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in illustrations of Irish destitution. They crowd around the hotels, and besiege the landings. The heart grows sad and heavy to see so much of the same wretchedness. Would to God that some relief could be discerned for Ireland! England will only learn how to treat her, when she finds the green isle depopulated by emigration.
Scotch Scenery and Genins.
"Rear high thy bleak majestic hills,
Thy sheltered valleys proudly spread,
And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills,
And wave thy heaths with blossoms red."
WOW different is Scotland in its social appearance from impoverished Ireland! We hear the same peculiar intonations of voice, called the brogue, and this, with the peat beds, is about all that resembles Ireland. You may remember, however, that the north of Ireland was originally settled by the Scotch. This will account for the similarity of brogue.
We left Belfast at sundown, and arrived at Ayr, not very far from the mouth of bonnie Doon, by sunrise. Here, where Burns used to walk and sing, we met the first genuine Scotchmen on their native heaths, and heard the musical cadences of
"That tongue which Godlike heroes spoke,
The tongue which spurned the Roman yoke,
But since we landed at Ayr, we have heard it in the Highlands, where Sandy spoke the unquestioned Gaelic drawn from an undefiled well, and where scawns and oaten-meal cakes were eaten, and the descendants of the clans prided themselves upon their brave ancestry.
Our ride to Glasgow by rail from Ayr upon a rainy morning, was without incident. The great commercial metropolis of Scot
land, I had almost said of Great Britain, for it is the third city of the realm, has a noble history, as well as numerous points of local interest. The reader of Scotch history and literature will need no refreshing, as to the scenes here enacted, when the Covenant was a matter of life and death; or when Bailie Nichol Jarvie here lived and gossipped. The Clyde has formed many associations with the minds of the gifted in its ebbing and flowing; and none stronger than that with the poet Campbell, who was born at Glasgow; and who, after a long absence from his native stream and city, found the nineteenth century at work, with its coal and iron elements, destroying much of the poetry of the spot. He found it improved as we in America would say; and lamented in verse,
"That it no more through pastoral scenes should glide,
On going up the Clyde, we found it full of craft. ers were plying up and down its muddy waters. of workmen were repairing and building other iron steamers. The clink of hammers resounded on every side. Energy never lags or slackens here. No wonder, with such calls as the world makes for Scotch iron and Scotch machinery.
Material prosperity walks abreast with charity and education in Glasgow. You may see this, without examining statistics, in the bright benevolent faces which pass you on the pave. My time will not permit me to speak of the monuments, edifices and institutions of this city. I would love to do so, for there is a close similitude between the American and Scotch character in all its developments, which is worthy of a Plutarch's parallel. The 'perfervidum ingenium Scotorum" or, as the French term it, “Fier comme Ecossais," by which they manage to accumulate— to "get along" in the world, is so peculiarly Yankee, as to have attracted the attention of writers and travellers very frequently, There is no stupidity or slowness in a Scotchman's look or movement.
Besides, the Scotch have the logic-the intellect of
Great Britain, that is, the superior mind, the commanding mind of the island. Edinburgh has ruled for a half century from her throne of rocks, the realms of politics, taste, and philosophy, with a potency that Bonaparte feared, even though it was exercised by 'paper pellets of the brain.' And does she not deserve the epithet of modern Athens? Is she not the "eye of Great Britain? Was it not by a son of Caledonia, that the, great, vital and universal principles of political economy received enunciation, an enunciation which time has not betteredonly confirmed? Is this not the home of Hume, Browne, Stuart, Scott, and Chalmers? But why dwell on these elements of greatness.
Farewell to the sooty exhalations of Glasgow-the mud boats of the Clyde-the monuments of Scott and Sir John Moore, and the Necropolis. Ho! for the Highlands! where the air of romance weaves its spell of enchantment, where nature paints the heather and makes musical the rill, where the Lochs reflect the Bens, and the old bare-headed Bens are peopled with cloud shadows and clouds themselves; where the clansmen once fought in the close defiles, and the misty heroes of Ossian came and went like the unresting shadows which lie 'in bright uncertainty,' upon the moving lake.
How had I longed to see Lomond and Katrine, with their isles and glens, their mountains and moors! Leaving Glasgow in the steamer in the afternoon, we reach Dumbarton, whose rock at the junction of the Leven and Clyde rises to the height of nearly 600 feet, measuring a mile in circumference at its base, terminating in two sharp points, studded with houses and battlements. Here, in one of the towers of Wallace's seat was the prison of that warrior, after his base betrayal by Sir John Monteith. A goodly number of heroic adventures, among which is the taking of the castle at its most formidable point, are connected with Dumbarton. A Captain Crawford, during one of those relentless wars which desolated Scotland in Queen Mary's time, contrived by scaling ladders to reach the summit
of the crags; and was proceeding with the men to enter the battlements, when one of them, while climbing, was struck with apoplexy, probably induced by excessive terror. He could neither go up nor down. To have slain him would have been cruel; besides, his fall would have created alarm. What was to be done? Invincible to the last, Crawford tied him to the ladder, then turned it over, and with his men gained the summit, by mounting the other side from that to which the apoplectic soldier was tied, slew the sentinel, and accomplished one of the most daring feats ever achieved, even in this wild Scottish warfare.
The town of Dumbarton has nothing in itself worthy of notice. The old ruin upon the opposite side of the Clyde is the Castle of Cardross, where Robert Bruce (whose crown we saw to-day in the Castle of Edinburgh) breathed his last. But if we should undertake to tell of all the renowned castles and battlefields we have seen, during the last few days, a volume would be necessary to contain them.
Let us at once take cars, and hurry up to Balloch, where the little steamer is awaiting us. The rain will hardly permit us five minutes at a time upon the deck. Clouds, dark and lowering, roll over the highlands, and are succeeded by sunshine. Rainbows and mountain-tops, the purple heather of the isles and hills, the baldness of old Ben Lomond, his head silvered with a cloud, sunlit and beautiful,-the darkish waters of the lake, vexed and whitened,-together with an original, sui generis wildness, that only belongs to Scottish scenery,-made up a view, our admiration for which could not be dampened by any rain nor enlivened by any sunshine.
The lake is full of green, rocky isles. Indeed, Lomond signifies "many-isled." As we approach our destination, Invernsnaid, the loch grows more narrow, until it seems lost among mountains of mist. While going along, gazing upon islet and shore, ever and anon turning to see the reverend form of Ben Lomond, we should not forget that the fierce clan of the Mac Gregors were once here, in their pride and power; that it was