I had a cousin at Greenock who was learning to be a marine constructing engineer. He was a young man of remarkable ability, who afterwards distinguished himself in his profession, and might no doubt have made a large fortune if his habits had not been imprudent and unsettled. At that time he was tied to Greenock by an engagement with one of the great firms where he was articled. He had rooms in a quiet street, and offered me hospitality. One day I came in unexpectedly and found a baby in my bed, when the door opened suddenly, and a very pretty girl with dark eyes came and took the baby away with an apology. I immediately said to myself: "My cousin has been privately married, that pair of dark eyes has cost him his liberty, and that child is an infantine relation of mine!" This discovery remained a long time a secret in my own breast, and I affected a complete absence of suspicion during the rest of my stay at Greenock, but it was afterwards fully confirmed. My cousin had, in fact, married at the early age of nineteen, when he was still an articled pupil with Messrs. Caird, and living on an allowance from his father, whom he dared not ask for an increase. He was therefore obliged to eke out his means by teaching mechanical drawing in the evenings; but though his marriage had been an imprudence, it was not a folly. He had, in fact, shown excellent judgment in the choice of a wife. The dark eyes were not all. Behind them there was a soul full of the most cheerful courage, the sweetest affection, the most faithful devotion. For thirty-seven years my cousin's wife followed him everywhere, and bore his roving propensity with wonderful good humor. What that propensity was, the reader may partly realize when I tell him that in those thirty-seven years my cousin went through eighty-seven removals, some of them across the greatest distances that are to be found upon the planet. The only reason why he did not remove to all the different planets one after another was the absence of a road to them. This tendency of my cousin Orme had been predicted by a French phrenologist at Manchester when he was a boy. The phrenologist had said, after examining his "bumps," that Orme would settle in a place for a short time and appear satisfied at first, as if it were for good, but that very soon afterwards he would go elsewhere and repeat the process. I never met with any other human being who had such an unsettled disposition. The consequence was that he often quitted places where he was extremely prosperous, and people who not only appreciated his extraordinary talents, but were ready to reward them handsomely, in order to go he knew not whither, and undertake he knew not what.
I left Greenock by an early steamer for Glasgow, and remember this one detail of the voyage. The morning air was brisk and keen, so I was not sorry to breakfast when the meal was announced, and did ample justice to it with a young and vigorous appetite. Having eaten my third poached egg, and feeling still ready for the more substantial dishes that awaited me, I suddenly recollected that I had already disposed of an ample Scotch breakfast at my cousin's. Can anything more conclusively prove the wonderful virtue of early hours and the healthy northern air?
After visiting Glasgow and the Falls of Clyde in drenching rain, I saw Loch Lomond, which was my first experience of a Highland lake, and therefore memorable for me. The gradual approach, on the steamer, towards the mountains at the upper end of the lake was a revelation of Highland scenery. The day happened to be one of rapidly changing effects. A rugged hill with its bosses and crags was one minute in brilliant light, to be in shade the next, as the massive clouds flew over it, and the colors varied from pale blue to dark purple and brown and green, with that wonderful freshness of tint and vigor of opposition that belong to the wilder landscapes of the north. From that day my affections were conquered; as the steamer approached nearer and nearer to the colossal gates of the mountains, and the deep waters of the lake narrowed in the contracting glen, I felt in my heart a sort of exultation like the delight of a young horse in the first sense of freedom in the boundless pasture.
The next sunrise I saw from the top of Ben Lomond, but will spare the reader the description. It was a delight beyond words for an enthusiastic young reader of Scott to look upon Loch Katrine at last. Thousands of tourists have been drawn to the same scenes by their interest in the same poet, yet few of them, I fancy, had in the same degree with myself the three passions for literature, for nature, and for art. If little has come of these passions, it was certainly not from any want of intensity in them, but in consequence of certain critical influences that will be explained later. I will only say in this place, that if the passion for art had been strongest of the three the productive result would have been greater.
From Tarbet on Loch Lomond I went to Inverary, and the first thing I did there was to hire a sailing-boat and go beating to windward on Loch Fyne. I made a sketch of the ruined castle of Dundera, which stands between the road and the loch on a pretty rocky promontory. For some time I had a strong fancy for this castle, and wanted to rent it on lease and restore three or four rooms in it for my own use. The choice would have been in some respects wiser than that I afterwards made, as Dundera has such easy access to Inverary by a perfectly level and good road on the water's edge, and by the water itself; but the scenery of Loch Fyne is not as attractive as that of Loch Awe, and there is always a certain inevitable dreariness about a salt-water loch which, to my feeling, would make it depressing for long residence.
I had travelled from Tarbet with a rather elderly couple who were very kind to me, and afterwards invited me to their house in Yorkshire. The lady was connected with Sir James Ross, the Arctic discoverer, and her husband had been a friend of Theodore Hook, of whom he told me many amusing anecdotes. They were both most amiable, cheerful people, and we formed a merry party of three when first I saw Loch Awe, as the carriage descended the road from Inverary to Cladich on the way to Dalmally. As I kept a journal of this tour, I find easily the account of my first boating on Loch Awe. It was in the month of August when we had come to a halt at Cladich:—
"In the afternoon I made a sketch of the bridge taken from the ravine. It occupied me four hours, as the scene was of the most elaborate character. We dined at four o'clock, and then strolled to the lake, which was at some distance. Two boats were lying in a small stream which emptied itself into the lake, so I pressed one of them into my service, and was soon out upon the water. The boat was old, badly built, and rickety. The starboard oar was cracked, and the port oar had been broken in two and mended with bands of iron. The bottom was several inches deep in water, the thwarts were not securely fastened, nor were they at right angles to the keel. Out in the loch the waves were high, and the crazy craft rolled and pitched like a beer-barrel, the water in her washing from side to side. However, I reached the island called 'Inishail.' It was a striking scene. Around me were the tombs of many generations. In the far distance the dark ruin of Kilchurn was reduced almost to insignificance by its background of rugged hills towering into the clouds.
"Night was coming on quickly as I rowed back to the mouth of the little river. On reaching the inn I found that the people were getting anxious about me."
This first row on Loch Awe has a pathetic interest for me to this day. It was like one's first meeting with a friend who was destined to become very dear and to exercise a powerful influence on the whole current of one's life.
As my first impression of London had been, "This is a place an Englishman ought to see once, but I will never come to it again," so my first impression about Loch Awe was a profound sort of melancholy happiness in the place and a longing to revisit it. I never afterwards quitted Loch Awe without the same longing to return, and I have never seen any place in the world that inspired in me that nostalgia in anything like an equal degree.