It is to be hoped that you have brought with you more than the three brown biscuits recommended by Dr. John Brown, because accommodation for man and beast is but scarce in this part of the country, except to those who are not suffering from a depression of trade. The walk or drive over to Aberfoyle in the cool of the evening will enable you to catch the last train, which brings you to the city shortly after eight o’clock. But even if you should miss it, you can telegraph the fact to your friends at home, and resign yourself to the enjoyment of a few extra hours in one of the finest districts in Scotland. It is not given to every one to miss a train, and afterwards be thankful for the mishap, nor to repent openly and honestly for the harsh words which escaped his lips when he saw the tail-end of the guard’s van vanishing down the line. And yet we would not be surprised to learn that such had been your condition in the supposed circumstances. Your gratitude and your repentance might be alike sincere.
THE COBBLER, OR BEN ARTHUR.
It is not known why several of our Scottish hills take their name from the Welsh Prince Arthur, of whom no other trace remains in the country, but it appears that they have been traditionally considered to be places of sovereignty. For example, it is said that that huge mountain at the opening of Glencroe, the naked rocky summit of which is thought to bear some resemblance to a shoemaker at work and bent to draw his thread, and which is therefore called the Cobbler, being at one time considered the most lofty and conspicuous mountain in the domain of the Campbells, had to be climbed by the heir of that chieftainship, who was obliged to seat himself on its loftiest peak, a task of some difficulty and danger, which, if neglected, his lands went to the next relative who was sufficiently adventurous to scale its heights. Though we may not have the bribe of a dukedom to entice us, nor any special need of paying a visit to a shoemaker, yet a climb to the top of this well-known but seldom scaled steep will live in our memories as a most pleasurable toil.
The best plan to adopt in order to “do” it, and return to the common level of Glasgow life in one day, is to take an early train and boat (Queen Street low level) to Tarbet on Loch Lomond; walk or coach it from that through the beautiful pass or valley by which King Haco and his grim, death-dealing warriors in the thirteenth century are understood to have dragged their boats after sailing up Loch Long. This they did with the view of devastating Loch Lomond side and its then populous islands, with a vengeance terrible in its results. Through this peaceful and dreamy glen also marched Robert the Bruce, Scotland’s great deliverer from England’s hated yoke, with his five hundred followers, when making his way to spend the winter in Cantyre. In passing through this cross valley you can see on the hillsides the striations of the glacial age over the watershed from Loch Lomond down into Loch Long.
Keep on the coach or coach road past Arrochar, across the Lyon at the head of Loch Long, a stream which divides Dumbartonshire and Argyllshire, till you come down to a point on the other side of the loch opposite Arrochar. Here—Ardgarton House not being far off, formerly belonging to Mr. Campbell of Armidale, but more lately to Mr. Macgregor, of the Royal Hotel, Edinburgh—there is a burn or mountain stream which rejoices in the name of the “Butter-milk Burn.”
Your course is up the left side of this burn till you come to a hollow place 500 or 600 feet up; cross the burn here, and, avoiding the soft ground as much as possible, keep to the right, and instead of making the old man’s acquaintance too hurriedly, take round to his north side, and you will find him more approachable and will get better on with him. The ascent, though stiff, is not difficult till you reach what may be called the foot of the Cobbler.
The likeness is preserved even in such a detail as this, but the whimsical effect of the figure is almost obliterated by the greatness of those rocks that tower high above, and are perched like the Semi of Eig on the utmost ridge of the mountain. Your first impression is that here “you get the air about you;” that, as a Lancashire man once said to the writer of this about Blackpool, making a slip, “There’s a deal of ozedone (ozone) about it.” We suggested that he probably meant zoedone, to which the answer came, “Yes, now you have got it.” You are on a mountain 2891 feet high, whose praises have been sung by the Queen, by M’Culloch, and Alexander Smith, and now that you have presumably made its acquaintance, you feel that your climb of two hours is well repaid, and that the half has not been told you.
Sitting on the summit so narrow and acute, which has been compared to the bridge of Al Sirat, the very razor’s blade over which the faithful are to walk into Paradise, sitting astride on this rocky saddle, you may have one foot in Loch Long and the other in Glencroe. The scene is magnificent, and you may long and calmly gaze at it without any fear that your horse will get restive or impatient under you. The cliffs themselves are at once picturesque and sublime, and, most of all, that square mass at the western extremity, which rises in a lofty and broad magnificence, 200 feet or more, like a gigantic tower rooted on the mountain’s brow. Alexander Smith speaks of this as “the Cobbler’s wife sitting a little way off, an ancient dame, to the full as withered in appearance as her husband and as difficult of access. They dwell in tolerable amity the twain, but when they do quarrel it is something tremendous. The whole country knows when a tiff is in progress. The sky darkens above them; the Cobbler frowns; his wife sulks in the mist. The wife’s conduct aggravates the Cobbler, who is naturally of a peppery temper, and he gives vent to a discontented growl. The wife spits back fire upon him. The row begins. They flash at one another in the savagest manner, scolding all the while in the grandest Billingsgate, while everybody listens to them for 20 miles around. Afterwards, however, peace seems to be restored somehow when everybody is asleep. And for the next six weeks they enjoy as bright and unclouded weather as husband and wife can expect in a world where all is imperfect.” Those huge masses of rock, grand in their style and powerful in their effect, give this an advantage over most of the mountain views of Scotland by the wonderful foregrounds which they disclose. Immediately to the right of it, for example, are Ben Irne and Ben Vane, both higher than it; and yet it is the Cobbler we know, and almost as if he had no rival.