When we made the ascent it was a very hot day in a very hot week, each day almost more calm than its predecessor, reminding us of the sergeant newly arrived in India, who, not much accustomed to such a warm climate, was always remarking to his commanding officer when he met him, “Anither het day, kornel.” But he will soon be cooled down who lingers on this (appropriately termed) “hill of winds.” Therefore, improve your time in taking a mental photograph of the grand prospect. Here is a place for learning a lesson in geography; here is a map of the south-west of Scotland that beats Collins’ all to sticks. On the north-east you see the two Cumbraes, and behind them Largs, Wemyss Bay, and the Clyde sparkling with tiny white sails, and the green hills of Renfrewshire in the background. To the north is the Island of Bute, and the Kyles, like a silver thread, nearly surrounding it; while Ben Lomond, Ben Voirlich, and Ben Ledi fill up the distant background. To the north-west the eye reaches far up Loch Fyne, and round by the Paps of Jura and Islay and Mull. Looking across Ben Gneiss down to the Sound of Kilbrannan you see Campbeltown, and over Kintyre, and, if the day be clear, to the coast of Ireland. Due south you see Wigtonshire and the lonely Craig of Ailsa, “Paddy’s Milestone,” with Pladda, the Holy Isle, and Lamlash in the foreground. Looking east, the eye sweeps round the sunny coast of Ayrshire, taking in Ayr with its tall spire, Troon, Irvine, and Ardrossan, and inland, the conical Loudon Hill. East and south-east are the Muirkirk and Cumnock ranges, Cairnsmuir and the dark mountains between Loch Doon and Loch Trool, several of which are nearly as high as Goatfell, though, on account of their tangled and featureless character, they attract little notice.
In the immediate vicinity, and apparently on the same level with yourself, though really considerably lower, there is probably the most terrible congregation of jagged mountain ridges to be seen anywhere in the same compass, and yawning chasms between—all dry, bleak, and barren in the extreme. Away to the left lies the mighty Glen Sannox, i.e., “the glen of the river trout”—grand and wild and lonely “beyond the reach of art,” at the foot of which there once stood a chapel dedicated to St. Michael. Almost at your feet is Glen Rosa, with the river meandering at the bottom like a silver thread, and the foaming waterfall of Grabh-alt bounding down the opposite mountain side. We were slow to leave such a scene, for we felt that we might never see the like again. At last, with one long soul-satisfying gaze, we bade farewell to the prospect, which few surely can look upon without a feeling of awe and a sense of their own insignificance, and which defies the skill of the painter and engraver.
There are some who make the descent by scrambling down the steep slope of Glen Rosa; but we had heard that this was a dangerous route, and that a man-of-war’s man, who, with some shipmates, had previously made the descent that way under the guidance of a local worthy who has been up to the top at least once every month in the year, fairly broke down. We therefore took the advice Punch gave to those about to marry, “Don’t,” and we didn’t. Come down the way you went up, carefully observing the track lest you should lose your way and come to grief among the boulders; once past these you will be out of danger, and will be able to look around and enjoy the scenery. In coming down you may, as we did, pass through a herd of deer of close on 150, none of them putting themselves more about than merely to gaze at us with their great soft eyes as we pass through their midst. At the kennel turn to have a look at the old Castle, so often demolished and rebuilt, from the tower of which Bruce is said to have watched for the fire on the Turnberry Coast which the faithful Cuthbert was to light, should there be any hope of striking a blow for Scotland’s freedom. Here also we saw on our visit a rude deal table, drilled by moths and seasoned with age, around which the royal exile and his trusty friends were wont to sit and quaff their wine, drinking revenge to Scotland’s foes. A pleasant walk will bring you to the road at the old inn, and you are soon at the pier in time for the steamer.
THE EARL’S SEAT.
A Londoner can get “to Brighton and back for four shillings” in the height of the season; but we in Glasgow can have a day’s outing quite as good for half the money, and at any time. It is not “down the water,” but up to the Earl’s Seat, the highest point in what is popularly called the Campsie range. Find your way to Strathblane in the manner most agreeable to your mood. On reaching the station, turn to the right, past the handsome parish church, the pulpit of which was long filled by Dr. William Hamilton of astronomical fame, the father of the still more famous Dr. James Hamilton, of Regent Square, London, and soon after you will readily find the way up the hillside to the Spout of Ballagan.
In doing so you can think of the time when the church and lands of Strathblane were gifted to the hospital of Polmadie, in the parish of Govan, and how those, with one-half of the lands of “Little Govan,” seem to have formed the most important endowment of the hospital. You can think also how the present church occupies the site of the church that preceded it, and that to the Duntreath family are due many improvements which have been made in the building in recent years. Much valuable family history is, we are afraid, slowly decaying among the weeds and mosses of many a neglected churchyard, but Mr. Guthrie Smith, in his book on Strathblane, has acted the part of an “Old Mortality” in this one.
The Spout is a cascade of 70 feet formed by the Blane in its passage to the valley below, and which, with its surroundings of rock and wood, presents a scene of the most wild and romantic beauty; the hollow into which the river plunges being filled up with a vast collection of gigantic stones piled upon each other, and adorned on its sides with many alternate strata of various hues.
Anyone can see for himself at a glance at Ballagan the process by which our mountain glens and gorges are formed—how after a heavy rainfall the descending waters rush down the watercourses, setting all the boulder and rock fragments in the bed of the stream in motion. The last of the old race of the Levenax, or Lennox, had a castle near to and in sight of this romantic glen, from which fact the range of hills was, and frequently still is, called the Lennox range, and its highest point the Earl’s Seat. Ballagan House, which is close at hand, commands a beautiful view of the fall, and is within hearing of its music, even when it has not the power to strike a loud note. In flood-time the Spout is stupendous, and increases its apparent height by covering the huge masses below so as to vie with the sublimity if not the beauty of Cora Linn. This may seem to some to be rather strong language, but all measurement is comparative, and it may be possible to feel that there is more than prettiness or even grandeur here.