Recollections of a Tour Made in Scotland A.D. 1803
by Dorothy Wordsworth
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What though the Granite would deny All fervour to the sightless eye; And touch from rising suns in vain Solicit a Memnonian strain; Yet, in some fit of anger sharp, The wind might force the deep-grooved harp To utter melancholy moans Not unconnected with the tones Of soul-sick flesh and weary bones; While grove and river notes would lend, Less deeply sad, with these to blend!

Vain pleasures of luxurious life, For ever with yourselves at strife; Through town and country both deranged By affectations interchanged, And all the perishable gauds That heaven-deserted man applauds; When will your hapless patrons learn To watch and ponder—to discern The freshness, the everlasting youth, Of admiration sprung from truth; From beauty infinitely growing Upon a mind with love o'erflowing— To sound the depths of every Art That seeks its wisdom through the heart?

Thus (where the intrusive Pile, ill-graced With baubles of theatric taste, O'erlooks the torrent breathing showers On motley bands of alien flowers In stiff confusion set or sown, Till Nature cannot find her own, Or keep a remnant of the sod Which Caledonian Heroes trod) I mused; and, thirsting for redress, Recoiled into the wilderness.


'Three or four times the size of Bowder Stone.'—PAGE 225.

From the Tour in Scotland, 1814:—'The account of the Brownie's Cell and the Ruins was given me by a man we met with on the banks of Loch Lomond, a little above Tarbet, and in front of a huge mass of rock, by the side of which we were told preachings were often held in the open air. The place is quite a solitude, and the surrounding scenery quite striking.'




To barren heath, bleak moor, and quaking fen, Or depth of labyrinthine glen; Or into trackless forest set With trees, whose lofty umbrage met; World-wearied Men withdrew of yore; (Penance their trust, and prayer their store;) And in the wilderness were bound To such apartments as they found; Or with a new ambition raised; That God might suitably be praised.


High lodged the Warrior, like a bird of prey; Or where broad waters round him lay: But this wild Ruin is no ghost Of his devices—buried, lost! Within this little lonely isle There stood a consecrated Pile; Where tapers burned, and mass was sung, For them whose timid Spirits clung To mortal succour, though the tomb Had fixed, for ever fixed, their doom!


Upon those servants of another world, When madding Power her bolts had hurled, Their habitation shook;—it fell, And perished, save one narrow cell; Whither at length, a Wretch retired Who neither grovelled nor aspired: He, struggling in the net of pride, The future scorned, the past defied; Still tempering, from the unguilty forge Of vain conceit, an iron scourge!


Proud Remnant was he of a fearless Race, Who stood and flourished face to face With their perennial hills;—but Crime, Hastening the stern decrees of Time, Brought low a Power, which from its home Burst, when repose grew wearisome; And, taking impulse from the sword, And, mocking its own plighted word, Had found, in ravage widely dealt, Its warfare's bourn, its travel's belt!


All, all were dispossessed, save him whose smile Shot lightning through this lonely Isle! No right had he but what he made To this small spot, his leafy shade; But the ground lay within that ring To which he only dared to cling; Renouncing here, as worse than dead, The craven few who bowed the head Beneath the change; who heard a claim How loud! yet lived in peace with shame.


From year to year this shaggy Mortal went (So seemed it) down a strange descent: Till they, who saw his outward frame, Fixed on him an unhallowed name; Him, free from all malicious taint, And guiding, like the Patmos Saint, A pen unwearied—to indite, In his lone Isle, the dreams of night; Impassioned dreams, that strove to span The faded glories of his Clan!


Suns that through blood their western harbour sought, And stars that in their courses fought; Towers rent, winds combating with woods, Lands deluged by unbridled floods; And beast and bird that from the spell Of sleep took import terrible;— These types mysterious (if the show Of battle and the routed foe Had failed) would furnish an array Of matter for the dawning day!


How disappeared He?—ask the newt and toad, Inheritors of his abode; The otter crouching undisturbed, In her dark cleft;—but be thou curbed, O froward Fancy! 'mid a scene Of aspect winning and serene; For those offensive creatures shun The inquisition of the sun! And in this region flowers delight, And all is lovely to the sight.


Spring finds not here a melancholy breast, When she applies her annual test To dead and living; when her breath Quickens, as now, the withered heath;— Nor flaunting Summer—when he throws His soul into the briar-rose; Or calls the lily from her sleep Prolonged beneath the bordering deep; Nor Autumn, when the viewless wren Is warbling near the BROWNIE'S Den.


Wild Relique! beauteous as the chosen spot In Nysa's isle, the embellished grot; Whither, by care of Libyan Jove, (High Servant of paternal Love) Young Bacchus was conveyed—to lie Safe from his step-dame Rhea's eye; Where bud, and bloom, and fruitage, glowed, Close-crowding round the infant god; All colours,—and the liveliest streak A foil to his celestial cheek!


'The bonny Holms of Yarrow.'—PAGE 254.

In the Tour in Scotland, 1814, the Poet writes:—'I seldom read or think of this Poem without regretting that my dear sister was not of the party, as she would have had so much delight in recalling the time when travelling together in Scotland we declined going in search of this celebrated stream.'


And is this—Yarrow?—This the Stream Of which my fancy cherished, So faithfully, a waking dream? An image that hath perished! O that some Minstrel's harp were near, To utter notes of gladness, And chase this silence from the air, That fills my heart with sadness!

Yet why?—a silvery current flows With uncontrolled meanderings; Nor have these eyes by greener hills Been soothed, in all my wanderings. And, through her depths, St. Mary's Lake Is visibly delighted; For not a feature of those hills Is in the mirror slighted.

A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, Save where that pearly whiteness Is round the rising sun diffused A tender hazy brightness; Mild dawn of promise! that excludes All profitless dejection; Though not unwilling here to admit A pensive recollection.

Where was it that the famous Flower Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding? His bed perchance was yon smooth mound On which the herd is feeding: And haply from this crystal pool, Now peaceful as the morning, The Water-wraith ascended thrice— And gave his doleful warning.

Delicious is the Lay that sings The haunts of happy Lovers, The path that leads them to the grove, The leafy grove that covers: And Pity sanctifies the Verse That paints, by strength of sorrow, The unconquerable strength of love; Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!

But thou, that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation: Meek loveliness is round thee spread, A softness still and holy; The grace of forest charms decayed, And pastoral melancholy.

That region left, the vale unfolds Rich groves of lofty stature, With Yarrow winding through the pomp Of cultivated nature; And, rising from those lofty groves, Behold a Ruin hoary! The shattered front of Newark's Towers, Renowned in Border story.

Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, For sportive youth to stray in; For manhood to enjoy his strength; And age to wear away in! Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, A covert for protection Of tender thoughts, that nestle there— The brood of chaste affection.

How sweet, on this autumnal day, The wild-wood fruits to gather, And on my True-love's forehead plant A crest of blooming heather! And what if I enwreathed my own! 'Twere no offence to reason; The sober Hills thus deck their brows To meet the wintry season.

I see—but not by sight alone, Loved Yarrow, have I won thee; A ray of fancy still survives— Her sunshine plays upon thee! Thy ever-youthful waters keep A course of lively pleasure; And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, Accordant to the measure.

The vapours linger round the Heights, They melt, and soon must vanish; One hour is theirs, nor more is mine— Sad thoughts, which I would banish, But that I know, where'er I go, Thy genuine image, Yarrow! Will dwell with me—to heighten joy, And cheer my mind in sorrow.

It may interest many to read Wordsworth's own comment on the two following poems. 'On Tuesday morning,' he says, 'Sir Walter Scott accompanied us and most of the party to Newark Castle, on the Yarrow. When we alighted from the carriages he walked pretty stoutly, and had great pleasure in revisiting there his favourite haunts. Of that excursion the verses "Yarrow Revisited" are a memorial. Notwithstanding the romance that pervades Sir Walter's works, and attaches to many of his habits, there is too much pressure of fact for these verses to harmonize, as much as I could wish, with the two preceding poems. On our return in the afternoon, we had to cross the Tweed, directly opposite Abbotsford. The wheels of our carriage grated upon the pebbles in the bed of the stream, that there flows somewhat rapidly. A rich but sad light, of rather a purple than a golden hue, was spread over the Eildon Hills at that moment; and thinking it probable that it might be the last time Sir Walter would cross the stream, I was not a little moved, and expressed some of my feelings in the sonnet beginning

"A trouble not of clouds," etc.

At noon on Thursday we left Abbotsford, and on the morning of that day Sir Walter and I had a serious conversation, tete-a-tete, when he spoke with gratitude of the happy life which, upon the whole, he had led.

* * * * *

'In this interview also it was, that, upon my expressing a hope of his health being benefited by the climate of the country to which he was going, and by the interest he would take in the classic remembrances of Italy, he made use of the quotation from "Yarrow Unvisited," as recorded by me in the "Musings near Aquapendente," six years afterwards. . . . Both the "Yarrow Revisited" and the "Sonnet" were sent him before his departure from England.'


The gallant Youth, who may have gained, Or seeks, a 'winsome Marrow,' Was but an Infant in the lap When first I looked on Yarrow; Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate Long left without a warder, I stood, looked, listened, and with Thee, Great Minstrel of the Border!

Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day, Their dignity installing In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves Were on the bough, or falling; But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed— The forest to embolden; Reddened the fiery hues, and shot Transparence through the golden.

For busy thoughts the Stream flowed on In foamy agitation; And slept in many a crystal pool For quiet contemplation: No public and no private care The freeborn mind enthralling, We made a day of happy hours, Our happy days recalling.

Brisk Youth appeared, the Morn of youth, With freaks of graceful folly,— Life's temperate Noon, her sober Eve, Her Night not melancholy; Past, present, future, all appeared In harmony united, Like guests that meet, and some from far, By cordial love invited.

And if, as Yarrow, through the woods And down the meadow ranging, Did meet us with unaltered face, Though we were changed and changing; If, then, some natural shadows spread, Our inward prospect over, The soul's deep valley was not slow Its brightness to recover.

Eternal blessings on the Muse, And her divine employment! The blameless Muse, who trains her Sons For hope and calm enjoyment; Albeit sickness, lingering yet, Has o'er their pillow brooded; And Care waylays their steps—a Sprite Not easily eluded.

For thee, O SCOTT! compelled to change Green Eildon-hill and Cheviot For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes; And leave thy Tweed and Teviot For mild Sorento's breezy waves; May classic Fancy, linking With native Fancy her fresh aid, Preserve thy heart from sinking!

O! while they minister to thee, Each vying with the other, May Health return to mellow Age, With Strength, her venturous brother; And Tiber, and each brook and rill Renowned in song and story, With unimagined beauty shine, Nor lose one ray of glory!

For Thou, upon a hundred streams, By tales of love and sorrow, Of faithful love, undaunted truth Hast shed the power of Yarrow; And streams unknown, hills yet unseen, Wherever they invite Thee, At parent Nature's grateful call, With gladness must requite Thee.

A gracious welcome shall be thine, Such looks of love and honour As thy own Yarrow gave to me When first I gazed upon her; Beheld what I had feared to see, Unwilling to surrender Dreams treasured up from early days, The holy and the tender.

And what, for this frail world, were all, That mortals do or suffer, Did no responsive harp, no pen, Memorial tribute offer? Yea, what were mighty Nature's self? Her features, could they win us, Unhelped by the poetic voice That hourly speaks within us?

Nor deem that localised Romance Plays false with our affections; Unsanctifies our tears—made sport For fanciful dejections: Ah, no! the visions of the past Sustain the heart in feeling Life as she is—our changeful Life, With friends and kindred dealing.

Bear witness, Ye, whose thoughts that day In Yarrow's groves were centred; Who through the silent portal arch Of mouldering Newark enter'd; And clomb the winding stair that once Too timidly was mounted By the 'last Minstrel,' (not the last!) Ere he his Tale recounted.

Flow on for ever, Yarrow Stream! Fulfil thy pensive duty, Well pleased that future Bards should chant For simple hearts thy beauty; To dream-light dear while yet unseen, Dear to the common sunshine, And dearer still, as now I feel, To memory's shadowy moonshine!


A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain, Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height: Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain For kindred Power departing from their sight; While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain, Saddens his voice again, and yet again.

Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners! for the might Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes; Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue Than sceptered king or laurelled conqueror knows, Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true, Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea, Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope!


[Compare with this Sonnet the poem composed about thirty years earlier on nearly the same spot of ground, 'What! you are stepping westward?' (See p. 221.) This earlier poem, one of the most truly ethereal and ideal Wordsworth ever wrote, is filled with the overflowing spirit of life and hope. In every line of it we feel the exulting pulse of the

'traveller through the world that lay Before him on his endless way.'

The later one is stilled down to perfect autumnal quiet. There is in it the chastened pensiveness of one to whom all things now

'do take a sober colouring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality.'

But the sadness has at the heart of it peaceful hope. This is Wordsworth's own comment:—'As recorded in my sister's Journal, I had first seen the Trossachs in her and Coleridge's company. The sentiment that runs through this sonnet was natural to the season in which I again visited this beautiful spot; but this and some other sonnets that follow were coloured by the remembrance of my recent visit to Sir Walter Scott, and the melancholy errand on which he was going.']

There's not a nook within this solemn Pass, But were an apt confessional for One Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, That Life is but a tale of morning grass Withered at eve. From scenes of art which chase That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities, Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest, If from a golden perch of aspen spray (October's workmanship to rival May) The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay, Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!


{2} NOTE 1.—'Hatfield was condemned.'—PAGE 2.

James Hatfield, indicted for having, in the Lake district, under the assumed name of Hon. Alexander Augustus Hope, brother of the Earl of Hopetoun, forged certain bills of exchange. He was condemned to death at Carlisle on August 16, 1803. His atrocious treatment of a beautiful girl, known in the district as 'Mary of Buttermere,' had drawn more than usual attention to the criminal.

{5} NOTE 2.—'In Captain Wordsworth's ship.'—PAGES xxx, 3.

The 'Brother John' here alluded to was a sailor. He was about two years and eight months younger than the poet, who found in him quite a congenial spirit. He perished, with nearly all his crew, in the 'Earl of Abergavenny,' East-Indiaman, which he commanded, and which, owing to the incompetency of a pilot, was in his last outward voyage wrecked on the Shambles of the Bill of Portland on the night of Friday, February 5, 1805. His brother William speaks of him in verse, as 'a silent poet,' and in prose describes him as 'meek, affectionate, silently enthusiastic, loving all quiet things, and a poet in everything but words.' Allusions to this sailor-brother occur in several of the poems, as in those lines beginning 'When to the attractions of the busy world,' to be found among the 'Poems on the Naming of Places,' also in the 'Elegiac Stanzas suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle in a Storm,' and in other poems.

{3} NOTE 3.—'There is no stone to mark the spot.'—PAGE 5.

'The body of Burns was not allowed to remain long in this place. To suit the plan of a rather showy mausoleum, his remains were removed into a more commodious spot of the same kirkyard on the 5th July 1815. The coffin was partly dissolved away; but the dark curling locks of the poet were as glossy, and seemed as fresh, as on the day of his death.'—Life of Burns, by Allan Cunningham.

{19} NOTE 4.—'They had a large library.'—PAGE 19.

The following account of this library is taken from Dr. John Brown's delightful tract, The Enterkin. The author will excuse wholesale appropriation to illustrate a journal which, I believe, will be dear to him, and to all who feel as he does:—

'The miners at Leadhills are a reading, a hard-reading people; and to any one looking into the catalogue of their "Reading Society," selected by the men themselves for their own uses and tastes, this will be manifest. We have no small gratification in holding their diploma of honorary membership—signed by the preses and clerk, and having the official seal, significant of the craft of the place—of this, we venture to say, one of the oldest and best village-libraries in the kingdom, having been founded in 1741, when the worthy miners of that day, headed by James Wells and clerked by William Wright, did, on the 23d November, "condescend upon certain articles and laws"—as grave and thorough as if they were the constitution of a commonwealth, and as sturdily independent as if no Earl were their superior and master. "It is hereby declared that no right is hereby given, nor shall at any time be given, to the said Earl of Hopetoun, or his aforesaids, or to any person or persons whatever, of disposing of any books or other effects whatever belonging to the Society, nor of taking any concern with the Society's affairs," etc. As an indication of the wild region and the distances travelled, one of the rules is, "that every member not residing in Leadhills shall be provided with a bag sufficient to keep out the rain." Here is the stiff, covenanting dignity cropping out—"Every member shall (at the annual meeting) deliver what he hath to say to the preses; and if two or more members attempt to speak at a time, the preses shall determine who shall speak first;" and "members guilty of indecency, or unruly, obstinate behaviour" are to be punished "by fine, suspension, or exclusion, according to the nature of the transgression." The Westminster Divines could not have made a tighter job.'

{31b} NOTE 5.—'The first view of the Clyde.'—PAGE 31.

This was not their first view of the Clyde. They had been travelling within sight of it without knowing it for full twenty miles before this, ever since coming down the Daer Water from Leadhills to Elvanfoot: they there reached the meeting-place of that water with a small stream that flows from Ericstane. These two united become the Clyde.

{41} NOTE 6.—'I wished Joanna had been there to laugh.'—PAGE 41.

Joanna Hutchinson, Mrs. Wordsworth's sister. Among the 'Poems on the Naming of Places' is one addressed to her, in 1800, in which the following well-known lines occur:—

"As it befel, One summer morning we had walked abroad At break of day, Joanna and myself. —'Twas that delightful season when the broom, Full-flowered, and visible on every steep, Along the copses runs in veins of gold. Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks, And when we came in front of that tall rock That eastward looks, I there stopped short and stood Tracing the lofty barrier with my eye From base to summit; such delight I found To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower That intermixture of delicious hues, Along so vast a surface, all at once, In one impression, by connecting force Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart. —When I had gazed perhaps two minutes' space, Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud; The Rock, like something starting from a sleep, Took up the Lady's voice and laughed again; That ancient woman seated on Helm Crag Was ready with her cavern; Hammarscar, And the tall Steep of Silverhaw, sent forth A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard, And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone; Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky Carried the Lady's voice,—old Skiddaw blew His speaking-trumpet;—back out of the clouds Of Glaramara southward came the voice; And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head.'

In his comments made on his Poems late in life, Wordsworth said of this one:—'The effect of her laugh is an extravagance; though the effect of the reverberation of voices in some parts of the mountains is very striking. There is, in the "Excursion," an allusion to the bleat of a lamb thus re-echoed, and described without any exaggeration, as I heard it, on the side of Stickle Tarn, from the precipice that stretches on to Langdale Pikes.'

{68} NOTE 7.—'With two bells hanging in the open air.'—PAGE 68.

'When I wrote this account of the village of Luss, I fully believed I had a perfect recollection of the two bells, as I have described them; but I am half tempted to think they have been a creation of my own fancy, though no image that I know I have actually seen is at this day more vividly impressed upon my mind.'—MS. note, Author, 1806.

{70} NOTE 8.—'Her countenance corresponded with the unkindness of denying us a fire in a cold night.'—PAGE 70.

The writer, inhospitably as she had been treated, was more fortunate than a distinguished French traveller, who arrived at Luss at night, a few years earlier. The hostess made signs to him that he should not speak, hustled him into a stable, and said solemnly, 'The Justiciary Lords do me the honour to lodge here when they are on this circuit. There is one of them here at present. He is asleep, and nobody must disturb him.' And forthwith she drove him out into the rain and darkness, saying, 'How can I help it? Make no noise, his Lordship must not be disturbed. Every one should pay respect to the law. God bless you. Farewell.' And on they had to go fifteen miles to Tarbet.—St. Fond's Travels, vol. i. p. 233.

{80b} NOTE 9.—'I could not help smiling when I saw him lying by the roadside.'—PAGE 80.

'The ferryman happened to mention that a fellow-countryman of his had lately come from America—a wild sort of genius. This reminded us of our friend whom we had met at Loch Lomond, and we found that it was the same person. He was the brother of the Lady of Glengyle, who had made a gentleman of him by new-clothing him from head to foot. "But," said the ferryman, "when the clothes are worn out, and his sister is tired of supplying him with pocket-money (which will probably be very soon), he will be obliged to betake himself again to America." The Lady of Glengyle has a house not far from the ferry-house, but she now lives mostly at Callander for the sake of educating her son.'—Author's MS., 1806.

{100} NOTE 10.—'In a word, the Trossachs beggar all description.' PAGE 100.

The world believes, and will continue to believe, that Scott was the first 'Sassenach' who discovered the Trossachs, as it was his Poem which gave them world-wide celebrity. It would probably be as impossible to alter this impression, as it would be to substitute for Shakespeare's Macbeth and Lady Macbeth the very different versions of the facts and characters which historical research has brought to light. And yet it would be interesting, to those who care for truth and fact, to inquire, did time allow, what first brought the Trossachs into notice, and who first did so. That they had, as I have said in the Preface, some fame before Scott's Poem appeared, is clear, else a stranger like Wordsworth would never have gone so far out of his way to search for them. Pending a thorough examination of the question, it may be worth while here to note the following facts. Miss Wordsworth refers in the text to some work on the Trossachs, from which the words at the head of this note are taken.

I was under the impression that the work referred to was the well-known 'Sketches descriptive of Picturesque Scenery on the Southern Confines of Perthshire,' by the Rev. Patrick Graham, minister of Aberfoyle, but it is satisfactory to find that Mr. Graham was not alone in his admiration of Highland scenery in those early days. A neighbour of his, the Rev. James Robertson, who was presented to the parish of Callander in 1768, wrote a description of the Trossachs in Sir John Sinclair's Statistical Account, and from the fact of his using the very sentence quoted by Miss Wordsworth, I have no doubt he was the author of the little pamphlet. Miss Spence in her 'Caledonian Excursion,' 1811, says that the Honourable Mrs. Murray told the minister of Callander that Scott ought to have dedicated 'The Lady of the Lake' to her as the discoverer of the Trossachs—'Pray, Madam,' said the good doctor, 'when did you write your Tour?' 'In the year 1794.' {314} 'Then, Madam, it is no presumption in me to consider that I was the person who in 1790 made the Trossachs first known, for except to the natives and a few individuals in this neighbourhood, this remarkable place had never been heard of.' Mr. Robertson died in 1812. There were thus at least two notices of the Trossachs published before Mr. Graham's Sketches: these were not published till 1806. The Lady of the Lake was first published in 1810.

{101} NOTE 11.—'Dutch myrtle.'—PAGE 101.

This seems to be the name by which Miss Wordsworth knew the plant which Lowlanders generally call bog myrtle, Border men gale, or sweet gale, and Highlanders roid (pronounced as roitch). Botanists, I believe, know it as Myrica Gale, a most fragrant plant or shrub, growing generally in moist and mossy ground. Perhaps nothing more surely brings back the feeling that you are in the very Highlands than the first scent of this plant caught on the breeze.

{116} NOTE 12.—'Bonnier than Loch Lomond.'—PAGE 116.

As an illustration of local jealousy, I may mention that when Mr. Jamieson, the editor of the fifth edition of Burt's Letters, was in the Highlands in 1814, four years after the publication of Scott's Poem, and eleven after the Wordsworths' visit, he met a savage-looking fellow on the top of Ben Lomond, the image of 'Red Murdoch,' who told him that he had been a guide to the mountain for more than forty years, but now 'a Walter Scott' had spoiled his trade. 'I wish,' said he, 'I had him in a ferry over Loch Lomond; I should be after sinking the boat, if I drowned myself into the bargain, for ever since he wrote his "Lady of the Lake," as they call it, everybody goes to see that filthy hole, Loch Ketterine. The devil confound his ladies and his lakes!'

{145} NOTE 13.—'For poor Ann Tyson's sake.'—PAGE 145.

The dame with whom Wordsworth lodged at Hawkshead. Of her he has spoken with affectionate tenderness in the 'Prelude:'—

'The thoughts of gratitude shall fall like dew Upon thy grave, good creature!'

Her garden, its brook, and dark pine tree, and the stone table under it, were all dear to his memory, and the chamber in which he

'Had lain awake on summer nights to watch The moon in splendour couched among the leaves Of a tall ash that near our cottage stood.'

She lived to above fourscore; unmarried, and loving her young inmates as her children, and beloved by them as a mother.

'Childless, yet by the strangers to her blood Honoured with little less than filial love.'

Wordsworth's Life, vol. i. 39.

{196} NOTE 14.—'The woman said it had been a palace.'—PAGE 196.

A mistake. The old mansion here described was the building formerly used as a prison-house of the Regality of Athole in which the Dukes, and formerly the Earls, of Athole confined their criminals during the ages when they, in common with all the other Scottish Barons, exercised the right of heritable jurisdiction. This right was abolished after the '45, and then this, like all other baronial prison-houses, fell into disuse and decay. Nearly entire seventy years ago, it has now wholly disappeared, having been used up, no doubt, as material for the neighbouring buildings. There was, however, at Logierait, a Royal Castle, from which the place itself and the large adjacent parish take their name—Lag-an-raith, the hollow of the Castle,—while the neighbouring small hamlet and railway station on the other side of the Tummel are called Balla-na-luig—the town of the hollow. The Castle stood on a high knoll overlooking the church and inn of Logierait, commanding a view of the junction of the Tummel and the Tay immediately underneath, and of the whole of southern Athole, as far as Dunkeld. This knoll is now crowned by a high Celtic cross, memorial of the late Duke of Athole. Immediately around it are seen lying here and there blocks of solid masonry, the sole remnants of the Castle in which Robert II. is said to have dwelt during his visits to Athole. Traces of the Castle moat are still discernible.

{229} NOTE 15.—'Rob Roy's grave was there.'—PAGE 229.

Regarding this Wordsworth says, 'I have since been told that I was misinformed as to the burial-place of Rob Roy; if so, I may plead in excuse that I wrote on apparent good authority, namely, that of a well-educated lady who lived at the head of the lake, within a mile or less of the point indicated as containing the remains of one so famous in that neighbourhood.'

The real burial-place of Rob Roy is the Kirkton of Balquhidder, at the lower end of Loch Voil. The grave is covered by a rude grey slab, on which a long claymore is roughly engraved. The Guide-book informs us that the arms on his tombstone are a Scotch pine, the badge of Clan Gregor, crossed by a sword, and supporting a crown, this last to denote the relationship claimed by the Gregarach with the royal Stuarts. When I last saw the tombstone, as far as I remember, I observed nothing but the outline of the long sword.

{237} NOTE 16.—'Thomas Wilkinson's "Tour in Scotland."'—PAGE 237.

Probably one of Wilkinson's poems, of which Wordsworth speaks occasionally in his letters. 'The present Lord Lonsdale has a neighbour, a Quaker, an amiable, inoffensive man, and a little of a poet too, who has amused himself upon his own small estate upon the Emont, in twining pathways along the banks of the river, making little cells and bowers with inscriptions of his own writing.'—Letter to Sir G. Beaumont, Oct. 17, 1805.

Wordsworth wrote the poem 'To a Spade of a Friend,' composed 'while we were labouring together in his pleasure-grounds,' commencing—

'Spade with which Wilkinson hath tilled his land, And shaped these pleasant walks by Emont's side,'

in memory of this friend.—See Life, vol. i. pp. 55, 323, 349.



Grasmere to Keswick 13 Suie (road 13 excellent)

Hesket Newmarket (road very 15 Killin 7 bad) (tolerable)

Carlisle (bad road) 14 Kenmore 15 (baddish)

Longtown (newly mended, not 8 Blair (bad) 23 good)

Annan (good) 14 Fascally 18 (wretchedly bad)

Dumfries (good) 15 Dunkeld (bad) 12

Brownhill (pretty good) 12 Ambletree 10 (hilly—good)

Leadhills (tolerable) 19 Crieff (hilly— 11 goodish)

Douglass Mill (very bad) 12 Loch Erne Head 20 (tolerable)

Lanark (baddish) 9 Callander (most 14 excellent)

Hamilton (tolerable) 15 Trossachs 16

Glasgow (tolerable) 11 Ferryman's 8 House (about 8)

Dumbarton (very good) 15 Callander to 27 Falkirk (baddish)

Luss (excellent) 13 Edinburgh 24 (good)

Tarbet (not bad) 8 Roslin (good) 6

Arrochar (good) 2 Peebles (good) 16

Cairndow (middling) 12 Clovenford 16 (tolerable)

Inverary (very good) 10 Melrose 8 (tolerable)

Dalmally (tolerable) 16 Dryburgh (good) 4

Taynuilt (excellent) 13 Jedburgh 10 (roughish)

Portnacroish (tolerable) 15 Hawick (good) 12

Ballachulish (part most 12 Langholm (very 24 excellent) good)

King's House (bad) 12 Longtown (good) 12

Tyndrum (good) 18 Carlisle 8

Grasmere 36


{0a} See Essays of R. H. Hutton, Esq., vol. ii.

{0b} See Appendix, pp. 304, 307.

{0c} The following is the entry referred to:—

'October 4th, 1832.—I find that this tour was both begun and ended on a Sunday. I am sorry that it should have been so, though I hope and trust that our thoughts and feelings were not seldom as pious and serious as if we had duly attended a place devoted to public worship. My sentiments have undergone a great change since 1803 respecting the absolute necessity of keeping the Sabbath by a regular attendance at church.

'D. W.'

{9a} Criffel.

{9b} Annandale.

{11} See Appendix A.

{20} There is some mistake here. The Hopetoun title was not taken from any place in the Leadhills, much less from the house shaped like an H.—Ed.

{27} Probably the Rev. John Aird, minister of the parish, 1801-1815.

{30} Ragweed.

{31a} Tinto.

{33} New Lanark, Robert Owen's mills.

{36a} Lady Mary Ross.

{36b} Corehouse.

{36c} See Appendix B.

{45} The house belonging to the Earls of Hopetoun at Leadhills, not that which bears this name about twelve miles from Edinburgh.—Ed.

{53} Glasgow Green.

{56} No doubt Erskine House, the seat of Lord Blantyre.—Ed.

{61} A huge isolated rock in Borrowdale, Cumberland, which bears that name.—Ed.

{63} The inscription on the pillar was written by Professor George Stuart of Edinburgh, John Ramsay of Ochtertyre, and Dr. Samuel Johnson; for Dr. Johnson's share in the work see Croker's Boswell, p. 392.—Ed.

{67} Camstraddan House and bay.—Ed.

{80a} This distinction between the foot and head is not very clear. What is meant is this: They would have to travel the whole length of the lake, from the west to the east end of it, before they came to the Trossachs, the pass leading away from the east end of the lake.—Ed.

{93} There is a mistake here. His bones were laid about fifteen or twenty miles from thence, in Balquhidder kirkyard. But it was under the belief that his 'grave is near the head of Loch Ketterine, in one of those pinfold-like burial grounds, of neglected and desolate appearance, which the traveller meets with in the Highlands of Scotland,' that the well-known poem on 'Rob Roy's Grave' was composed. See Note 15 at the end of volume.—Ed.

{97} Goblins' Cave.

{113} To a Highland Girl. At Inversneyde upon Loch Lomond.

{124} I should rather think so!—Ed.

{131} 'Capability' Brown.

{134} Quaere, Cladich.—Ed.

{139a} Not very probable.

{139b} See Appendix C.

{142} The Pass of Awe.—Ed.

{155} Lochnell House.

{160} Castle Stalker.

{161} George, seventh Marquis of Tweeddale, being in France in 1803, was detained by Bonaparte, and died at Verdun, 9th August 1804.—Ed.

{165} See Appendix D

{177} Buchal, the Shepherd of Etive.

{186} Quaere, Luib.

{187} The burial-place of Macnab of Macnab.

{190} In this interval her dear brother, Captain Wordsworth, had been drowned, as stated in note to page 3, in the wreck of the 'Abergavenny,' on February 5, 1805.

{210} See Appendix E.

{215} Monzie probably.

{216} Glen Ogle.

{218} Ardhullary.

{225a} This is none other than the well-known Scottish word 'gey,'—indifferently, tolerable, considerable.—Ed.

{225b} See Appendix F.

{246} See Lockhart's Life of Scott for an account of this visit, vol. i. pp. 402-7. Mr. L. says, 'I have drawn up the account of this meeting from my recollection, partly of Mr. W.'s conversation, partly from that of his sister's charming "Diary," which he was so kind as to read to me on the 16th May 1836.'—Ed.

{254} See Appendix G.

{266} W. Laidlaw. See Scott's Life, vol. i.

{295} On the banks of the River Nid, near Knaresborough.

{314} If this is not a misprint, the Lady had antedated her tour by two years, as she made it in 1796 and published it in 1799.


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