live? I know it is in Wales, but is it in such a situation as a poetess would choose, and as such a poetess has a right to claim? I never see a rich sequestered scene, smiling in sunshine and autumnal luxuriance, without thinking of her. It is over such scenes that her mind knows how to throw a hallowed beauty and a cloudless light, that reminds you of the clear delicious tints of a Poussin or a Claude.

But we have already left Dunglass far behind. We are now passing by Erskine House, or rather Erskine Parks-the seat of Lord Blantyre; and a noble seat it is, as far, at least, as the grounds are concerned. The house is old-fashioned, and destitute of architectural ornaments. But I do not like it the worse. It has a simple and venerable air. His Lordship, however, is about to pull it down, for he is building a new and more splendid edifice. A Scottish nobleman could not possess a nobler situation for a magnificent mansion.

Turn again to the right. You have heard of Dumbarton rock and castle; they are there before you. Whence came this immense mass, you inquire, isolated as it is, and unconnected with any neighbouring mountain? The question is more easily asked than answered. An effect is often apparent, though the cause be concealed. Neither Hutton nor Werner can explain the mystery. They know no more of the matter than the humblest fisherman. The rock is there, and there it hath stood for ages. Look beyond it, over the town of Dumbarton, and across the rich country that intervenes, and your eye will rest upon a still nobler object, a still more magnificent production of Nature,-Benlomond, "giant of the Northern land," looking, if not over "half the world," at least over more than half of Scotland. How sublimely does it rise into the "second heavens!" hiding its haughty head, not, in the figurative signification of poetry, but literally and truly, among the clouds of the air, as often, at all events, as the air contains clouds, which, in this region, is at least during ten months of the year. Far below, but invisible from our present situation, lies the prince of Caledonian lakes, a glorious sheet

of water, larger than all the ponds of Cumberland and Westmoreland put together. Nor let me forget the "crystal Leven," which, flowing from the south-west end of Loch Lomond, falls into the Clyde, after a short but beautiful course of a little more than six miles. It is a stream unequalled for the pure transparency of its waves, and the romantic loveliness of its banks. It is worthy of the immortality which Smollet has given it.

We

Hitherto we have been sailing within a narrow channel, and the banks have been marked with the characteristics of inland and fresh water rivers. But we are now entering upon a broader expanse. The banks are changed into shores, and their minuter charms are scen indistinctly in the distance. As if to compensate, however, for this loss, the features of the scenery become at once bolder and more decided. can hardly talk any longer of their beauty, we must speak now of their grandeur and sublimity. How noble the prospect which opens upon you! The river itself is glittering in the sunshine like a plain of liquid silver. On either side appear towns, villages, and hamlets; and behind those, on the right, are seen the wild and irregular mountains of Argyleshire, bare and barren, but, in the clear atmosphere of summer, rising with an imposing solemnity and majestic stillness into the calm blue air. Yonder is Roseneath, a beautiful wooded peninsula, where the Duke of Argyle has left, in an unfinished condition, the finest model of a nobleman's country residence which Scotland at this instant possesses. By the way, talking of Roseneath, I cannot help adverting to the very imperfect knowledge of its localities shown by the author of "Waverley," in the last volume of the "Heart of Mid-Lothian." He talks of it again and again as an island,-describes views to be had from it which even an Argus could never have discovered,-and, above all, displays a total ignorance of the breadth and general appearance of the lochs by which it is cut off from the main land on the east and west. The reader feels disappointed when he makes this discovery; his confidence in his author's accuracy is shaken; and he conse

quently peruses with less pleasure any descriptions of scenery with which he may subsequently meet. We have not yet come in sight of the ocean, for even after it has increased to its greatest breadth, the Clyde still retains its love of abrupt turnings and windings; so that, to the eye of a stranger, it frequently appears land-locked; and it is not till he has followed its meanderings more than once that he is able to distinguish its course from a distance. But we have passed Port-Glasgow, with its. hanging steeple,-and Greenock, with its stately Custom-House,-and Gourock, that most celebrated of watering-places, and Dunoon, with its little Gothic church and fine romantic site, and we are bearing rapidly down on the Cloch Light-house. Now at length the far-off Atlantic appears in view. Where have you seen a noble river mingling more beautifully with the sea? The frith is studded with islands, and all of them remarkable for some characteristic attraction. In the foreground are the two Cumbrays placed, as if to shelter the calm bay of Largs, and offering no little temptation to the antiquary in the shape of an ancient cathedral, now in ruins-dedicated to Saint Columba. Further off is Bute, the most level island, perhaps, in the Scottish seas, but rich and fertile, and proud of its romantic kyles, and little sunny creeks. On the south-west lies Inchmarnock, as fair an inch as eye can rest on, with its strata of coral and shells and its old chapel, long since deserted by its patron saint. At a still greater distance rise the mountains of Arran,— stern, rugged, and vast. It is there that tradition preserves the memory of Fingal, and there "The Lay of the Last Minstrel" places before us "the Bruce of Bannockburn."

Such are the scenes which the Clyde presents; and having spoken thus liberally and impartially of their charms, we may be allowed, perhaps, without incurring the charge of injustice, to say a few words upon a somewhat different view of the subject. The great want which a stranger must always feel (at least if he has any pretensions to the name of scholar) in visiting this favourite district of Scotland, must ever be the

almost total absence of any thing like classical associations. On the contrary, the inhabitants of the banks of the Clyde are, and, as far as I can learn, have always been, the most vulgarly mercantile, and consequently the most doggedly unpoetical, on this side of the Tweed. I have somewhere or other read the following epigram on good music, but bad dancers :

"How ill the music with the dancers suits!

So Orpheus fiddled, and so danced the brutes."

The same "satirical rogue" might have made a somewhat similar remark upon the difference which exists here between the scenes of external Nature, and the human beings upon whom she has so lavishly bestowed her bounties. There is a common, though rather vulgar remark, that "God made meat, but the Devil made cooks." In like manner, there can be little doubt but that those eternal waters and mountains are the works of Omnipotent goodness; yet, far be it from me to insinuate that the bestial capacities, intent only upon a little paltry gain or sensual indulgence, and incapable of inhaling one draught of inspiration or lofty enthusiasm from scenes so varied and so wild, are of an origin in any degree less honourable than that which belongs to the rest of mankind.

Yet, who must not regret the withering and debasing influence of avaricious commerce, when he reflects on what was done in Greece and Italy, where every river, and fountain, and valley, and green hill, was rendered immortal? Alas! where shall we find a Parnassus in Scotland? Where shall we meet with a Hippocrene, though we travel for the purpose from Jedburgh to Dunnet-Head? The vast hordes who, issuing in swarms from the cottonmills and weavers' shops in Glasgow or Paisley, annually overrun the shores and islands of the Clyde, are but sorry substitutes for a Corinthian, Theban, or Athenian population. It will be long before we find among them either an Epaminondas, a Pindar, or a Demosthenes,-a Homer, a Xenophon, or a Euripides. The

heroes of the "Salt-Market," "Trongate,” and “ Guse-Dubs," were unfortunately never intended either for historians, poets, or orators. They float down the river wholesale, by thousands and tens of thousands; they laugh, they talk, and look about them; they eat, drink, and sleep; and having, to use their own peculiarly elegant phrase," washed their feet in the salt water" for a couple of months or so, they float up again, and return once more to their wellloved cotton-mills, or loom-encumbered shops.

You may perhaps find a few sentimental Cockneys, or maudlin inditers of weak rhyme, who would have you believe that there is something beautiful in a sight like this. They preach to you, in a sickening cant, of the pleasure communicated to a benevolent mind by witnessing the happiness of others; and, indulging in a few "wise saws and modern instances, they will tell you that the common earth, the air, the skies," are as much the birth right of the poorest and most ignorent mechanic, as of the proudest philosopher or wildest admirer of Nature. Who doubts it? But there is a time and place for all things. The most accommodating temper that ever existed, if combined with one single spark of poetic fire, would hardly choose to climb Olympus in the company of a stocking-manufactnrer, and would not think the more of the vale of Tempe, if he found a Bailie Nicol Jarvie, or a Gilbert Duffle, " washing his feet" in the Peneus. So it is with the scenery of the Clyde.

"The crew of patches,-low mechani

cals,

Who work for bread upon Athenian stalls,"

with whom we cannot fail to associate it, rob it of half its charms. When we visit the country, it is not with the expectation of finding ourselves among a swarm of tradesmen, gaping and staring in every direction, and drinking in the fresh air like so many fish. We look, on the contrary, for repose and solitude. In our wanderings by the shore, or on the brow of the mountain, we hope to be left to the undisturbed enjoyment

of our own silent thoughts. We have some notion that we shall be allowed to listen in quiet to the song of the bird, and the gurgling of the stream. We fondly imagine that we are to get quit of the bustle and noise of a town. Tradesmen, we are inclined to say to ourselves, of whatsoever description they be, are all very proper and very necessary in their way, but there is no occasion that they should cross our path at every turn. If they must indeed leave the city, and convert the once simple and unsophisticated villages of these Western shores,-Ellensburgh, Dunoon, Rothsay, Largs, and Gourock, into the very Paestums, Brundusiums, and Baiaes of Scotland, do not baulk their inclination, but nevertheless allow us to hint to them, that they are out of their place.

Let me not, however, be mistaken. Think not, I beseech you, that I am indifferent to the happiness of the lower classes. "Although I say it who should not say it," few are more of a philanthropist in that respect than I am. But then I like to see them happy in their own sphere. I have no objection to meet them, on a fine Sunday, wandering over the Calton Hill or Arthur Seat. I not unfrequently take my station in the High-Street on a Saturday night, and enjoy most heartily the gay, lively, busy, bustling, moving, living scene, which thenpresents itself. The gas-lamps burn brightly, the shopwindows pour forth floods of splendour, the active population flows up and down in streams; then the loud laugh, the ear, if not the "spiritstirring" melody of the itinerant mulusty bawling of the herring-women sicians, the greeting of friends, the and potatoe-boys, the eloquence of the wooden-legged orators with their "easy-priced" pamphlets, the ringing of St. Giles's merry-bells, the simultaneous striking of twenty church clocks, the drums and bugles from the Castle, all come hurrying in upon the ear in a thousand notes of mingled meaning.

But these are sights and sounds to be enjoyed only upon a winter night. It must surely be allowed, that, during the bright days of summer, and in a region which might be made the very home of romance and poetry,

they are woefully misplaced. Yet so it is; and so it will be for ever. We may look upon the beauties of the Clyde with delight, but we cannot help thinking with a sigh, that here too, as in modern Greece,

"All, save the spirit of man, is divine."

In the meantime, however, seeing that these more splenetic and sombre reflections can do no good, let me conclude my wandering lucubrations with a simple, and, I hope, edifying story of true love," illustrative of the tumult which may exist in a Glasgow vestal's veins, as well as in those of Pope's Eloise.

air.

Jacob Sanderson was a manufacturer of buttons. His name, I believe, may still be seen in the Trongate. It is in large gilt letters, and has a very imposing and dignified Why not? Has not Mr Sanderson a seat in the Town Council, and a country-house on the Sauhyhaugh Road? Neither has Mr Sauderson's good fortune stopped here; for it has pleased Heaven to bestow upon him a wife and an only child. Of his cara sposa I need say nothing. She is the button-maker's better half, and all that such a half should be. Miss Arabella, or, as her friends venture to call her, Miss Bella, demands a greater share of our polite attention. She is decidedly the pret tiest girl north of the Clyde. She wears a lilac-coloured pelisse, trimmed with Brussel's lace; and her bonnet is of flowered white-satin, ornamented with a wreath of roses. She has a perpetual ticket to the Botanical Garden; and instances are on record of students looking at her, when they should have been looking at Professor Hooker's new classification of mosses. On one occasion, (I think on Saint Valentine's day,) a young Irishman carried his audacity so far as to present her with a nose gay, which it had cost him some pains to collect. Unfortunately, among the other flowers, there was one which held rather a prominent place, and which the lady, ignorant of the name by which Linnæus had distinguished it, knew only by the appellation of "Bachelor's Buttons." The insult was too gross to pass unnoticed. The unhappy Irishman was discarded for ever.

But there were other young men in the world who knew how to pay the lovely Arabella less dubious compliment. Mr Samuel Dempster was neither a student nor an Irishman; he held Latin and Greek in supreme contempt; and as for Logic and Metaphysics, he did not understand the meaning of the terms. But Mr Samuel Dempster kept a very respectable haberdasher's shop,—was in a snug, money-making way,—and, on Sunday, looked amazingly genteel in his blue coat, nankeen trowsers, high-polished boots, and new white hat. Samuel had been long a faithful admirer of Miss Sanderson, and, bating one or two little quarrels on the score of mutual jealousy, they had been, upon the whole, remarkably constant and exemplary in their mu tual love. This love was founded, as my readers will be happy to learn, on the surest of all bases-a similarity of mind, and a congeniality of sentiment. They were both decidedly of opinion, that the Green of Glasgow was a walk fit only for the vulgar, and they deeply regretted, therefore, that Nelson's Monument had been placed in so improper a situation. They both concurred in admiring the statue of Sir John Moore, recently erected in George's Square, and believed it surpassed only by one other in Europe-the equestrian statue, namely, of King William, opposite the Tontine. They both approved of the conduct of the Presbytery, in refusing to sanction Dr Macfarlane's appointment; and they both agreed, that a drive in a gig was pleasanter than a sail in a steam-boat. With souls thus harmoniously attuned, who can wonder at the loves of Samuel and Arabella? With regard to the former, indeed, his passion was like to run away with his reason altogether. people even who frequented his shop began to suspect there was something the matter with him, for the aberrations of his mind were often too apparent. There is not a case in all the annals of history where Cupid exercised a similar influence over the heart of a haberdasher. In love!No; the phrase is cold and unmeaning. He was in flames,-he was in a lime-kiln, he was in a Newcastle colliery, he was in the boiler of a

The

steam-engine, he was in the crater of a volcano,-what would you have me say? he was in Tophet.

It was just about this period that Mr Sanderson's intention of going to the sea-bathing for two or three of the summer months was made public. Rothsay and Largs he pronounced too far off; Dunoon he was afraid he would find dull, and the contest therefore lay betwixt Ellensburgh and Gourock. Miss Arabella was decidedly in favour of Ellensburgh. Nobody, who had the least pretensions to gentility, ever thought of going to Gourock; how then could the daughter of a button-maker-of one who would in all probability find himself a Bailie at the next election, forget so entirely what was due to her character? Such were Miss Sanderson's very excellent arguments; but, alas!" dura necessitas" ren dered them abortive. Ellensburgh was already as full as it could hold, (and a good deal fuller,) so that Gourock was the only remaining alternative, and in Gourock the family settled.

They had hardly been here a week when the ferry-boat from Kilmun landed on the pier a Highland laird. He had come across for the very purpose of seeing them, for Mrs Sanderson and he happened to be first and second cousins. When I say that he was a Highland laird, I mean that he had a house of two stories, consisting, I think, of five rooms and a kitchen, besides garrets, that he rented from the Duke some half dozen of the Argyleshire hills, and that he was the undoubted and sole proprietor of nearly four hun dred sheep, (all black-faced,) and of more than five-score head of horned cattle.

That he was a man of considerable consequence and authority cannot, of course, for a moment be doubted. I may only add, that he was sufficiently civilized to wear breeches, and that though he still kept his tobacco in a speuchan, and his snuff in a mull, he carried neither a dirk nor a pouch. Erring Lowlanders called him Macalpin; his own Gaels knew him by some far different appellation.

Unluckily for the attentive reader, who cannot fail to be interested in a tale like this, my limits do not ad

VOL. XV.

mit of much amplification. If time and space were allowed me, I could have traced the workings of the Highlander's mind through a thousand varied emotions; but under the circumstances in which I at present write, I can only say, that he saw his cousin, Mrs Sanderson, and fell in love (for the first time in his life) with her daughter Arabella. Both father and mother watched the progress of his passion with delight. They had, it is true, long been aware of Mr Samuel Dempster's attentions in a certain quarter; but, then, what was Mr Samuel Dempster when weighed in the balance with a Highland laird, at the head of whose genealogical tree was the name of Galgacus, the General of the Caledonians in the time of Agricola, and who now, out of complaisance for the usages of modern innovators, condescended to write himself Esquire; making it, at the same time, pretty well known that he was in the annual receipt of two hundred and fifty pounds Sterling?

Notwithstanding all these temptations, however, Miss Arabella herself took rather a different view of the subject. It occurred to her, that Macalpin was a man as near fifty as forty,-that the colour of his hair was not even an equivoque between red and auburn,-and that his nose, as if emulous of the distinction claimed by his hair, had a raw and fiery look, which told of smuggled whisky and deep carousals. Her resolution, therefore, was taken, and she heroically determined to die a maid rather than forsake Mr Dempster. While affairs were at this crisis, our friend the haberdasher, unable to bear any longer the pangs of separation from the best-beloved of his heart, stepped on board the Oscar steam-boat one fine Saturday forenoon, and was at Gourock by dinner-time. I think it right to mention, that he wore his white hat, and that he had emptied the contents of a small vial of lavender-water on his very showy silkhandkerchief. I have been given to understand, too, that he had added an additional seal to the blue riband attached to his watch, and that he sported a carnelian brooch in his breast-ruffles. These are facts, however, for the truth of which I cannot pledge myself.

S