white-washed, being an old building, and no other house near it or in connexion with it, and standing upon the level field which belonged to it—its own domain—the whole scene together brought to our minds an image of the retiredness and sober elegance of a nunnery.

But this might be owing to the greyness of the afternoon, and our having come immediately from Glasgow, and through a country which, till now, had either had a townish taint, or at best little of rural beauty.

While we were looking at the house, we overtook a foot-traveller, who, like many others, began to talk about our car. We alighted to walk up a hill, and, continuing the conversation, the man told us, with something like a national pride, that it belonged to a Scotch Lord, Lord Semple. He added that a little further on we should see a much finer prospect, as fine a one as ever we had seen in our lives.

Accordingly, when we came to the top of the hill, it opened upon us most magnificently. We saw the Clyde, now a stately sea-river, winding away mile after mile, spotted with boats and ships. Each side of the river was hilly, the right populous with single houses and villages—Dunglass Castle upon a promontory—the whole view terminated by the rock of Dumbarton, at five or six miles’ distance, which stands by itself, without any hills near it, like a sea-rock.

We travelled for some time near the river, passing through clusters of houses which seemed to owe their existence rather to the wealth of the river than the land, for the banks were mostly bare, and the soil appeared poor, even near the water.

The left side of the river was generally uninhabited and moorish, yet there are some beautiful spots: for instance, a nobleman’s house,[88] where the fields and trees were rich, and, in combination with the river, looked very lovely.

As we went along, William and I were reminded of the views upon the Thames in Kent, which, though greatly superior in richness and softness, are much inferior in grandeur.

Not far from Dumbarton, we passed under some rocky, copse-covered hills, which were so like some of the hills near Grasmere that we could have half believed they were the same.

Arrived at Dumbarton before it was dark, having pushed on briskly that we might have start of a traveller at the inn, who was following us as fast as he could in a gig. Every front room was full, and we were afraid we should not have been admitted.

They put us into a little parlour, dirty, and smelling of liquors, the table uncleaned, and not a chair in its place; we were glad, however, of our sorry accommodations.

• Footnote 88: No doubt Erskine House, the seat of Lord Blantyre.   –J.C. S.]

While tea was preparing, we lolled at our ease, and though the room-window overlooked the stable-yard, and at our entrance there appeared to be nothing but gloom and unloveliness, yet while I lay stretched upon the carriage cushions on three chairs, I discovered a little side peep which was enough to set the mind at work.

It was no more than a smoky vessel lying at anchor, with its bare masts, a clay hut, and the shelving bank of the river, with a green pasture above. Perhaps you will think that there is not much in this, as I describe it: it is true; but the effect produced by these simple objects, as they happened to be combined, together with the gloom of the evening, was exceedingly wild.

Our room was parted by a slender partition from a large dining-room, in which were a number of officers and their wives, who, after the first hour, never ceased singing, dancing, laughing, or loud talking. The ladies sang some pretty songs, a great relief to us.

We went early to bed; but poor Coleridge could not sleep for the noise at the street door; he lay in the parlour below stairs. It is no uncommon thing in the best inns of Scotland to have shutting-up beds in the sitting-rooms.

Wednesday, August 24th. — As soon as breakfast was over, William and I walked towards the Castle, a short mile from the town. We overtook two young men, who, on our asking the road, offered to conduct us, though it might seem it was not easy to miss our way, for the rock rises singly by itself from the plain on which the town stands.

The rock of Dumbarton is very grand when you are close to it, but at a little distance, under an ordinary sky, and in open day, it is not grand, but curiously wild. The castle and fortifications add little effect to the general view of the rock, especially since the building of a modern house, which is white-washed, and consequently jars, wherever it is seen, with the natural character of the place.

There is a path up to the house, but it being low water, we could walk round the rock, which we resolved to do. On that side next the town, green grass grows to a considerable height up the rock, but wherever the river borders upon it, it is naked stone.

I never saw rock in nobler masses, or more deeply stained by time and weather; nor is this to be wondered at, for it is in the very eye of sea-storms and land-storms, of mountain winds and water winds. It is of all colours, but a rusty yellow predominates.

As we walked along, we could not but look up continually, and the mass above, being on every side so huge, appeared more wonderful than when we saw the whole together.

We sat down on one of the large stones which lie scattered near the base of the rock, with sea-weed growing amongst them. Above our heads, the rock was perpendicular for a considerable height, nay, as it seemed, to the very top, and on the brink of the precipice a few sheep, two of them rams with twisted horns, stood as if on the look-out over the wide country.

At the same time, we saw a sentinel in his red coat, walking backwards and forwards between us and the sky, with his firelock over his shoulder. The sheep, I suppose owing to our being accustomed to see them in similar situations, appeared to retain their real size, while, on the contrary, the soldier seemed to be diminished by the distance till he almost looked like a puppet moved with wires for the pleasure of children, or an eight years’ old drummer in his stiff, manly dress beside a company of grenadiers.

I had never before, perhaps, thought of sheep and men in soldiers’ dresses at the same time, and here they were brought together in a strange fantastic way. As will be easily conceived, the fearlessness and stillness of those quiet creatures on the brow of the rock, pursuing their natural occupations, contrasted with the restless and apparently unmeaning motions of the dwarf soldier, added not a little to the general effect of this place, which is that of wild singularity.

The whole was aided by a blustering wind and a gloomy sky. Coleridge joined us, and we went up to the top of the rock.

The road to a considerable height is through a narrow cleft, in which a flight of steps is hewn; the steps nearly fill the cleft, and on each side, the rocks form a high and irregular wall. It is almost like a long sloping cavern, only that it is roofed by the sky.

We came to the barracks; soldiers’ wives were hanging out linen upon the rails, while the wind beat about them furiously. There was nothing which it could set in motion but the garments of the women and the linen upon the rails. The grass—for we had now come to green grass—was close and smooth, and not one pile an inch above another, and neither tree nor shrub. The standard pole stood erect without a flag.

The rock has two summits, one much broader and higher than the other. When we were near to the top of the lower eminence, we had the pleasure of finding a little garden of flowers and vegetables belonging to the soldiers.

There are three distinct and very noble prospects—the first up the Clyde towards Glasgow—Dunglass Castle, seen on its promontory—boats, sloops, hills, and many buildings; the second, down the river to the sea—Greenock and Port-Glasgow, and the distant mountains at the entrance of Loch Long; and the third extensive and distant view is up the Leven, which here falls into the Clyde, to the mountains of Loch Lomond.

The distant mountains in all these views were obscured by mists and dingy clouds, but if the grand outline of any one of the views can be seen, it is sufficient recompense for the trouble of climbing the rock of Dumbarton.

The soldier who was our guide told us that an old ruin which we came to at the top of the higher eminence had been a wind-mill—an inconvenient station, though certainly a glorious place for wind. Perhaps if it really had been a wind-mill, it was only for the use of the garrison.

We looked over cannons on the battery-walls and saw, in an open field below, the yeomanry cavalry exercising, while we could hear from the town, which was full of soldiers, “Dumbarton‘s drums beat bonny, O!” Yet while we stood upon this eminence, rising up so far as it does— inland, and having the habitual old English feeling of our own security as islanders—we could not help looking upon the fortress, in spite of its cannon and soldiers, and the rumours of invasion, as set up against the hostilities of wind and weather rather than for any other warfare.

On our return, we were invited into the guard-room, about half-way down the rock, where we were shown a large rusty sword, which they called Wallace’s Sword, and a trout boxed up in a well close by, where they said he had been confined for upwards of thirty years.

For the pleasure of the soldiers, who were anxious that we should see him, we took some pains to spy him out in his black den, and at last succeeded. It was pleasing to observe how much interest the poor soldiers—though themselves probably new to the place—seemed to attach to this antiquated inhabitant of their garrison.

When we had reached the bottom of the rock along the same road by which we had ascended, we made our way over the rough stones left bare by the tide, round the bottom of the rock, to the point where we had set off.

This is a wild and melancholy walk on a blustering cloudy day: the naked bed of the river, scattered over with sea-weed; grey swampy fields on the other shore; sea-birds flying overhead; the high rock perpendicular and bare.

We came to two very large fragments, which had fallen from the main rock; Coleridge thought that one of them was as large as Bowder-Stone. William and I did not; but it is impossible to judge accurately. We probably, without knowing it, compared them with the whole mass from which they had fallen, which, from its situation, we consider as one rock or stone, and there is no object of the kind for comparison with the Bowder-Stone.

When we leave the shore of the Clyde, grass begins to show itself on the rock. We go a considerable way—still under the rock—along a flat field and pass immediately below the white house, which wherever seen looks so ugly.

• Footnote 89: A rock in Borrowdale, Cumberland.–ED.

Left Dumbarton at about eleven o’clock. The sky was cheerless and the air ungenial, which we regretted, as we were going to Loch Lomond, and wished to greet the first of the Scottish lakes with our cheerfullest and best feelings.

Crossed the Leven at the end of Dumbarton, and, when we looked behind, had a pleasing view of the town, bridge, and rock. But when we took in a reach of the river at the distance of perhaps half a mile, the swamp ground, being so near a town, and not in its natural wildness, but seemingly half cultivated, with houses here and there, gave us an idea of extreme poverty of soil, or that the inhabitants were either indolent or miserable.

We had to travel four miles on the banks of the “Water of Leven” before we should come to Loch Lomond. Having expected a grand river from so grand a lake, we were disappointed; for it appeared to me not to be very much larger than the Emont, and is not near so beautiful; but we must not forget that the day was cold and gloomy.

Near Dumbarton it is like a river in a flat country, or under the influence of tides; but a little higher up it resembles one of our rivers, flowing through a vale of no extreme beauty, though prettily wooded; the hills on each side not very high, sloping backwards from the bed of the vale, which is neither very narrow nor very wide; the prospect terminated by Ben Lomond and other mountains.

The vale is populous, but looks as if it were not inhabited by cultivators of the earth; the houses are chiefly of stone, often in rows by the river-side. They stand pleasantly, but have a tradish look, as if they might have been off-sets from Glasgow.

We saw many bleach-yards, but no other symptom of a manufactory, except something in the houses that was not rural, and a want of independent comforts. Perhaps if the river had been glittering in the sun, and the smoke of the cottages rising in distinct volumes towards the sky, as I have seen in the vale or basin below Pillsden in Dorsetshire, when every cottage, hidden from the eye, pointed out its lurking-place by an upright wreath of white smoke, the whole scene might have excited ideas of perfect cheerfulness.

Here, as on the Nith, and much more than in the Trough of the Clyde, a great portion of the ground was uncultivated. But the hills being less wild, the river more stately, and the ground not heaved up so irregularly and tossed about, the imperfect cultivation was the more to be lamented, particularly as there were so many houses near the river.

In a small enclosure by the wayside is a pillar erected to the memory of Dr. Smollett, who was born in a village at a little distance, which we could see at the same time, and where, I believe, some of the family still reside.

There is a long Latin inscription, which Coleridge translated for my benefit. The Latin is miserably bad–as Coleridge said, such as poor Smollett<span style=”font-fa

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, and the hills were cheerful, with lights and shadows vivid and distinct.

The village looked exceedingly beautiful this morning from the garret windows. The stream glittered near it, flowing 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. Even the distant prospect seemed brightened by the dry roads. I always seem to perceive this effect from clearly bright roads, as they are always brightened by rain after a storm.

However, when we came among the houses, I regretted even more than last night. The contrast was greater, with the slovenliness and dirt near the doors. I could not help but remember, with pain from the contrast, the cottages of Somersetshire. They were covered with roses and myrtle, and their small gardens were filled with herbs and flowers.

While lingering by the shore, we began to talk with a man who offered to row us to Inch-ta-vannach. But the sky began to darken, and the wind grew high. We doubted whether we should venture, so we made no engagement.

The man then offered to sell me some thread, pointing to his cottage. He added that many English ladies carried thread away from Luss.

Presently, after Coleridge joined us, 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 bold, though there was a great chance of a high wind. The nearest point of Inch-ta-vannach 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 the side which looks towards our favourite cottages and their own island. Wherever seen, it 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. 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. The hill shut out Ben Lomond entirely, as well as all the upper part of the lake. 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 of them were seen through sunny mists, others in gloom with patches of sunshine. The lake was lost under the low and distant hills, and the islands were lost in the lake.

The whole scene was 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. As a result, the land seemed endless, just like 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. They were 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. There were straggling peat-stacks and a single hut upon one of its out-shooting promontories. The island was of a very irregular shape, though perfectly flat.

Another island, its next neighbor and still nearer to us, was covered with heath and coppice-wood. The surface was undulating, with flat or sloping banks towards the water, and hollow places, cradle-like valleys, behind.

These two islands, with Inch-ta-vannach, where we were standing, were intermingled with the water. I might say they were interbedded and interveined with it in a manner that was exquisitely pleasing.

There were innumerable bays, straits or passages like calm rivers, landlocked lakes, and stormy promontories leading to the main water.

The solitary hut on the flat green island seemed unsheltered and desolate, yet not wholly so, for it was but a broad river’s breadth from the covert of the wood on the other island.

Near to these was a miniature islet, covered with trees, on which stood a small ruin that looked like the remains of a religious house. It was overgrown with ivy. Were it not for the arch of a window or gateway, which could be distinctly seen, it would be difficult to believe 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-vannach, where we were, and the woody island on which the hut stood.

Beyond, we had the same intricate view as before and could discover Dumbarton Rock with its double head. There was a mist over it, giving it a ghost-like appearance. I observed to William and Coleridge that it looked 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. They were growing at different distances from each other, close to the shore. But some optical delusion had detached them from the land they stood on, making them appear like little vessels sailing along the coast.

I mention this circumstance because, with the ghostly image of Dumbarton Castle and the ambiguous ruin on the small island, it matched the character of the scene. The scene was throughout magical and enchanting— a new world in its great permanent outline and composition, changing at every moment in every part by the effect of sun, wind, mist, shower, and cloud.

The blending lights and deep shades took the place of each other, traversing the lake in every direction. The whole scene was indeed a strange mixture of soothing and restless images, of images inviting to rest, and others urging the fancy away into an activity even more pleasing than repose.

Yet, intricate and homeless—without a lasting abiding place for the mind—there was no perplexity. We still had 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 they were more beautiful because you knew it was so. These lakes had 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. Looking backwards, we saw the islands below us as on a map.

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 farmhouses, and on the opposite shore, there was 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 they not better cultivated. 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. We landed at the hut.

We walked upon the island for some time and found sheltered places for cottages. There were several woodmen’s huts, which, with some scattered fir trees and others in irregular knots, made a delicious murmuring in the wind. These added greatly to the romantic effect of the scene.

The huts 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 were 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,

<p st

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. When we were there, we 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.

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.

Where there is any land belonging to the Highland huts, there are so many out-buildings 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.

I 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 papists, 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. There, we sat 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. 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 sat, 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. We walked through the heather with some labor for perhaps half a mile and found <span style=”font-family:”Ar

Saturday, August 27th. — Before I rose, Mrs. Macfarlane came into my room to see if I wanted anything, and told me she should send the servant up with a basin of whey, saying, “We make very good whey in this country.” Indeed, I thought it the best I had ever tasted, but I cannot tell how this should be, for they only make skimmed-milk cheeses.

I asked her for a little bread and milk for our breakfast, but she said it would be no trouble to make tea, as she must make it for the family. So we all breakfasted together. The cheese was set out, as before, with plenty of butter and barley-cakes, and fresh-baked oaten cakes, which, no doubt, were made for us. They had been kneaded with cream, and were excellent.

All the party pressed us to eat and were very jocose about the necessity of helping out their coarse bread with butter, and they themselves ate almost as much butter as bread. In talking of the French and the present times, their language was what most people would call Jacobinical.

They spoke much of the oppressions endured by the Highlanders further up, of the absolute impossibility of their living in any comfort, and of the cruelty of laying so many restraints on emigration. Then they spoke with animation of the attachment of the clans to their lairds: “The laird of this place, Glengyle, where we live, could have commanded so many men who would have followed him to the death; and now there are none left.”

It appeared that Mr. Macfarlane, and his wife’s brother, Mr. Macalpine, farmed the place, inclusive of the whole vale upwards to the mountains, and the mountains themselves, under the lady of Glengyle, the mother of the young laird, a minor. It was a sheep-farm.

Speaking of another neighbouring laird, they said he had gone, like the rest of them, to Edinburgh, left his lands and his own people, spending his money where it brought him not any esteem, so that he was of no value either at home or abroad.

We mentioned Rob Roy, and the eyes of all glistened; even the lady of the house, who was very diffident and no great talker, exclaimed, “He was a good man, Rob Roy! He had been dead only about eighty years, had lived in the next farm, which belonged to him, and there his bones were laid.”

He was a famous swordsman. Having an arm much longer than other men, he had a greater command with his sword. As a proof of the length of his arm, they told us that he could garter his tartan stockings below the knee without stooping, and added a dozen different stories of single combats, which he had fought, all in perfect good-humour, merely to prove his prowess.

I daresay they had stories of this kind which would hardly have been exhausted in the long evenings of a whole December week, Rob Roy being as famous here as ever Robin Hood was in the Forest of Sherwood; he also robbed from the rich, giving to the poor, and defending them from oppression.

They tell of his confining the factor of the Duke of Montrose in one of the islands of Loch Ketterine, after having taken his money from him—the Duke’s rents—in open day, while they were sitting at table. He was a formidable enemy of the Duke, but being a small laird against a greater, was overcome at last, and forced to resign all his lands on the Braes of Loch Lomond, including the caves which we visited, on account of the money he had taken from the Duke and could not repay.

• Footnote 95: There is a mistake here. His bones were laid about   fifteen or twenty miles from thence, in Balquhidder kirkyard. But it   was under the belief that his “grave is near the head of Loch   Ketterine, in one of those pinfold-like burial grounds, of neglected   and desolate appearance, which the traveller meets with in the   Highlands of Scotland,” that the well-known poem on _Rob Roy’s Grave_   was composed.–J. C. S.]

When breakfast was ended, the mistress desired the person whom we took to be her husband to “return thanks.” He said a short grace, and in a few minutes, they all went off to their work. We saw them about the door following one another like a flock of sheep, with the children after, whatever job they were engaged in.

Mrs. Macfarlane told me she would show me the burying-place of the lairds of Glengyle and took me to a square enclosure like a pinfold, with a stone ball at every corner; we had noticed it the evening before and wondered what it could be. It was in the middle of a “planting,” as they call plantations, which was enclosed for the preservation of the trees. Therefore, we had to climb over a high wall.

It was a dismal spot, containing four or five graves overgrown with long grass, nettles, and brambles. Against the wall was a marble monument to the memory of one of the lairds, of whom they spoke with veneration. Some English verses were inscribed upon the marble, purporting that he had been the father of his clan, a brave and good man.

When we returned to the house, she said she would show me what curious feathers they had in their country and brought out a bunch carefully wrapped up in paper. On my asking her what bird they came from, “Oh!” she replied, “it is a great beast.”

We conjectured it was an eagle, and from her description of its ways and the manner of destroying it, we knew it was so. She begged me to accept some of the feathers, telling me that some ladies wore them in their heads. I was much pleased with the gift, which I shall preserve in memory of her kindness and simplicity of manners, and the Highland solitude where she lived.

We took leave of the family with regret: they were handsome, healthy, and happy-looking people. It was ten o’clock when we departed. We had learned that there was a ferry-boat kept at three miles’ distance, and if the man was at home, he would row us down the lake to the Trossachs.

Our walk was mostly through coppice-woods, along a horse-road, upon which narrow carts might travel. We passed that white house which had looked at us with such a friendly face when we were on the other side. It stood on the slope of a hill, with green pastures below it, plots of corn and coppice-wood, and behind, a rocky steep covered with wood. It was a very pretty place, but the morning being cold and dull, the opposite shore appeared dreary.

Near to the white house, we passed by another of those little pinfold squares, which we knew to be a burying-place. It was in a sloping green field among woods, and within sound of the beating of the water against the shore, if there were but a gentle breeze to stir it.

I thought if I lived in that house, and my ancestors and kindred were buried there, I should sit many an hour under the walls of this plot of earth, where all the household would be gathered together.

We found the ferryman at work in the field above his hut, and he was at liberty to go with us. However, being wet and hungry, we begged that he would let us sit by his fire until we had refreshed ourselves.

This was the first genuine Highland hut we had been in. We entered by the cow-house, the house-door being within, at right angles to the outer door. The woman was distressed that she had a bad fire, but she heaped up some dry peats and heather, and, blowing it with her breath, in a short time, raised a blaze that scorched us into comfortable feelings.

A small part of the smoke found its way out of the hole of the chimney, the rest through the open window-places, one of which was within the recess of the fireplace. It made a frame to a little picture of the restless lake and the opposite shore, seen when the outer door was open.

The woman of the house was very kind. Whenever we asked her for anything, it seemed a fresh pleasure to her that she had it for us. She always answered with a sort of softening down of the Scotch exclamation, “Hoot!” “Ho! yes, ye’ll get that,” and hied to her cupboard in the spence.

We were amused with the phrase “Ye’ll get that” in the Highlands, which appeared to us as if it came from a perpetual feeling of the difficulty with which most things are procured.

We got oatmeal, butter, bread and milk, made some porridge, and then departed. It was rainy and cold, with a strong wind.

Coleridge was afraid of the cold in the boat, so he determined to walk down the lake, pursuing the same road we had come along.

There was nothing very interesting for the first three or four miles on either side of the water: to the right, uncultivated heath or poor coppice-wood, and to the left, a scattering of meadow ground, patches of corn, coppice-woods, and here and there a cottage.

The wind fell, and it began to rain heavily. On this, William wrapped himself in the boatman’s plaid and lay at the bottom of the boat till we came to a place where I could not help rousing him.

We were rowing down that side of the lake which had hitherto been little else than a moorish ridge. After turning a rocky point, we came to a bay closed in by rocks and steep woods, chiefly of full-grown birch.

The lake was elsewhere ruffled, but at the entrance of this bay, the breezes sunk, and it was calm: a small island was near, and the opposite shore, covered with wood, looked soft through the misty rain.

William, rubbing his eyes, for he had been asleep, called out that he hoped I had not let him pass by anything that was so beautiful as this; and I was glad to tell him that it was but the beginning of a new land.

After we had left this bay, we saw before us a long reach of woods and rocks and rocky points, that promised other bays more beautiful than what we had passed.

The ferryman was a good-natured fellow and rowed very industriously, following the ins and outs of the shore. He was delighted with the pleasure we expressed, continually repeating how pleasant it would have been on a fine day.

I believe he was attached to the lake by some sentiment of pride, as his own domain—his being almost the only boat upon it—which made him, seeing we were willing gazers, take far more pains than an ordinary boatman.

He would often say, after he had compassed the turning of a point, “This is a bonny part,” and he always chose the bonniest, with greater skill than our prospect-hunters and “picturesque travellers.” Places screened from the winds—that was the first point; the rest followed of course—richer growing trees, rocks and banks, and curves which the eye delights in.

The second bay we came to differed from the rest; the hills retired a short space from the lake, leaving a few level fields between, on which was a cottage embosomed in trees. The bay was defended by rocks at each end, and the hills behind made a shelter for the cottage, the only dwelling, I believe, except one, on this side of Loch Ketterine.

We now came to steeps that rose directly from the lake and passed by a place called in the Gaelic the Den of the Ghosts, which reminded us of Lodore. It is a rock, or mass of rock, with a stream of large black stones like the naked or dried-up bed of a torrent down the side of it; birch-trees start out of the rock in every direction and cover the hill above, further than we could see.

The water of the lake below was very deep, black, and calm. Our delight increased as we advanced, till we came in view of the termination of the lake, seeing where the river issues out of it through a narrow chasm between the hills.

• Footnote 96: Goblins’ Cave.–J. C. S.]

Here I ought to rest, as we rested, and attempt to give utterance to our pleasure: but indeed I can impart but little of what we felt.

We were still on the same side of the water, and, being immediately under the hill, within a considerable bending of the shore,