Just before entering a small town, on the river, called Renton, we met hundreds of girls and young women homeward bound, all wearing sleeveless dresses, and carrying tin buckets. Their dyed hands and arms bespoke their occupation. They were factory girls, employed in the paint works the largest in Scotland. In this town, is a splendid obelisk to Tobias Smollet, the novelist and poet, who was born here in 1721.
By eight o’clock we reached a wayside inn, where a few shillings secured us comfortable accommodations. Next morning was dark and cloudy. A few hours’ walk found us at the head of Loch Lomond, where we took shipping on the neat little steamer, “Prince Consort.” We had several tourists, artists, poets, musicians, and other persons of taste and culture, on board, all of whom, like ourselves, had come to see and enjoy “Bonnie Scotland.” But the clouds were so dark and low, the mist so dense and heavy, that we could see little or nothing of the beauty and grandeur by which we were surrounded. Before nightfall, though the whole day seemed almost like night, “The Prince” touched at a landing called Tarbet, where we disembarked and secured lodging. The day was damp, cold and dark; everything around us wore a gloomy aspect. We were tired. We could see nothing to interest the mind or delight the eye. So Morpheus soon claimed us as his captives for the night. But, ere those nocturnal hours passed away, God’s own hand removed the clouds and curtains which, the day before, hid the works of Nature from our view.
Next morning, the sound of the clock striking eight disturbed the “spirit of my dreams.” The reader can better imagine, than I can describe, my feelings when I arose and looked around me. I found that it was a warm, bright, beautiful spring morning, and that I was in the loveliest spot on earth. I was in the midst of a large flower-garden, laid out with great care and excellent taste, containing a fine variety of shrubbery and a rich profusion of delicate and fragrant flowers. Behind me was a range of mountains, high and lifted up, extending also to the right hand and to the left, leaving the flower-garden just in a graceful curve of the mountain chain. Before me, and toward the east, was Loch Lomond, the Queen of the Highland Lakes. Her waters were clear as crystal, and her bosom was unruffled by a single wave, there being just motion enough upon the mirror-like surface to cause the sunbeams falling upon the water to glisten like a sea of sparkling diamonds.
Across the Loch, and just one mile away, was Ben Lomond, the lordliest mountain in all Scotland—the same that returned my salute from Dunbarton Castle. While the foot of this majestic mountain was washed by the waters of the lake, its brow was wrapped in the snow of winter and bathed in the clouds of heaven. Thus the beautiful lake is surrounded by
“Mountains that like giants stand
To sentinel the enchanted land.”
And each towering crag and cliff and mountain peak was seen reflected in the silver mirror lying at their feet.
In addition to all these attractions, that morning when I awoke it seemed as if all the birds of the country, with their merry voices and bright plumage, had assembled to hold their spring carnival. One of their number was unlike any of the feathered tribe I had seen before. It had a dove-colored breast; night and morning were delicately interwoven in its wings, and it sang “as if every tiny bone in its body were a golden flute.” A good old lady living there told me that when Dr. Thomas Chalmers stood where I was standing that morning, and saw and heard what then greeted my eyes and ears, he exclaimed: “I wonder if there will be such scenery and music as this in heaven!”
Ah! this is Scotland, “Bonnie Scotland,” whose picturesque scenery has waked the harp of so many bards, and has often set the artist’s eye “in fine frenzy rolling.” I am not surprised that the mantle of poesy fell upon Burns while following the plow; my only wonder is that all Scotchmen are not poets. In fact, when I awoke that morning and found myself in that terrestrial heaven, I did not know what was the matter with me. There was a fluttering underneath my ribs. It was a deep and strong, yet a pleasing and delightful sensation. I thought it was a poet’s soul in me! Rushing to the desk with hair uncombed, I arranged my stationery, and sat with pen in hand waiting for the light to break in upon me—but—but—the spell passed off before I could get hold of the first rhyme. What a pity!
After being here a short time, Johnson and I decide to take a trip through the mountains and visit Loch Long, a few miles west. We are not at all disappointed when we arrive at the Loch. The scenery is wild, savage, grand! Beyond the lake, or loch, we see the Cobbler, a towering mountain, covered with snow. The mountain is apparently not far off, seemingly about two hours’ walk. Now this, the Cobbler, is not the highest mountain in Scotland, but is said to be the hardest one in the whole country to climb.