“Proudly our pibroch, has thrilled
in Glen Fruin,
And Banmachar’s groans
to our slogan replied;
Glen Luss and Ross Dhu, they are smoking
in ruins,
And the best of Loch Lomond
lies dead on her side.”
To be sure the fires of iron founderies are much less
picturesque than the old beacons, and the clink of
hammers than the clash of claymores; but the most
devout worshipper of the middle ages would hardly wish
to change them.
Dimly, by the flickering light of these furnaces,
we see the approach to the old city of Glasgow.
There, we are arrived! Friends are waiting in
the station house. Earnest, eager, friendly faces,
ever so many. Warm greetings, kindly words.
A crowd parting in the middle, through which we were
conducted into a carriage, and loud cheers of welcome,
sent a throb, as the voice of living Scotland.
I looked out of the carriage, as we drove on, and
saw, by the light of a lantern, Argyle Street.
It was past twelve o’clock when I found myself
in a warm, cozy parlor, with friends, whom I have ever
since been glad to remember. In a little time
we were all safely housed in our hospitable apartments,
and sleep fell on me for the first time in Scotland.
DEAR AUNT E.:—
The next morning I awoke worn and weary, and scarce
could the charms of the social Scotch breakfast restore
me. I say Scotch, for we had many viands peculiarly
national. The smoking porridge, or parritch, of
oatmeal, which is the great staple dish throughout
Scotland. Then there was the bannock, a thin,
wafer-like cake of the same material. My friend
laughingly said when he passed it, “You are in
the ‘land o’ cakes,’ remember.”
There was also some herring, as nice a Scottish fish
as ever wore scales, besides dainties innumerable
which were not national.
Our friend and host was Mr. Baillie Paton. I
believe that it is to his suggestion in a public meeting,
that we owe the invitation which brought us to Scotland.
By the by, I should say that “baillie”
seems to correspond to what we call a member of the
city council. Mr. Paton told us, that they had
expected us earlier, and that the day before quite
a party of friends met at his house to see us, among
whom was good old Dr. Wardlaw.
After breakfast the calling began. First, a friend
of the family, with three beautiful children, the
youngest of whom was the bearer of a handsomely bound
album, containing a pressed collection of the sea
mosses of the Scottish coast, very vivid and beautiful.
If the bloom of English children appeared to me wonderful,
I seemed to find the same thing intensified, if possible,
in Scotland. The children are brilliant as pomegranate
blossoms, and their vivid beauty called forth unceasing
admiration. Nor is it merely the children of the
rich, or of the higher classes, that are thus gifted.
I have seen many a group of ragged urchins in the
streets and closes with all the high coloring of Rubens,
and all his fulness of outline. Why is it that
we admire ragged children on canvas so much more than
the same in nature?
