Julia Griffiths to Frederick Douglass, August 8, 1856

FOR FREDERICK DOUGLASS'S PAPER.

LETTERS FROM THE OLD WORLD.

NUMBER XXVIII.

ISLINOTON, Aug., 8th, 1856.

MY DEAR FRIEND:—To quit Scotland without seeing the Queen of Scottish Lakes and its attendant isles of beauty, would be as great a mistake for a lover of the picturesque to make, as to leave Switzerland without looking on the Lake of Geneva, and the one celebrated little isle, that rises from its clear blue waters, near Chilon`s Walls—or to run away from Northern Italia, without sailing on the lucid waters of Lago Maggiore, and exploring those island gems of beauty, which as if conjured up by the wand of enchantment, emerge from its surface.

An ever kind Glasgow friend of mine had resolved that I should not make this mistake, and therefore he considerately planned an excursion to Loch Lomond, which was to be made during the week of my last hurried stay at Langside. But every one said there was no use in going if the weather were wet, for that I should see nothing. The rain continued, more or less, daily; the wind was pronounced to be in the wrong quarter, and the Loch Lomond prospect began to look dark and dubious, as the week advanced rapidly. Indeed there were only two available days remaining; there seemed to probability of the weather clearing—what was to be done? The decision must, if possible, be made on the previous evening, because of divers arrangements, necessary to the journey—so, on a night as cold, grey and cloudy as you can well imagine, we appointed to start down the Clyde, on the following morning at seven. My faith in the weather was very weak; the caprices that it often plays with travellers in the mountainous regions are too well known to need enumerating. Many were the people I had met, in my travels, who had gone up Lock Lomond, down Loch Katrine, and thro' the Trossachs, without getting even a peep of "huge Ben Venue," or "Benledi's ridge in air," and from whose gaze Ben Lomond had determinately veiled his face in sullen mist—was I, on the morrow, to add to this discomforted race of travellers? I could scarcely believe it, malgre the darkenss of the night. The star of my horizon had ever shone brightly on my Lake adventures, and mountain climbings in other lands—surely, it would not be eclipsed now!

So, exploring the mental Calender I keep of the cloudless sunrise once seen from the top ofSnowdon, and the one as cloudless, beheld from the Right Calm—of the grand glorious times when I fraternized with the beauteous Jugfrau, and her snow-white companions—and our communion was never interrupted by a frown—of the sweet repose, luxuriated in at Chamouni, where, day after day, "the monarch of the mountains," (his diadem of snow tinged with roseate hue,) smiled upon me, all unclouded—of the comparing of journals with the travellers who, invariable, pronounced me a highly favor-

ed person. Thus wandered my mind, from point to point, from height to height, until Morpheus, in compassion, overtook it, and soothed it to rest, with visions of fair Ellen's Isle and Loch Katrine.

It was a dubious morning on which, at the early hour of seven, we embarked from the Broomielaw wharf, on board the steamer, that was to take us to Bowling Bay, en route for Loch Lomond. The Clyde, at this point, is not the river of romance, but of business. We first passed between an immense line of shipping, of every country, and description, and then came to large ship building yards and factories. A little farther, and the village of Govan, with its kirk came in view on the left—while opposite, my friend pointed out the spot where the Kelvin (memorable in song,) falls into the Clyde, the back ground of the picture is formed by Patrick Hill which, studied with villas, and ornamented with gardens and plantations, rises in the distance. The hum and din of the busy city are not no longer heard; the river is clearer; the sail more pleasant; the views finer; and soon we come to Renfrew, where we stop to take in passengers; we pass the river Cart, on the left, and Dalmuir on the right; reach Erskine Ferry, near which is Kilpatrick, and behind it the Hill of Dalnottar. The view which here opens before us, is uncommonly fine, as Erskine House, the seat of Lord Blantyre,) standing in the midst of magnificent grounds, that slope down to the water's edge, appears in sight.

Soon we come to the point, where the great Canal, from the Forth, joins the Clyde; and no we must disembark, for we have reached Bowling Bay—a favorite resort of many of the citizens of Glasgow—and the place whence the railway goes off to Loch Lomond. I do not know what the distance is from Bowling to Balloch; but the ride through the romantic vale of Leven, is very lovely, and soon all eyes are directed to the rock and Castle of Dumbarton, which rise abruptly to the height of 350 feet, just at the junction of the Leven, with the Clyde, on a small peninsula, formed by these two rivers. The aspect of the famous rock is very picturesque, as it is divided by a chasm, into two parts. I would feign have explored the old Castle, had time permitted. Who, that had read "the Scottish Chief's" does not desire to tarry at Dumbarton? I'm told that the highest point of the rock is yet Wallace`s Seat, and a sword that once belonged to the hero, is shown at the Castle. In the Summer of 1847, Queen Victoria and suite landed at Dumbarton, and received in the ancient fortress, an address, and deputation, from the Citizens of Glasgow. The panorama, from the summit of the rock, must be magnificent. Passing by the town of Dumbarton, we crossed the Leven. In this neighborhood, Dr. Tobias Smollett the great novelist, was born. The house, (an ancient mansion,) was taken down some years ago, which is to be regretted. James Smollett, of.

Bonhill, a descendant of the author, erected an obelisk to his memory in the village of Renton; but that, top,, is going to decay. Bleaching establishments abound in the vicinity of Bonhill, Renton, and Alexandria. It is said that in early times, the purity of Leven water attracted works of this kind to its banks. We now come in sight of Tillichewan Castle, the splendid mansion of Wm. Campbell, Esq., and other fine residences. The scenery here is charming and we use it to advantage, for we have quitted the railway carriage and have reached Balloch, at the floor of Loch Lomond; and soon we embark on the bosom of its smooth waters, and give ourselves up to the enjoyment of the scene.—Rich and fertile, in the extreme, but somewhat tame, is the opening view of the Loch. Gently sloping banks, thickly wooded, here form its margin, and three castles, are, together, visible. I was reminded of Lake Zurich; but in both cases, at the lower end of the Lake, though a lover of the beautiful might be satisfied, a seeker [illegible line] opens up before us, as we proceed and above Buttwich Castle, rises Mount Misery, near one thousand feet in height, precipitously, from the water's edge. We glide on, and soon we are in the midst of lovely islands, which are of every size, form, color, and variety, and rise, with most picturesque irregularity, from the pellucid Lake—ever and anon, shutting in the prospect. Inch Murrin is two miles long. Several more are large in size; others are very small, and look like emerald green spots, peeping out of the water. Some are richly wooded —others are bare rocks; some are grassy knolls—others are flat; some shoot up precipitously—others slope gently to the water's edge. Thus, of every varying form and outline that fancy can frame, these beauteous islands of Loch Lomond, arrest the admiring gaze of the traveller; and for loveliness, though not for extent; they might well challenge the celebrated islands of the glorious St. Lawrence. Our steamer steers between Inch Murrin and the right bank of the Lock. As it winds its way among the islets, a succession of the richest views open up; and now the dusky mountains begin to close in; vast and steep, and the landscape, on all sides, becomes magnificent. The Loch Lomond of my dreams lies before me. The hills are cleft by glens, which afford fine views of the country, and give egress to numerous mountain steams, that pay tribute to the Lake below. Just here, the Endrick, pours its waters forth, and Glen Finlass is pointed out on the opposite side. Out boat nears the shore to the land passengers at "Bealmala," a celebrated Highland Pass, mentioned in "The Lady of the Lake." This huge fissure, through the magnificent mountains presented to me a most tempting aspect, and though Scott says, that

"Steep and linty was the road."

I longed to climb it, for it would conduct me into the heart of the "MacGregor's country." It must have been beneath one of these huge rocks that a boat manned, "by four lusty Highland rowers," waited to conduct Frank Osbaldistone and Bailie Nichol Jarvie; to the landing place, "just where the Lake discharges its superfluous waters into the Leven;" and on one of these rocky eminences did ROB ROY stand, "conspicuous by his long gun, waving tartans, and the single plume in his cap, which in those days denoted the Highland gentleman and the soldier," watching the course of the retreating boat; while a Gaelic chant was sung by one of the rower, in "low irregular measure," rising occasionally into the wild chorus in which the others joined; the romantic Frank being soothed by the magnificent scenery with which he was surrounded; the matter-o-fact Bailie, mentally engaged in speculations, as to the possibility of draining the Lake, and "giving to plough and harrow many hundred, ay, many a thousand acres, form which no man could get earthly gude e'enow, unless it were a gedd, or a dish o' perch not and then!" But times are changed—and it may be that the Glasgow Bailies are somewhat changed also; at any rate the Bailie by my side is not engaged in any such utilitarian schemes, at present time, for he is pointing out each spot of especial beauty, and calling my attention to every point of interest. But our boat is moving rapidly onward; it has re-crossed the Lock to Luss, and we are on our way to Tarbet—the scenery becoming every minute more grand, as the Lake narrows and winds, more and more, and the now rugged mountains rise higher. The weather brightens—the blue sky appears—the sun shine—the mist is rolling rapidly away, and Benvoirlich stands before us without a cloud on his brow. But, where is he—the monarch of the mountain scene?—the "lofty Ben Lomond?" Impenetrable mist obscures the brightness of his face; clouds rest on his breast; and, although in true courtly state, his courier BENS around him stand in waiting, the monarch comes not forth. We have not their patience; we cannot wait as they do—so, off we go, and by no means discontented, for some of us have, more than once, seen his kingly, brow in the distance, when crowned with "a diadem of snow." So we must be satisfied with beholding about one thousand fee in height of him, now, as he rises, in mighty grandeur, from the margin of the beautiful Loch, which takes its name from the mountain. We pass "Rob Roy's Rock," and reach Tarbet, and celebrated place for the tourists to sojourn at, as it lies between Loch Lomond and Loch Long, and within reach of some of the finest scenery of the western Highlands. Here we left some passengers.

The scenery between Tarbet and Inversnaid is extremely grant. The wild hills of Arrochar and Buchanan rise, one behind the other, in full magnificence—the rugged peak of Benvoirlich, and other mountains look up before you—the fantastic pinnacles of the Cobbler are seen—and you pass near the colossal base of the lofty, and now frowning Ben Lomond.

"And this is the land where the clouds love to rest, Like the shroud of the dead, on the mountain's col breast. Where the cataract's road to the eagles reply And the lake her lone bosom expands to the sky."

As we are bound for Loch Katrine, and the Trossachs, we bid adieu to Loch Lomond at Inversnaid, a most romantic spot, celebrated by Wordsworth in one of his many poems, and memorable in the history of Rob Roy. We are soon seated in a drosky, and traversing the wild and desolate Glen Arklet, which we are told, is five mile in length, connecting Loch Lomond with Loch Katrine. The scenery here forms a most singular contrast to that we leave behind us.—for miles around, a wide expanse of rugged rock and heath is stretched out, and the road is extremely steep and precipitous—

"Far as the eye could reach, no tree was seen; Earth, clad in russet, scorn'd the lively green; No birds, except as birds of passage, flew; No life was heard to hum, no drove to coo; No streams, as amber smooth,—as amber clear, Were seen to glide, or heard to warble here."

Yes! there is one little attempt at a stream, the Arkill, and one or two little patches of green by its side, which are welcome in this dreary wilderness, as an oasis in the desert. We pass the ruins of an old fort, and are told it is Inversnaid Garrison, a stronghold, erected in 1713, to repress the inroads of Rob Roy. We are in the mountainous and desolate territory, once known as the MacGregor`s count[ry?], and now we see Loch Arklet, lying dark in a hollow, at the right overshadowed by mountains; our carriage jostles a litte longer over this rough, wild road—when, lo, "a change comes o'er the spirit of our dream," and Loch Katrine, beautiful Loch Katrine, fairy Loch Katrine, before us—

"In all her length far-winding lay With promontory, creek, and bay, And Islands tint, empurpled bright, Floated amid the livlier light; To sentinel enchanted land. High on the South, huge, Ben-venue Down on the lake in masses throw Crags, knolls, and mounds confusedly hurl'd, The fragments of an earlier world; A wildering forest feather o'er His ruin'd sides and summit hoar, While on the North, through middle air, Ben An heaved high his forehead bare."

Coulbarns is near the head of the Lake, and here we alight, to await the Rob Roy steamer, that is to carry us over the clear blue waters, to the Trossachs. No small boat is to be got, so we cannot row up to the head of the Loch, and