Scenery of the Clyde

SCENERY OF THE CLYDE. ANON. Many people living in Utah and the several mountain states surrounding her, hail from the "Land o' the Leal"—Old Scotia; and to them the scenes and tales of the land of their birth are still dear. Loyalty to the memory of native land—to her scenes, her mountains, her vales, her streams and lochs, her traditions and customs —is the very chiefest of Scotch characteristics. It is the recognition of this that leads one of our writers for the Era to believe that the following description of the scenery along the Clyde will be particularly interesting to our Scotch readers and to many others of our readers who have been enchanted with the scenery along the Clyde. Most people, we suppose, have heard of the Clyde. It is the finest river in Scotland; and Scotland is rich in fine rivers. There is the Forth, which takes its rise from a small, clear pool at the bottom of Ben Lomond, and after winding away for miles, like a silver thread, through the wild and beautiful scenery of Stirlingshire expands below Alloa, into a broad and majestic sheet of water, rolling on silently and slowly to the German Ocean. There is the Tay, drawing its source from the distant mountains of Breadalbane, and flowing through the enchanting lake which bears its name, whose wooded banks and little tufted island (romantic with the ruins of its ancient priory) no admirer of the picturesque should fail of seeing; and let him follow the gentle stream, as it sweeps past the royal borough of Perth, and gliding under the nine-arched bridge, enters the "Carse of Gowrie"—the Caledonian Arcadia — and at length, swelling into a frith, ceases to exist "betwixt St.

Johnston and bonnie Dundee." Then there is the Tweed—the very Avon of the north—with its classic tributaries, the "Galla Water," and the Tivot, whose "wild and willowed shore" lives in immortal song. Then there is the Esk, too, or rather the Esks—the North and the South—tracing their origin up to the Grampian Hills, and after finding their way by different channels, through their native shire of Angus, meeting for the first and last time, just as they are passing into their common grave in the neighborhood of Montrose. And there are the Don and the Dee—the noblest of Scotch Highland streams, whose course lies among rocks, and moors, and glens and heathy hills, softening the stern aspect of the mountains of Mar Forest, and giving a softer beauty to the vale of Braemar. And there are the Nith and the Annan, rolling on in placid quiet, to the boisterous Solway. He who does not know their charms must learn them from Cunningham, not from me. Though last, not least, there is the Devron, a narrow, but romantic stream, and the chief ornament of Banffshire, giving luxuriance to the sweet valley of Forgien—sweeping round the foot of the green hill, on whose brow stands the cottage of Eden—winding among the woods of Mount Coffre—sleeping like liquid crystal under the bridge of Alva, and then meandering on through the noble parks of Duff House, as if loath to leave these favorite scenes for the rude billows of the Murray Frith. Yet still the Clyde keeps its own ground, and remains unrivalled. Let me carry you along with me, whilst we visit its leading beauties. We shall set out from Lanark. Here is a path along the northern bank. It is shaded by trees, and its aspect is rural, but you may perceive by its breadth that it is one over which many have trod. The stream flows on beside us, somewhat rapidly, confined within a narrow bed by those high perpendicular walls of equilateral rocks. Now you may hear a noise in the distance, like a November wind sounding among the dry crashing branches of the forest. It increases, and the surrounding trees and rocks throw a deeper gloom over the path. Is it the roar of approaching thunder? No; the sky is blue and serene, and the sunbeams, though they cannot penetrate here, have all the brightness of April. We must ascend out of this darkness. The little by-road will conduct us to

yonder old tower that stands upon the height before us. The situation here is more airy, but the noise is louder than ever. Nay, do not fear it. Follow me to the tower. Now, look there! This is Cora-linn! There is the cataract before us, tumbling down from rock to rock, dashing from chasm to chasm, foaming, boiling, roaring till the brain becomes dizzy, and the sense of hearing suffers a temporary annihilation. See how its waters seem to burst forth from the caves of the surrounding rocks! See how the boughs of the impending trees are whitened by its spray! Look how the river slides along with silent velocity of light, till it reaches the edge of the precipice, and then mark how it leaps into the gulf below, and frightens the mountain-echoes with its earthquake voice. Look yonder, where for a moment it catches the sunlight in its fall ; see how every drop glitters with a different hue, laughing to scorn the brightness of the rainbow. When did water ever suggest so many varied emotions—wonder, fear, delight and awe! Every faculty is absorbed; the mind is put upon its utmost stretch; the very excess of pleasure becomes pain. We shall gaze no more. Yet it was in this savage retreat, among those rugged, inaccessible cliffs, that the patriot Wallace is said to have concealed himself for a time, meditating the deliverance of his injured country. Let us pass on—still nobler prospects await us. Those orchards and luxuriant fields through which the stream now winds will not detain us. We are bent upon exploring more distant beauties. Here is the smoky city of Glasgow. Let us get through it, I beseech you, as expeditiously as possible. What a multitude of steamboats are at the quay! We shall go on board the Inverary Castle. It is large and commodious, and, what is more, sails fast and smoothly. Some of them (though not many) are so ill fitted with engines, that you run some danger of being shaken to pieces. For about ten miles the river turns and winds like a corkscrew. It presents a perpetual succession of sinuosities; and in its course a painter may discover Hogarth's line of beauty multiplied ad infinitum. But in some of its bolder sweeps, as well as in many of its more abrupt and geometrical meanderings, how beautiful are the pictures of nature which are continually presenting themselves! Here, for example, on the bank to the right, is a hamlet, or rather a few detached houses, to which they have given the

name of Dunglass. It stands almost embosomed in trees, and immediately behind, a richly-wooded hill rises in a gentle acclivity. I know not well how to account for the many delightful sensations which this secluded spot, "unsung in tale or history," awakens in the bosom. I have seen such scenes before, in England, and I have read of others which my imagination clothed perhaps in ideal charms, but here those charms are realized. They remind me of the vicinity of Litchfield. They place before me Weston, the "beloved Weston" of the gentle poetCowper; and, for the moment, I can almost fancy myself surrounded by the spirits—but we have already left Dunglass far behind. Turn again to the right. You have heard of Dumbarton rock and castle; they are there before you. Whence came this immense mass, you inquire, isolated as it is, and unnconnected with any neighboring mountain? The question is more easily asked than answered. An effect is often apparent, though the cause be concealed. Neither Hutton nor Werner can explain the mystery. They know no more of the matter than the humblest fisherman. The rock is there, and there it hath stood for ages. Look beyond it, over the town of Dumbarton, and across the rich country that intervenes, and your eye will rest upon a still nobler object, a still more magnificent production of Nature—Ben Lomond, "giant of the Northern land" looking, if not over "half the world," at least over more than half of Scotland. How sublimely does it rise into the "second heavens!" hiding its haughty head, not, in the figurative signification of poetry, but literally and truly, among the clouds of the air, as often, at all events, as the air contains clouds, which, in this region, is at least during ten months of the year. Far below, but invisible from our present station lies the prince of Caledonian lakes—Loch Lomond. Nor let me forget the " Crystal Leven," which, flowing from the southwest end of Loch Lomond, falls into the Clyde, after a short but beautiful course of a little more than six miles. It is a stream unequalled for the pure transparency of its waves, and the romantic loveliness of its banks. Hitherto we have been moving within a narrow channel, and the banks have been marked with the characteristics of inland and fresh water rivers. But we are now entering upon a broader expanse. The banks are changed into shores, and their minuter

charms are seen indistinctly in the distance. As if to compensate, however, for this loss, the features of the scenery become at once bolder and more decided. We can hardly talk any longer of their beauty, we must speak now of their grandeur and sublimity. How noble the prospect which opens upon you! The river itself is glittering in the sunshine like a plain of liquid silver. On either side appear towns, villages and hamlets; and behind those, on the right, are seen the wild and irregular mountains of Argyleshire, bare and barren, but, in the clear atmosphere of summer, rising with an imposing solemnity and majestic stillness into the calm blue air. Yonder is Eoseneath, a beautiful wooded peninsula, where the Duke of Argyle has left the finest model of a nobleman's country residence which Scotland at this instant possesses. By the way, talking of Roseneath, I cannot help adverting to the very imperfect knowledge of its localities shown by the author of "Waverley," in the last volume of the " Heart of Mid-Lothian." He talks of it again and again as an island—describes views to be had from it which even an Argus could never have discovered—and, above all, displays a total ignorance of the breadth and general appearance of the lochs by which it is cut off from the main land on the east and west. The reader feels disappointed when he makes this discovery; his confidence in his author's accuracy is shaken; and he consequently peruses with less pleasure the descriptions of scenery with which he may subsequently meet. We have not yet come in sight of the ocean, for even after it has increased to its greatest breadth, the Clyde still retains its love of abrupt turnings and windings; so that, to the eye of a stranger, it frequently appears land-locked; and it is not till he has followed its meanderings more than once that he is able to distinguish its course from a distance. But we have passed Port-Glasgow, with its hanging steeple—and Greenock, with its stately Custom House — and Gourock, the most celebrated of watering places—and Dunoon, with its little Gothic church and fine romantic site —and we are bearing rapidly down on the Cloch Light-house. Now at length the far-off Atlantic appears in view. Where have you seen a noble river mingling more beautifully with the sea? The firth is studded with islands, and all of them remarkable for some characteristic attraction. In the foreground are the two Cumbrays placed,

as if to shelter the calm bay of Largs, and offering no little temptation to the antiquary in the shape of an ancient cathedral, now in ruins—dedicated to Saint Columba. Further off is Bute, the most level island, perhaps in the Scottish seas, but rich and fertile, and proud of its romantic kyles, and little sunny creeks. On the southwest lies Inchmarnock, as fair an inch as eye can rest on, with its strata of coral and shells and its old chapel, long since deserted by its patron saint. At a still greater distance rise the mountains of Arran—stern, rugged, and vast. It is there that tradition preserves the memory of Fingal, and there "The Lay of the Last Minstrel" places before us " the Bruce of Bannockburn." A SCOTCH CHARACTERISTIC. Speaking of the familiarity with which the Scots treat the Creator, Max O'Rell, in his charming selection of Scotch anecdotes, under the title of "Friend MacDonald," says that the Scot addresses the Creator "very much as if he was his next-door neighbor. He tells him all his little needs, and will go so far as to gently reproach him if they are not supplied. "If he has dined well, he is lavish in returning thanks to the Lord for his infinite favors; his gratitude is boundless. If he has a meagre repast, he thanks him for the least of his mercies. The thanks are not omitted, but at the same time Donald gives the Lord to understand that he has made a poor dinner." And then he sustains this opinion which he formed of "Friend Donald" by the following anecdote, the first part of which, however, O'Rell admits is to be found in Dr. Ramsey's Reminiscences, and as for the second part—wherein lies the point of the matter —he leaves the responsibility for it upon his host who related the story to him. Here it is: "A Presbyterian minister had just cut his hay, and the weather not being very propitious for making it, he knelt near his open window and addressed to Heaven the following prayer: " '0 Lord, send us wind for the hay; no a rantin', tantin', tearin' wind, but a noughin', winnin' wind .' "His prayer was here interrupted by a puff of wind that made the panes rattle, and scattered in all directions the papers lying on his table. " The minister straightway got up and closed his window, exclaiming: "'Now, Lord, that's ridik'lous!' "If this ending of the anecdote is not authentic," adds O'Rell, " I feel quite sure that none but a Scotchman could have invented it."