A Companion and Useful Guide to the Beauties of Scotland/Chapter 3
CHAPTER III.
I was told, at Edinburgh, I must consult the tide to cross the Queensferry: this obliged me to leave the Abbey at five o'clock in the morning. To avoid the steep rise of the Canongate, the postillion drove me up the back street, and through the Cowgate; it was then I saw the wonderful effect of the South Bridge over my head: also by going the back streets, I had an opportunity of seeing, as I drove round the base of it, the whole of the stupendous rock on which the castle is built.
The drive from Edinburgh to Queensferry, is very pleasant; and I was delighted with the appearance, and neatness, of all the houses on the road; every one, without exception, having a garden well stocked with vegetables; and potatoes planted on every bit of waste land, besides many large fields of that vegetable here and there, all the way. I was very agreeably surprised, on arriving at the Ferry, that I was not too late for the tide, of which I had some fears. There is no cause for fears of that sort; for I soon learnt that the tide will serve almost at any hour. Now and then, indeed, at spring tides, it may happen that a carriage must wait an hour or two.
The contrivance they have for hoisting carriages in and out of the ferry-boats, is very clever: my chaise was drawn out pretty far upon a stone pier, and in a very few minutes it was laid safe upon deck; and in as short a time relanded, as soon as the ferry-boat touched the shore on the opposite side. I took the precaution of not suffering any brute animals to be on board with me, as they are always troublesome, and sometimes dangerous. Nothing could be more fortunate than I was in my passage; I timed it to a minute. The morning was gloriously fine when I set out from Edinburgh, but it began to cloud and darken for some time before I reached the Ferry: the clouds, however, supported their burden, and Eolus kept close his bags, until I was within ten yards of the end of my passage. It began to rain as I landed, and I had not been in the inn on the north side of the water, three minutes, before it poured; the wind blew a hurricane; and the sea tossed high. I rejoiced I was safe on shore; but I was sorry the storm, and thick mist, prevented my having a view of Hopetoun-house.
As I approached Kinross, Loch Leven on the right of the town, and the fine range of mountains rising from the lake, and sweeping finely away in gradation, formed a beautiful landscape; the sun too shone out, after its eclipse at the Ferry, in full lustre, and rendered the island in Loch Leven, and the ruined castle upon it, conspicuous; at the same time richly gilding the whole surrounding scenery. From Kinross I did not go to see the Rumbling Brig, and Cauldron Lin; as I was told at the inn, they were not worth going to see; so little do the common people of that, or any other country, discriminate what is, or is not worth seeing. I was simple enough to take their word on that occasion, and proceeded on my way to Perth; which, from Kinross, is all the way extremely pleasant; and very fine, indeed, when the junction of the Earn with the Tay comes in sight.
I advise all travellers to see the Cauldron Lin, from Kinross, whether they return to that town or proceed to Stirling. I shall therefore, in this place, give my ideas of that extraordinary waterfall: for that purpose I will proceed to the town of the Crook of Devon. The Lin, and the Rumbling Brig are about a mile and a half to the west of that small town, lower down the river. I went from Stirling to a farm belonging to a friend, on the south side of the Devon, close to the Lin; consequently, I did not reach the Crook of Devon, but forded the river somewhat above the Rumbling Brig. The lane to the river was frightful; and, as the driver was unacquainted with the ford, I chose to mount behind the carriage, rather than trust myself in the inside of it. The water, however, was far more favourable to me, and the equipage, than the land on the other side: in the tracks there (they deserve not the name of roads), carts may have passed; but as for a four-wheeled carriage, I conclude mine was the first ever dragged through them. At last, though late, I arrived at Craig Town, and was amply compensated for my fatigue and fright, by the kindness of my worthy host, Mr. Charles Mercer, and his friend the Rev. Mr. Graham; nor must I forget the civilities of Mr. Lowry Johnston, by whose clever and expert exertions, I was the next day conducted to places where few, if any, women had ever ventured. The Rumbling Brig is a small arch of stone, from rock to rock, almost embracing each other, high above the water. The top of the arch is covered with turf, so that it is like a green bank. Trees grow luxuriantly and thick from every part of the surrounding rocks, bending over the arch, covering the side banks, and feathering down their rugged sides, and so closely entwined down to the deep chasm below, that the water is more heard than seen, dashing through its narrow, rough, and winding passage. The whole of the scenery, both at, above, and below this curious bridge, is to a very great degree romantic and beautiful, on each side the river. There are several very picturesque falls above the bridge; particularly where huge, broken, and projecting rocks impede the course of the water, and luxuriant wood hanging over them, listening, as it were, to the loud thumping of the Devil's Mill. Whatever the name imports, the fall so called, and the scenery around it, is angelic, and fills the mind with harmony and delight. The sound of this fall of the river, at a distance, is certainly similar to that of a mill continually in motion; and the gude kirk-folk, who reverence the Sabbath, maintain, that as this mill pays no more respect to the Sunday, than it does to the other days of the week, it must be the Devil's Mill. I was much pleased with a view of the bridge on the south side of the river, above it, and also below it, from a huge rock in the middle of the water, looking close into the chasm under the bridge, where the towering rocks on each side, covered with beautiful wood, form a magnificent and awful shade over the murmuring water, issuing from its dark and confined passage. The latter station is a very difficult one to gain, and is still more difficult to be maintained. It is in the middle of the river, on a huge slippery rock, amidst other innumerable fragments, over and against which the impatient water loudly dashes; having huge towering rocks, full of clifted chasms, over-run with wood on each side; and in front, the small arch of the bridge just visible, through the thick shade of wood and rock, at least one hundred feet above the eye. In such a situation it is almost impossible to preserve one's head from swimming. I attempted to sketch this scenery; but in the attempt I was several times obliged to shut my eyes, and take fast hold of the rock on which I sat, lest I should drop from it into the whirling foaming stream. I did not see the Cauldron Lin from the north side of the river, as the south side is far preferable. From the Rumbling Brig the river flows gently down, for about half a mile; and after it escapes from its rough towering sides at the bridge, its banks shew nothing remarkable, till it runs to a narrow chasm formed in a very high rock, rising perpendicularly on each side of the Cauldrons to a considerable height, covered at the top with wood. The passage or gap in the rock may be forty feet in length; I only judged by my eye. The walk to the Cauldrons and Lin, on the south side, is very conveniently and judiciously made, by Mr. Charles Mercer. I came first on the top of the rock, where I looked down, and perceived the river enter the gloomy passage by a low cascade, and fall into one cauldron; from which it enters a second, whence it boils up most furiously, foaming and white. It then falls into a third cauldron, and from that, rushes through its narrow dark passage, till it reaches the end of the chasm, when it precipitates itself over a prodigious mass of rocks, I should imagine, at least two hundred feet high, and dashes perpendicularly down to a bed of huge fragments severed from the main rock. It is a very awful view to look down upon these cauldrons from the small ash-tree hanging over them. The depth of the perforation from which the foaming furious water returns, must be wonderful, to cause such an extreme agitation. It is more a scene of solemnity, surprise, and astonishment, than that of beauty; but on descending to the foot of the Lin, the beautiful is there, in a considerable degree, mixed with the sublime. The huge masses of broken rock on each side of the fall are, here and there, ornamented with branches of trees sprouting from every crevice, and timidly bending their light boughs to the loud roaring and foaming water. The sky that gleams through the chasm, between the almost kissing black rocks which hang over the Cauldrons, is extremely curious; and the little ash-tree on the right trembles, as it were, with affright at its perilous station. The vigorous birch, small oak, and ash-trees, on the left, add much to the beauty of the whole. The river does not fall in one plain sheet; but on the left, at the top of the cascade, there is a projecting piece of rock that stretches its arm more than halfway over the fall, as if to stop, if it could, the course of the water. When I saw it, it appeared a sort of arch, over and under which the river rolled white and furious, wide spreading its spray, till it reached its rugged bed below, with a noise that must fright or delight the spectator, according to the state of his nerves. As soon as the Devon has fought its way through this curious and laborious pass, it becomes tranquil, and flows on in peace towards the Forth.
The road from the Crook of Devon to Stirling runs, at the southern base of the Oichill Hills, or, as they are commonly called, the Eckles. To the north of this range of hills, I was told, no coals are found, at least no coal-pits have ever been worked to the north of those mountains.
On entering the woeful town of Dollar, high amongst gloomy hills and dark fir-woods, I perceived the ruin of Castle Campbell. It belongs to the Duke of Argyle. In its time it must have been a very strong hold; it stands upon a peninsula of a mountain, on two sides surrounded by a furious burn (brook); and on the others by deep hollows, between it and other still higher overhanging mountains. The walls of the castle are enormously thick, and the rooms within (by what remains of them), must have been dismal dungeons; but in the times when that castle was inhabited men were more like wild beasts than human beings. The Grahams had a strong castle on the other side of the Oichills. Two lions, whose dens had only a ridge of hills for a barrier between them, could not be restrained from injurious encroachments on each other's territory. Accordingly, when the Campbells were away, the Grahams stormed and burnt; and, in return, Argyle laid waste and levelled to ruins the castle of Graham, near Auchterarder. There is a small remain of a curious subterraneous passage from the former inhabited part of Castle Campbell, cut in the rock down to the burn; from which the inhabitants of it could get water in safety, and unseen by their enemies from the heights of the surrounding mountains, when they were besieged. There are some pretty falls of the burn, but very difficult to get at them.
The old man who keeps the key of the ruin, in giving the history of the castle, added a piece of wit of a lady of the house of Campbell, in very remote times. This poor lady was confined in this solitary castle (her mind was somewhat deranged), and being asked one day what made her so melancholy.—"How can I be otherwise?" she replied; "being born in grief, christened in care, and lodged in the castle of gloom;"—alluding to the town of Dollar, where she was born; and the burn of Care, with the water of which she was baptized; and the hill of Gloom, that hangs over the approach to the Castle. Indeed it may well be called the Castle of Gloom to this day.
The drive from Dollar to Stirling is very pleasant, and the road tolerably good. The hills are chiefly verdant to the summits; and skirted with wood; birch, oak, and all sorts of natural growing forest trees; and there are large fine plantations besides, at Alva, and many other charming places nearer Stirling. Within four or five miles of Stirling, I perceived, on the side of a steep craggy mountain, a herd of moving creatures; and when I came near enough to see them distinctly, I discovered they were human beings, gathering in corn: they appeared like a flock of sheep hanging on the crag's side. It is wonderful that corn should grow there, and still more wonderful how a plough should ever get at such steep and broken precipices. I dare say, there were not fewer than sixty people, as busy as bees. It was a fine day, at the latter end of September.
The view of Stirling, enter it which way you will, is fine; but those coming from Dollar, from Auchterarder, and Callender, are peculiarly so. The Castle is on a stupendous rock, like that at Edinburgh, inaccessible on every side but one, where the town rises to it. The surrounding mountains and crags, with the rich winding vales, through which the Forth meanders, altogether exhibit a view delightfully fine; and from the castle, in a clear day, is a prospect both towards the north-west, and south-east, that is far beyond description; taking in the rich extensive vales from the sources of the Forth, to the firth of it, beyond Edinburgh. That branch of the Forth which runs from the west, rises near the north base of Ben Lomond; increases its stream from the east side of that gigantic mountain, and others, its neighbours, receives the waters of Loch Chon, Loch Aird, and Loch Monteith; and then, by innumerable windings, unites with its other branch the Teith, within about a mile and a half above Stirling. The walk round the base of the rock on which Stirling Castle is built, is astonishingly fine; but the coach road between that rock and the river, has something very terrifying in it. The width of the road is the only space between the shivered rock, and the broad winding river. To look up, huge loose fragments hang over the head, suspended in a loose soil; appearing in such a state, as if the jolting of a carriage were sufficient to shake them from their very slender hold; and that they would come tumbling down, crushing to atoms, and whirling to the middle of the river, every thing in their way!—To look at, it was the most frightful pass I had seen. But the pieces of rock must undoubtedly adhere much more firmly to the great mass than they seem to do, for I heard of no mischief ever being done by them; though sometimes pieces do fall, as numerous fragments lie scattered by the road's side, at the base of the rock, on the edge of the river, and also choking its bed. I should fear, in time, part of the castle itself may slip down and take a watery bed in the Forth.