Pass of Killiecrankie.
The first of all our glens is the Pass of Killiecrankie, that famous defile which gave its name to the battle that proved so fatal to the Stuarts, for the victory won there by the adherents of the so-called James VII., was more than counterbalanced by the loss of Claverhouse. The pass is a narrow, ragged break through the mountains, giving a passage to the River Garry, and forming the only practicable entrance from the low country to the Highlands above. It is now accessible by a broad, smooth highway as well as by the railway, but at the time of the battle the only road through it was a rough path between the swirling river and the rocks, and so steep and narrow that but two men could march abreast. Along this path the royal forces under McKay slowly made their way; and though the pass is only about a mile and a half long it was afternoon before the little army of three thousand debouched into the plain at its extremity, and took position on the high ground beyond. Do you see that eminence a mile away yonder, on the north, whose sides slope down into the plain? It was from that height that the Highlanders—McLeans, McDonalds, Camerons, Lochiel, Dundee and all—came down like a torrent upon King William's men below. The red sun was just above the western hills. With fearful yells the tide of ragged, barefooted mountaineers (Macaulay says that Lochiel took off before the battle what was probably the only pair of shoes in the clans) swept on, undismayed by the volleys of musketry that decimated them as they ran. Plaids and haversacks were thrown away, and dropping their fusils as they fired them, they were upon the astonished Southrons before they had time to screw on their bayonets. The fight was over in a few minutes. More than a thousand men went down under the strokes of the dreaded claymores and Lochaber axes, and away went King William's men in a panic down the valley with the clans at their heels. The victory was a decisive one, but Claverhouse, who had insisted, against the remonstrances of Lochiel and others, upon leading in the charge, was fatally wounded by a bullet early in the action. Up yonder on the right is Urrard House, where he was carried to die. With this brave, unscrupulous leader, passed away the last hope of the Stuarts of winning their "own again." When King William heard of the defeat and of Dundee's death, he said, "Well, were it not so, Dundee would have been at my gates to tell it himself."
We walked through the pass on our way northward, and concluded that we had thus far seen nothing quite so wild. The cliffs rise precipitously on each side, clothed here and there with patches of oak and birch. The dark, amber-brown rushing torrent is superb, swirling among the rocks, down which it has poured through eons of time, wearing them into strange forms. The very streams are Scotch, with a character all their own, portraying the stern features of the race, torn and twisted by endless ages of struggle with the rocks which impeded their passage, triumphantly clearing their pathway to the sea at last by unceasing, persistent endeavor. The sides of Scotia's glens are a never-failing source of delight, the wild flowers and the ferns seem so much more delicately fine than they are anywhere else. One understands how they affected Burns.
Some of our ladies, the Queen Dowager always for one, will delay the coach any time to range the sides of the glen; and it is with great difficulty that we can get them together to mount once more. The horn sounds again and again, and still they linger and when they at last emerge from the copse, it is with handfuls or rather armfuls of Nature's smiles—lapfuls of wild flowers—each one rejoicing in her trophies, happy as the day is long, only it is not half long enough. Go the sun down never so late it sinks to its rest too soon.
Dalwhinnie, August 1.
Pitlochrie to Dalwhinnie.
Our drive from Pitlochrie to Dalwhinnie, thirty-two miles, was from beginning to end unsurpassed—mountain and moor, forest and glen. The celebrated falls of Bruar lay in our route, and we spent two hours walking up the glen to see them. Well were we repaid. This is decided to be the finest, most varied fall of all we have seen. The amber torrent works and squirms itself through caldrons there, and gorges here, and dashes over precipices yonder, revealing new beauties and giving us fresh delights at every step. No gentle kiss gives this Scotch fiend to every sedge it overtaketh in its pilgrimage, for in truth, dashing and splashing against the rocks, the surging, boiling water, with its crest of sparkling foam, seems a live spirit escaping from the glen and bounding to the sea, pursued by angry demons behind. Standing on the bridge across the Bruar, one need not be entirely off his balance to sympathize to some extent with the wild wish of my young lady friend, who thought if she had to be anything dead she would be a plunging, mad stream like this, dancing among the rocks, snatching to its breast, as it passed, the bluebell and the forget-me-not, the broom and the fox-glove, leaping over precipices and tossing its gay head in sparkling rainbow sprays forever and ever.
Bruar Water.
It was while gazing at this fall that Burns wrote the petition of Bruar Water. The shade asked for has been restored—"Clanalpine's pines, in battle brave," now fill the glen, and the falls of the Bruar sing their grateful thanks to the bard who loved them.