Chapter IV: Part 4

Guide-books are but too often blind guides, as they present certain objects for our admiration, which are accordingly visited and admired, but leave out all mention even of others of as great, if not greater, interest. For example, there rises up from the margin of the Queen of Scottish Lakes, Lomond, at its south end, about 3 miles from Balloch, a little mount, easy of access even to those who can only afford a Saturday afternoon to visit it, from which undoubtedly the best view of the loch is to be obtained. Here, if anywhere on earth, are congregated the choicest elements of pictorial wealth.

Take a return ticket to Balloch Station (not Balloch Pier); on arriving cross the Leven by the graceful suspension bridge, keep on the Kilmaronock road till you come to Haldane’s Mill, so-called from a former proprietor; then turn to the left, pass Balloch Castle, the seat of A. D. Brown, Esq., and when arrived at Boturich Castle, R. Finlay’s, Esq., you will find a path on the right which will lead you, without any difficulty of a physical kind, to the top, a quarter of a mile up. It would be as well to ask permission, however, at some of the officials close by to make the ascent, as, on account of a stupid vandalism on the part of excursionists, the proprietor has had lately to become somewhat conservative in his policies.

It is not known how this beautiful spot came to get such an unhappy name, but unless he had been atrabilious on the day he visited it, or had been a Southerner, who could not appreciate the beauties of a Scotch mist, its inventor could neither have had heart nor eye for the wilder beauties of nature, nor been a lover of the romantic. The steamer can take you up and down the loch to see its beauties of one kind and another, and there is not a finer sail in any part of the three kingdoms; but yet it is only a very faint and limited idea of its splendid scenery that one can get from the deck of a steamer. To get anything like an adequate conception of its many beauties you must ascend one or more of its hilltops. And for such a purpose we would strongly recommend Mount Misery.

Here, looking towards the head of the loch, it is seen in its greatest breadth, stretched out like a scroll beneath your feet. Here, also, it is seen in its greatest length, the eye reaching almost as far up as to Tarbet. You have a full view of its islands, which in a general way may be said to be as numerous as its miles in length, from the entrance of the Falloch to the exit of the Leven, and also of the different mountain ranges on its east and west banks, which seem to meet at the top, shutting up the prospect and mingling their bold and broken outline with the sky. Here, also, you get a view of its many curves and windings, now seeing it swelling out into a breadth of 7 or 8 miles, and then compressing itself into the narrow compass of something less than a mile. You can also understand, as you look at those high hills at its northern end, how it should sometimes have a depth of 600 feet, and how, partly from this fact, and from those others, that there are many shelving rocks at the bottom, and that the latter always run in one direction (there being no tide), it is rarely that the bodies of the “drowned” in it are recovered. Here, also, you can see some of its principal feeders, such as the Fruin, the Finlas, the Luss, and Douglas on the left, with the Endrick on the right, which, with its other tributaries, are said to pour in a larger supply of water than the Leven takes away.

Immediately in front of you is Inchmurrin, the longest of the islands, fully half-a-mile long, which the Duke of Montrose uses as a deer park. It is beautifully wooded. Brown seems the most becoming colour for this season of the year. The summer dies gloriously in leafy places with such a splendour of beauty that it is difficult to recognise it as decay. The golden and brown leaves, mingling with the greens that still retain their colour, are pleasant accompaniments of the season. But we need not look so far away for autumnal tints. They are all round us. The golden brown hues of the pheasant hang in every leaf; the bird itself, wonderfully protected by nature, stands among herbage, wearing his colours and eyeing the wayfarer as he passes. And what can look warmer and more comfortable than those brown brackens which are everywhere? And are they really brown? They look so in the distance, but near they are yellow as well as brown; and some are a beautiful bronze, and in sheltered spots the lady ferns are just as green and fresh as they were in July and early August.

But once more for the loch and its islands. Inchmurrin has at its west end the ruins of an old castle which was inhabited in former times by the family of Lennox. The Duchess of Albany resided here after the execution at Stirling, in 1425, and within sight of their own castle at Doune, of her husband, father, and two sons, on the restoration of James First. She herself was for some time confined in Tantallon Castle, but on her release she resided here. Passing over the two smaller islands of Creinge and Torinch, you have to the right Inchcailliach, the largest and probably the most lovely of all, notable as being the burial-place of the Macgregors. “Upon the halidom of him that sleeps beneath the grey stone at Inchcailliach!” was a favourite oath among the members of this warlike clan. Rob Roy used it when promising the Bailie payment of his money. It is sometimes called the Nun’s Island, or “the Island of Old Women,” from a nunnery which once stood there; and when seen from the direction of the Endrick its outline resembles that of a dead human body, from which it is called sometimes the corpse of Loch Lomond. To the east of it is the small island of Clairinch, from which the Clan Buchanan took their slogan or battle cry, “Clair Inch.” To the west of it is Inchfad, or the Long Island, close to which, and in a dry season, within wadeable distance of it, is Darroch Eilan, the general lunching rendezvous. Here, also, there is a mighty oak, which has sheltered generations of anglers, and of poachers too, for even to this day the “otter” is here used in spite of honour or law. To the west of Inchfad is Inchcruin, or the Round Island, an island which for many years formed an asylum for insane boarders; it is also the unwilling resort of those who “cannot take a little without taking too much,” and therefore it has the sadly significant cognomen of “the Drunken Island.”

To the west of this is Inchmoan, or the Peat Island, which is covered with moss. It is sometimes called “the Gull Island,” and in the spring one has to be very careful how he walks, as nests with one, two, or more eggs are scattered everywhere. To the south-west of this there is a small island, Inchgalbraith, with a ruin which at one time must have been a place of considerable strength, but to visit which is sometimes resented by the jackdaws who have taken possession of it, and, like the crofters, refuse to quit. North of Inchmoan is the large island of Inchconachan, or Dog’s Isle, a Colquhoun’s island, covered with oak and fir, but quite uninhabited. To the west of those two is Inch Tavannach, or Monks’ Island, so called from its having been the site of a monastery. This island has also frequently been converted into a kind of sanatorium for dipsomaniacs, and is celebrated for having many of our finest British ferns. There is a narrow strait between these last two, near the northern entrance of which a stone is visible at low water, from which tradition says that the Gospel used to be preached to audiences on both islands, and this stone is still called “The Minister’s Stone.” A little to the north of those is Inch Lonaig, “the Yew Island,” remarkable for its old yew trees, some of which are said to have been planted by the Bruces.

Turning now from the loch to its surroundings, from the waterscape to the many landscapes that as a frame enclose the picture, you have close at hand the beautifully-wooded conical hill of Duncruin, with Ross Priory projecting into the loch, a favourite place with Sir Walter Scott, who wrote “Rob Roy” while living here as the guest of Mr. Hector Macdonald, an Edinburgh advocate of that time. It is not difficult, apart from his friendship with the master of the place, to understand Scott’s attraction to the house. He was keenly alive to the beauty of woodland and loch; and the district around was teeming with memories—every glen the home of a romance. We find the influence of these upon him in some of the most famous episodes in “Rob Roy” and “The Lady of the Lake.” The Priory has, however, a much sadder story to tell—that of the betrayal of the Marquis of Tullibardine, eldest son of the Duke of Athole, who after Culloden took refuge with his former friend, Buchanan of the Ross. Buchanan, however, betrayed him, the Marquis hurling out the imprecation as he was taken prisoner, “There’ll be Murrays on the Braes of Athole when there’s ne’er a Buchanan at the Ross,” and the prophecy has been fulfilled. Beyond this we have the fertile valley and the mouth of the Endrick, with Buchanan House, the seat of the Duke of Montrose. The valley of the Endrick is celebrated in the old song of “The Gallant Graham” as “Sweet Enerdale,” stretching far up to the hills at Killearn, which, with its monument to George Buchanan, “the father of modern Liberalism,” we easily recognise.

Though in his time Lord Privy Seal of Scotland, Moderator of the Kirk, and tutor to James VI. of Scotland and I. of England, Buchanan openly advocated tyrannicide, maintaining that “tyrants should be ranked amongst the most ferocious beasts.” Professor Morley, in his eighth volume of “English Writers,” has devoted a large space to this great yet simple-minded man. The picture of the great scholar—the greatest, perhaps, in the Europe of his day—teaching his serving-man in his death-chamber “a-b, ab—e-b, eb,” &c., and defying the “British Solomon” and “all his kin” in the same breath, is surely worthy of the brush of some one of the numerous artists to whom Scotland has given birth. We charge nothing for the suggestion.

And there is the steamer on her upward trip going into Balmaha, where there is the famous pass along which the Highland clans were accustomed when on the “war path” to direct their march into the Lowlands. Rob Roy often took this route, and, in the words of Scott—

Kept our stoutest kernes in awe,
Even at the Pass of Beal’maha.

Above this you see Conie Hill, 1175 feet high, with the huge Ben Lomond in the distance. You can see, standing between Drymen Station and Kilmaronock Church, Catter House, near which the Lennox family had a castle, that stood on the Moot Hill, a large artificial mound, where justice was administered in former times, and on which stood the earl’s gallows, a necessary appendage to a feudal court, especially on the borders of the Highlands.

Turning now from the east side of the loch to its west, from what might be called its Montrose side to its Colquhoun side, we have in close succession not far off the splendid mansion houses of Cameron, Auchendennan, Auchenheglish, and Arden. Immediately above Arden is Glen Fruin (the Glen of Sorrow), coming down from near Garelochhead. It has the ruins of an ancient castle of the Colquhouns, and it was here that a fierce conflict took place between the Macgregors and the Colquhouns in 1602, when the latter were routed with a loss of 200 men, the Macgregors only losing two, one of them, however, being John, the brother of the chief. It is this battle which is popularly called “The Field of Lennox.” It is said that the Macgregors also put to death in cold blood some 80 youths, popularly called “the Students of Dumbarton,” who had gone out to see the fight. A short time before this Sir A. Colquhoun had appeared before James the Sixth at Stirling, and complained of the cruel murders committed by the Macgregors, and to give emphasis to his complaint he was attended by a considerable number of women who carried the bloody shirts of their husbands and sons. The king gave him a commission to repress the crimes and apprehend their perpetrators, and the battle of Glen Fruin was the result. And this in its turn led to the king issuing letters of fire and sword against the Clan Gregor, to the confiscation of their lands. Their clan name was proscribed by Act of the Privy Council. But the Acts passed against them were repealed in 1775. Till then, however, the members of the clan usually took the name of various landed proprietors. Thus, the famous Rob Roy, who died in 1736, was Campbell, after the family name of his patron, the Duke of Argyll.

Not far up the glen from Arden there is the hill of Dunfion, which is said to have been at one time the residence of Fingal, and traces of a fortress said to have been built by him are still pointed out. Two and a-half miles farther up you can see Ross Dhu (the black promontory), on which is the tower of the ancient castle of the Luss family, and their mausoleum near it; the mansion-house standing on a promontory almost surrounded by water.

Taking one more soul-filling look up to the mighty Ben, on the side of the loch, and to the hills at its head, chief among which, and closing the distant vista, is Ben Voirlich, it is perhaps time to think of the train, for yonder is the “Queen” coming down the loch. As you begin to retrace your steps do not forget that standing on this hill you can see Renton, where Smollett the historian was born; Killearn, where George Buchanan first saw the light of day; and Garlios, the birthplace of Napier, the inventor of logarithms—all of whom added a new lustre to the literature and science of Scotland. Also take a peep at Tillichewan in its sylvan beauty, and the gentle slopes of the hillside forming such a picturesque background to it. And in recrossing the bridge it will help you to pay your second halfpenny with more complacency if you remember that possibly before the creation of man this valley was covered with the dashing waves of the Atlantic and German Oceans. For at that far back period all Scotland was under water except its highest peaks, which would then be like so many islands in one great sea. Down the stream a little way is Alexandria, suggestive of the lost Cleopatra’s Needle in the past and British influence in the present. And it may surprise you to learn that this grand mouth-filling name is one of recent date comparatively, and that its former title was of a more homely kind—namely, “The Grocery,” from a store which formerly kept the indispensable articles shadowed forth in that word of unclassical derivation. As you pass it directly in the train you see it to be now a large and prosperous place, which requires more than one “Grocery”—a place

Where cloth’s printed, dyed, and steamed,
Bleached, tentered, in the water streamed,
Starched, mangled, calender’d, and beamed,
And folded very carefully.

You reach Glasgow five hours after leaving the hill, with many pleasant recollections of your trip to Mount Misery.

BEN LEDI.

The most popular excursion in Scotland, both with ourselves and with strangers from all parts of the world, is that which takes us to, and through, the Trossachs. But it is somewhat unfortunate that the idea exists in the public mind that it is an impossible excursion to any but rich people on account of its expense. We propose to-day to lead any who are willing to follow us to one of our Scottish mountains which more than any other may feel proud of its surroundings, which is, so to speak, at the very gate of the Trossachs, and to reach and climb which demands no great expenditure of time or of money although we can scarcely add strength, for Ben Ledi is not one of the easiest of our western hills to climb.

And yet it was not till Sir Walter Scott threw the spell of his genius over this district that it was regarded as anything else than a desolate, cut-throat country, into which no decent folk could venture.

Our route of course is _via_ Stirling, with its rock and Castle and history; Dunblane, and its ancient cathedral with memories of good Bishop Leighton, and its window facing us, which Ruskin has pronounced the finest of its kind in the country; Doune, with its mills and old castle, to Callander, lying about 256 feet above the level of the sea, on the banks of the river Teith. Here we get our first view of the Ben 4½ miles to the north-west, and prepare to take our walk for the day.

When it is remembered that with the exception of the episode at Stirling Castle, the whole scenes of the _Lady of the Lake_ lie within the parish which gives its name to and has its centre in the town of Callander, it will be at once seen that it would be superfluous on our part to describe the scenery _en route_ to the base of Ben Ledi. The best guide book here is the _Lady of the Lake_, “every step and every scene being made classic in the beautiful and vivid word-painting of that poem.”

The ascent can be best made from Portnanellen about 2¾ miles from Callander, in the immediate vicinity of Coilantogle Ford. This was “Clan Alpine’s outmost guard,” the place where Roderick Dhu stood vantageless before Fitz James; “but it has lost its romance by the erection of a huge sluice of the Glasgow waterworks.” So thinks a writer in the latest Ordnance Gazetteer. However, as we make for it, crossing the Leny, pattering along its stony bed, after it has come down one of the prettiest passes either in this or any other country, as we admire the hollies thickly covered with berries, and think what an added beauty they will have from the first snows of winter, and as we get a foretaste or two of the mountains and the floods that we are to see before the day is done, we have neither the time nor the mind to be disturbed by thoughts of Glasgow and her waterworks.

The best and usual route of ascent can be best learned on the spot before starting. When a beginning is made the way opens up gradually, and as we have so much more that is readable to say, we will dispense with a detailed account of how each of the 3875 feet of the “Mountain of God” is to be covered.

The Gaelic name read commonly as _beinn-le-dia_ is more correctly _beinn schleibhte_ or _schleibtean_. According to this latter reading the Ben is not the “Mountain of God,” but the “Mountain of Mountains,” or “Mountain girt with sloping Hills.” And this corresponds with its size and surroundings. It rises from a base of about 11 miles in circuit; in fact it occupies most of the space between Loch Lubnaig on the east, Loch Vennachar on the south, and Glenfinlas on the west. The fact that it has sometimes been called the “Mountain of God” is not due to the shape or size of the hill itself, but to this, that Druidical worship lingered on its summit after it had disappeared from the rest of Scotland.

One of the chief dangers, and one of the principal causes of discomfort, in climbing Ben Ledi is its liability to mists, and the number of bogs that surround its base. It is not every stout-legged counter-jumper who buys a return ticket to Callander, or every pretty lass who thinks to put colour in her cheeks by the toilsome walk, shall be allowed to treat the “Mountain of Mountains” with the contempt begotten of familiarity. They may struggle to the top, only to be knocked about by “air rending tempests,” or to find that the Ben has put on the fleecy mantle which the clouds seem ever ready to invest him with on the shortest notice. They may ascend voluble, expectant, and dry, but descend much more briskly, sad, sodden, and woefully disappointed. But even before they get well started, if the weather has been wet, and they are not careful, they may get occasionally up to the ankle, and if not, have to struggle at least with some sopping ground.

If, however, a good day is chosen in a dry season, and the mists should keep away, we can promise you something out of the common run of things in mountain scenery even in the west of Scotland. It is said that in many of the towns of Switzerland the best houses were formerly built with their backs to the Alps as if the view of them were hateful. The natives, in fact, spoke of the region of ice and snow as “the evil country.” But those who have made the ascent of Ben Ledi in the favourable circumstances that I have referred to will wish not only to set their faces to Ben Ledi, but will be anxious for another opportunity of enjoying the view from its summit, a view which commands all the way from the Bass Rock to the Paps of Jura, and from the Moray Firth to the Lowther Mountains. Loch Vennachar is seen lying at our feet with its 5 miles of water, and its two islands, one at its eastern end, and the other, called _Illan-a-Vroin_, or the “island of lamentation,” further west, and covered with wood. To the south, where now stands the ruins of an old mill, the Teith flows past. A peep, but little more, can be had of Invertrossachs House, which was occupied by the Queen in 1869.

There has been many a visit paid to the summit of Ben Ledi since that day, but the largest, probably, and certainly the most enthusiastic party was that which went up to erect the Jubilee Cairn. The loyal Highlanders and the inhabitants of the classic district embracing Loch Lubnaig, Loch Vennachar, and Glenfinlas, in answer to a summons, which, like the “fiery cross,” was carried down the valley of the Teith, and up the Pass of Leny by the Kirk of St. Bride, erected a cairn on the top of an older one, which had existed for sometime, but had probably been blown down by the high winds which sweep across the hills with great violence. The new cairn, which was erected out of an abundant supply of building material to be found in the summit, has a base of 14 feet, and its height is equal to its diameter. It is chiefly made up of great slabs of a slaty sandstone, which had, we understand, to be dug, in not a few cases, out of the mountain side, in which they were embedded, in some cases, several feet. At a height of 12 feet the slaty material was no longer used, and for the next 2 feet, to the summit, the cairn consists of white quartz, which, when the sun shines upon it, has a beautiful effect even at some little distance. The fact that the cairn only took five hours to be “begun, continued, and ended,” speaks volumes for the number and the diligence of the willing and loyal workers. And if the cairn is not quite as firm as the “Eddystone Lighthouse,” it will at least outlive the reign of the next two of our crowned heads.

But though the jubilee builders were numerous, and although the quartz on the crown of the cairn can shine and sparkle in the proper given circumstances, these are as nothing to the concourse of grave Druid priests who used to worship here, and to the glittering of their fires far and wide. It is said that at sunset on the night before the first of May they found their way to this summit ready to welcome the rising of the God of day with a fire offering, which could be seen from all parts of the Lowlands of Scotland from the German Ocean to the Atlantic, and which the superstitious natives took to be kindled by the hand of God. All private and domestic fires had been put out, and the country was universally waiting for the first gleam of the new Bal-tein, or Baal-fire from heaven, for another year.

As we rest behind the Jubilee Cairn to eat our biscuit and cheese, and get shelter from a stiff north-wester, we again and again look round in all directions, but the views to be had are at once so grand and so various that it would only bewilder the reader to go into details, and we would recommend him to lose no time, but embrace the first opportunity he has of making the ascent and getting the view himself. One other reason why we should not go into particulars is that we have to embrace much of the same prospect that we had on Ben Venue, although with this difference that we have now a much better view away to the north.

It is not often that we have a sheet of water on or near the summit of our Scottish hills; but this is something that Ben Ledi can boast of. On its shoulder, a little way below us, there is a small and dark tarn, only a few yards in width, which yet was made the unwilling witness, nay, worse, participator in a terrible tragedy. The tarn is called Loch-an-nan-corp—“the small lake of dead bodies,” a name the origin of which tradition ascribes to the calamity which “once upon a time,” not to be too particular, overtook a funeral procession there. Two hundred persons journeying from Glenfinlas to a churchyard on the pass of Leny, found this lake frozen over and covered with snow, and attempted to cross it, but the ice gave way and they were all drowned. An interesting writer in the _Illustrated News_, a year or two back, a writer who, we are pleased to hear, belongs to Glasgow, says, writing on this point, “No tablet on that wind-swept moor records the half-forgotten disaster; only the eerie lapping of the lochlet’s waves fill the discoverer with strange forebodings, and at dusk, it is said, the lonely ptarmigan may be seen, like souls of the departed, haunting the fatal spot.”

Those who, instead of retracing their steps, and coming down again by Coilantogle, prefer to make for the Pass of Leny, will find at the foot of the mountain a little mound, close to where the river leaves Loch Lubnaig, the burying-ground to which the clansmen were carrying their dead friend. There is now only a low scone wall around this diminutive grave-yard, but here once stood the small chapel of St. Bride, “which,” according to Sir Walter Scott, “stood in a small and romantic knoll in the middle of the valley,” from the Gothic arch of whose doorway, we read in the _Lady of the Lake_, the happy marriage company were coming out when Roderick Dhu’s messenger rushed up to the principal one of the party and thrust into his hands the fiery cross of the Macgregors. After rounding this knoll we arrive, about a mile farther on, within sight of Loch Lubnaig, or the “Crooked Lake,” which is some 5 miles in length, overhung on both sides by rugged hills, and surrounded by groves of birch, pine, and hazel. We do not know a better position than the farmhouse of Ardchullary for getting a good view of the loch. Unless you have provided yourself with a very liberal allowance of the biscuits and cheese to which we have already referred, you will be glad to get near to some such kindly and hospitable place. And if you are a little tired and done up with your day’s travels, additional interest will attach, in your eyes, to this house, from its having been the favourite summer quarters of Bruce of Kinnaird, the Abyssinian traveller, who retired to these solitudes for the purpose of arranging the materials for the publication of his travels.

The date of our visit to Ben Ledi’s summit was “on or about” the time when the young grouse begin to lose the number of their covey, and to learn that every man who treads the moor is not so harmless as the shepherd, especially when a dog accompanies him. And ever and again we come across them sitting warily and watchfully among the heather, and saw them rising far out of gunshot. The grouse, indeed, were now being deserted for the black game, which, on account of the general lateness of the grey hen in sitting compared with that of her red sister of the moor, are allowed a little rest. Of course some men make it a rule to pull a trigger upon a blackcock how or whenever they can, and some birds fall to the guns of those who do not know the difference between heath-fowl and moor-fowl. Most people, indeed, remember the canny reply of the Scotch keeper to the English sportsman who was out on the moors for the first time, and had missed what he thought was a grouse. “I was too soon, Donald, I am afraid,” said the latter. “’Deed, and you were, sir, eight days too soon; it was an auld blackcock.” We saw over and again in the course of the day good proof of what we had often heard that the blackcock is far from a model husband, and anything but resembles the grouse-cock in his devotion to his mate.

But we must step out on our homeward and southward journey with the Leny accompanying us in the valley, the road being quite equal, during its mile or two, to that between Callander and Coilantogle. The river is low to-day, and runs under banks that are hung with ferns and lingering foxgloves, with golden rod and harebells, and all the flowers of the late summer. But in a wet season, when each rivulet along the mountain side swells into an angry torrent, and from an occasional cliff “the wild cataract leaps in glory,” it exults in the added strength of all its hundred turbulent vassals, and rises in its might, and seething, and struggling, and overflowing its banks, rises and roars a furious stream.

As we get into Callander again we are passed by the coaches on their return from Loch Katrine, and when we look at the prancing steeds, the happy tourists, and last, but not by any means least, the red-coated, brass-buttoned, and very superior persons who handle the whip and reins, we have no difficulty in seeing why it is that there should be in our days a coaching revival, even on routes where there is the opportunity of travelling by train. There is no more delightful way of spending a summer day, given sunshine and warmth, than to have a drive on a well-appointed coach, behind an accomplished whip, and four “spanking” horses.

We are not at all sorry, however, that this particular outing did not take that special shape, and although we cannot claim to be the first to bring the glories and the attractions of Ben Ledi into view, as Mrs. Murray did in the case of the beauties of the Trossachs, and who claimed that Sir Walter Scott should have dedicated the _Lady of the Lake_ to her (although her claim has not generally been allowed), we feel that we have done something at least to tempt some Glasgow excursionists to follow us, and climb the hill for themselves.

THE MEIKLE BEN.

It was our Autumn Holiday, and we had decided on a run to one of the choicest spots which abound within a reasonable distance of Glasgow. Of course we wanted to do as much as possible, which is not always wise, especially when there are one or two in the party with different tastes and different muscular capacities. But having got a general idea of our plan, we started, leaving that “divinity that shapes our ends” to give the turn to our holiday which we believed would bring us the best results.

It was a fine balmy morning, becoming overcast, however, as the train hurried on to Milton of Campsie, and when we left the station and started on our way for the Meikle Ben, or Bin, as it is more popularly called, the rain greeted us a little freely. It may be that some of our readers have not even heard of the Meikle Ben. In that case we claim from them a little of the respect and gratitude which all discoverers are entitled to and as a rule get ungrudgingly. In spite of an unpretentious and unromantic name, the Meikle Ben is not only a spot of wonderful beauty, but the approach to the place as well as its immediate surroundings are decidedly much above the dead level of topographical mediocrity.

On leaving the station we cross the Glazert, as it travels on to meet the Kelvin, in a wild rocky channel fretted by the flood of ages. We take the first road to the right, which runs past Antirmony House, formerly the seat of Bell, the traveller, and in more recent years the residence of Mr. C. M. King, a younger brother of the amiable and busy baronet of Levernholm. A few yards along this road bring us to the village school, up past the side of which we take, and make as best we can for the top of a bold brown range now immediately in front of us.

Long before we get halfway to the top of the range we take repeated opportunities of noticing how sharply and distinctly its outline is defined against the horizon, and how clearly the scars and wrinkles on its broad and openly honest face stand out. As we continue our climb up the braes we notice with pleasure that the lights and shades on their breast are beautifully intermingled, a sure sign that there will be little rain to-day. Before we reach the northern slope we take a look at Antirmony Loch at our feet, a little to the east, one of the finest sheets of water within 20 miles of Glasgow, and at Glorat House, about as far to the west, the residence of one of the oldest families in the county (Sir Charles Stirling).

On reaching the summit we are only some 12 miles or so from the dusty, drowsy, smoky metropolis, and yet are in what may be called the Lowland Highlands. We stand upon an eminence of only a few hundred feet above sea level, and yet the landscape stretched out below is sufficiently wide and varied to warrant us in thinking that we stand much higher in the world. Right below us are the little hamlets of Milton and Birdston, with Kirkintilloch and Lenzie, and their church spires standing out clear and bright in the glowing sunshine. To the right is the cosy-looking strath of Campsie, commanded by Lennox Castle, in the boldest style of Norman architecture. The proprietor is said to be in the direct succession of the Earls of Lennox, but this is a subject on which our limited genealogical knowledge forbids us to enlarge.

Away in the south-west we catch a glimpse of Glasgow, cloud-capped and grey; beyond it are the flats of Renfrew and the surrounding country, the monotony of which in a clear day is somewhat relieved by the blue tops of the Paisley and Kilmalcolm hills. Looking across the valley at our feet we can see the streams trickle like silver threads, and the sunbeams tremble and play in mingled gleams of green and yellow. Wonderful hills those old Campsie hills, with what might be called the Garden of Scotland at their base (for is not this the earliest part of Scotland, speaking from an agricultural point of view?) and the glory of God’s sunshine on their brows. Those in city pent, and those whose days are for the most part spent in the rush and crush of business could not enjoy an afternoon to more profit and pleasure than up here. From the summit of these hills, down past the eastern base of the Meikle Ben a little to the north of us, there is no carriage drive to the Fintry and Denny Road; but, for all that, the walk does not seem to be one of any great difficulty, whereas, on the other hand, the way would be beguiled by scenes of rarest beauty. We have made the stiff uphill walk or climb to this in a little less than an hour; but the bracing air, the scenery around us, far and near, and some pleasant seats on the soft turf have made us forget all fatigue.

We have to dip down a little on the other side before we begin the ascent of the Ben pure and simple. As we do so we lose sight of all human habitations, and for a mile or more not even a tree or shrub is to be seen except the heather. We have heard it said that a would-be suicide who was anxious to “lay hands on himself” by hanging up here was frustrated in a very simple fashion. He found it would be impossible to carry out his horrid purpose in this “heaven-kissing” locality unless he could manage to throw a coil over the horn of the moon, a blaeberry bush or a clump of heather being the nearest approach to a tree which could be found. We begin to wonder why there is such an extent of land lying waste, and our mind naturally turns to the poor crofter, or once more to the overcrowded dens in our large cities. We are ready to exclaim, “Why, here is sufficient land to sustain thousands of our population, and we have been quite ignorant of it,” but when we examine the soil we find that the crop it grows is sufficient for black cattle and sheep, but could not be easily cultivated for the support of man.

The summit of our hill is not at all difficult now to reach, although, as the “Gazetteer” tells us, it is 1870 feet high. But we may be said to have been climbing it ever since we left Milton. And now we see, what can only be seen when we are close to it, that it is really a hill of itself. To those who live a few miles to the south, our Ben appears only a large cairn on the highest point of the front part of the range. To those up here, or still farther to the north of this, it seems a considerable independent hill, and to those who live away to the east and south-east, in the Slamannan direction, it looks as if it could hold its head almost quite as high as Ben Ledi or Ben Venue. It is even said to be seen from a great distance in the Lanark direction, and forms a conspicuous landmark from the Firth of Forth.

We are here in the south-east corner of the parish of Fintry, close to the meeting point with Campsie and Kilsyth. We can see at a glance that it is a central summit of the Lennox hills, occupying such a position as to unite the Fintry, Campsie, and Kilsyth sections of those hills. On the north-east of it, there is what is called the Little Bin, some 1446 feet high, and on its south-west side the Bin burn runs away to the north and becomes a head stream of the river Carron.

Standing here, or rather stretching ourselves along the grateful turf, we are in the very centre of Stirlingshire, and at the source of a river which nowhere is very large, and yet, than which there is none in Scotland, and probably few in the whole island, whose banks have been the stage of so many memorable transactions. When the Roman empire was in all its glory, and had its eastern frontiers upon the Euphrates, the banks of the Carron were its boundaries on the north-west; for the Wall of Antoninus, which was raised to mark the limits of that mighty empire, stood in the neighbourhood of this river, and ran parallel to it for many miles. This last fact suggests one of the probable origins of the word Carron, for there are more than one. The meaning of the word has been a puzzle to the etymologists. “Even ministers they ha’e been kenn’d” to arrive at very different conclusions on this interesting subject. Some derive it from Caraon, which means “a winding river,” and “The bonny links of Carron Water” are poetically celebrated. This expresses one feature of the stream which, in former times, before it had forced a new channel to itself in some places, and been straightened by human industry in others, made almost as many serpentine links as the Forth itself.

In the valley below the river runs through the well-known Carron bog, and for 3½ miles flows in a slow serpentine course over one of the finest and most fertile tracks of natural meadow in Scotland. The Carron Company, whose works are at the other end of the river, and in summer utilise almost all its water, wished at one time to convert this bog into a great reservoir for their works, but the hay crop was found to be too valuable, the tract containing upwards of 1000 Scotch acres in one continued plain, bearing from 130 to 150 stones per acre, which is all the more valuable from the fact that the artificial crops are a little precarious from their elevated situation. From the adjoining heights as many as 20 or 30 different parties of people may be seen on it in the season making hay, and in the winter again the river is industriously led over its whole extent to fertilise it for the following crop.

On the other side of the road from the bog, a little to the west of it, and close to where the infant Endrick comes down from the Kippen hills, we have the old castle of Sir John de Grahame of Dundaff, who fell at the battle of Falkirk. For courage and military skill he was reckoned next to Wallace, and was commonly called by the great hero himself his “Right Hand.” The gravestone of Sir John in the churchyard of Falkirk has the following Latin motto, with a Scotch translation:—

Mente manuque potens, et vallae fidus Achates,
Conditur hic Grahmos, bello interfectus ab Anglis.

While some of Cromwell’s troops were stationed in Falkirk, an officer asked the parochial schoolmaster to translate the Latin. This he did in the following witty manner:—

Of mind and courage stout,
Wallace’s true Achates,
Here lies Sir John the Graham,
Felled by the English Baties.

On our left, looking north, we get a sight of what was in former years called the “Moor Toll,” near to which the Carron rises, which we ourselves will soon cross in the valley. This veritable “lodge in the wilderness” has been a welcome sight to many a weary traveller from either side of the hill on a stormy night, and many a dreary winter day “Honest Peter,” the carrier, and his horse, were glad when they got this length.

Hitherto we have only been looking at things within easy reach of us, but we are not allowed to forget long that we have scenery here which equals any to be had, it might almost be said, in any part of Scotland. Looking to the north-west we have a view of country before us

Where broad extended, far beneath,
The varied realms of fair Menteith.

The stretch of country lying before us from Port of Menteith round by Aberfoyle, taking in Fintry, Buchlyvie, Balfron, Gartmore, with the majestic Ben Lomond and a host of other hills, is a sight not to be forgotten. Certainly no such beautiful panorama of hill and dale is to be seen within the same distance from Glasgow.

Probably the most pleasing features in the immediate neighbourhood are the valley of the Endrick and of the Carron which almost touch each other at the farm house straight down from us. We see the Endrick on its way to the famous “Loup of Fintry,” just a little to the west of Sir John de Graham’s old castle, where it falls over a precipitous rock of more than 60 feet in height, forming a cataract of great beauty. In a “loup,” a “spout,” or “fall” of water there is a great variety of opinion as to what makes it specially remarkable. Some desire a flood of water, others a silvery veil of falling mist, others would have grand natural surroundings. The truth is that a cataract, like a human face, depends a great deal on its surroundings. It is a mistake to go to a waterfall with a measuring line and judge it by height, and breadth, and volume alone. There are comparatively trifling cascades, which, by virtue of their natural position and the sweet and sylvan scenery of their home, are far more attractive than a vaster flood of water filling a greater depth amid tame scenic circumstances. Let our climber make a nearer acquaintance with the “Loup of Fintry,” either to-day or on some other occasion, and he will see what good reason the natives have for their praise of Strathendrick. From its first beginning to its fall into Loch Lomond the Endrick is a thing of beauty, having in its course many a lovely and picturesque scene.

But the valley of the Carron away to the east is not less interesting although its interest is of a more historical character. It is not, however, without an occasional spot of extra loveliness. For example, a little below where it crosses the Kilsyth and Stirling (old) Road, 6 miles behind Kilsyth, it rushes over the Spout or Linn of Auchintilly. In spite of its grand name, which means “field of the overflowing torrent and pool,” it is little known, as it is in a most unfrequented valley. We have made the journey right round by road from Lennoxtown to Kilsyth, a distance of some 19 miles, without meeting more than two people on the highway, although not so far removed from the “madding crowd.” This state of matters reminded us at the time of Dean Ramsay’s story of the English traveller on the out-of-the-way Scotch road, who asked a stone-breaker whom he passed, “Does nobody travel on this road at all?” “O yes,” was the answer, “we’re not that bad. There was a gangrel body yesterday, and there’s yoursel’ the day.” If we were writing in verse, we would be obliged to say of this sexasyllabic, significant, mouth-filling, and loud-sounding name—Auchin-tilly-lin-spout—what Horace says of the little town in which he lodged a night in his journey from Rome to Brundusium, _Versu dicere non est_. And yet those banks have been sung of both by Ossian and Hector M’Neill, the latter, a native of the shire. M’Neill speaks of it as the classic stream where Fingal fought and Ossian hymned his heaven-taught lays; and Dyer sings of it as still seeming responsive to Ossian’s lyre. The ancient ballad of “Gil Morice” also—the story of which has been formed into the celebrated tragedy of “Douglas”—represents the mother of the unfortunate young hero as having “lived on Carron side.” We have no time to discuss the ornithology of our day’s outing; but we could almost hear the throbbing of birds’ hearts, which portends a sudden and distant flight. Had we been down on the banks, either of the Endrick or of the Carron a month ago, we could have seen the common sandpiper in its old haunts. But now that September is upon us not one is to be seen. Silently but surely they have slipped off in the night, and the rivers will not know them till next April. But the rooks are in abundance admiring their glossy plumage and symmetry, reminding us of the Scottish aphorism, and proving its truthfulness, “Aye, you’re a bonny pair, as the craw said to its ain twa feet.” They are now beginning to assemble in flocks, and those often deserve the appellation of “a craw’s preaching” from the flow of noisy eloquence of which at such times they are capable.

As we prepare to retrace our steps we cannot help being again struck by the vast expanse of land unoccupied by people and so little cultivated. The one moment we are thankful that there is such a place so near to Glasgow, and no one with heart so hard as to bar the rambler’s way; but the next again the stillness becomes oppressive, as when Cockburn wrote to Jeffrey, “This place is as still as the grave, or even as Peebles.” Our hill to-day is certainly in the heart of a district about which the average dweller within 40 miles of Glasgow knows less, we are persuaded, than he does of some of our colonial possessions. And yet it is not more than 12 or 13 miles from the city. We can return as we came, or make for the old Toll House on the road between Fintry and Campsie, and get the train at Lennoxtown, or we can take a walk along the ridge of hills for 2 or 3 miles to the east, and make for Gavel Station, a mile or so on the near side of Kilsyth.

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