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 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 , that rises from its clear blue waters, near —or to run away from Northern Italia, without sailing on the lucid waters of , 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 Calender I keep of the cloudless sunrise once seen from the top of, and the one as cloudless, beheld from the—of the grand glorious times when I fraternized with the beauteous , and her snow-white companions—and our communion was never interrupted by a frown—of the sweet repose, luxuriated in at , 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, 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. , 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 , 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, 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 , the splendid mansion of , 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 ; 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 ; 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 , 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 , pours its waters forth, and is pointed out on the opposite side. Out boat nears the shore to the land passengers at "," a celebrated Highland Pass, mentioned in "." 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 "'s country." It must have been beneath one of these huge rocks that a boat manned, "by four lusty Highland rowers," waited to conduct and ; 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 being soothed by the magnificent scenery with which he was surrounded; the matter-o-fact , 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 are somewhat changed also; at any rate the Bailie by my side is not engaged in any such 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 ], 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,
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,
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

Glengyle than may be obtained by climbing one of the hills near the Hotel. So, after partaking of the good cheer, set before us by mine Host, (who tells us "how lucky we are in the weather; and that this is the first fine day they have had at Loch Katrine for a month;) we start off on a charming ramble up the heights—the mist has rolled away—the afternoon is as gloriously bright and fine as we can desire. So, "Lads of the Lake," in hand, up we go—some among us wild with delight, at the combined grandeur and loveliness of the scene around us —and now, for the first time in Scotland, I see the heather in bloom, (I have seen it in full beauty, on the Welsh mountains,) and we pick as many varieties as we can meet with to carry away as a rembrance of Loch Katrine. The hill we are ascending is not of a character, so I cannot poetically add, that we leap from "rock to rock," or from crag to crag—very far from it. Our host has told us that it has rained daily, for the last month, here, and our hill, though exquisitely verdant, and lovely to the eye, , give evidence for being boggy, swampy, and morassy, so I accept the assurance of my wise and thoughtful friend, that I can see nothing more by climbing higher, as hill rises above hill, and shuts in the view—I commence the descent, with a determination to steer clear of the bogs and morasses that annoyed me in the ascent. I go boldly forward, in advance of my party, until, of a sudden, I begin to sink, deep, deeper—verily, my feet have stuck fast in the thick clay, and I cannot move them a single inch. The sensation is by no means pleasant, of feeling the foundations of the earth, as it were, giving way beneath your feet. I shout for help, and am rescued by a valiant knight, whose stalwart arm might almost have wielded the weapons of the Douglas. I have had enough of mountain climbing for today.

The little steamer is now in sight, and we embark upon the fairy Loch, which is so exquisitely pictured in the "Lady of the Lake," that to go into a minute description of its manifold charms, would be altogether a work of supererogation. Out boat glided far too swiftly over the bright blue waters, and soon conveyed us into one of the most enchanting regions I ever entered. is very beautiful; but too trim and artistic for my taste. is a gem of natural beauty. Yet whither are we going? Place of landing I see not. The gorge of the Trossachs rises up before us, in full magnificence and beauty, but it seems, to all appearances, hermetically sealed by lofty, wood-crowned cliffs; and well might Scott say of hi hero "the Knight of Snowdoun," where is this enchanted spot,

"The stranger viewed the shore around;
'Twas all so close with copse wood bound,
Nor track, nor pathway might declare
That human foot frequented there."

There were no steamers in those days! Now we discern a little pier, at first imperceptible from its leafy surroundings, and we bid adieu to Loch Katrine, convinced that no vision more enchanting can ever meet our eyes. It is about as difficult to describe the Trossachs as it would be for an amature painter to sketch Loch Katrine, after the hand of the has produced its perfect picture. The gorge of the Trossachs is unlike any place I ever saw. It extends for about a mile, and then opens up on the banks of Loch Achray. Ben-venue rises on the rights to the height of two thousand feet —on the left Ben-Au shoots up, with bare and "thunder-splintered pinnacle," eighteen hundred feet; and on all sides beneath and around these lofty mountains, huge rocks rear their brown and shaggy heads on high—and at the base of these latter lie, in the most charming and picturesque confusion, knolls, precipices and peaks, softly and thickly clad to their summits, with fine native wood, oaks, alders, and weeping birches, and gracefully garlanded with wild flowers of every variety—

"There eglantine embalmed the aid,
Hawthorn and hazel mingled there;
The primrose pale, and violet flower,
Found in each cleft a narrow bower;
Fox-glove and night-shade, side by side,
Emblems of punishment and pride
Grounded their dark hues with every stain
The weather-beaten crags retain;
With boughs that quaked at every breath,
Grey birch and aspen wept beneath;
Aloft the ash, and warrior oak
Cast anchor in their rifted rock;
And higher yet the pine tree hung,
Where seemed the cliff to meet on high
His boughs athwart the narrowed sky.
Highest of all, where white peaks glanced
Where glistening streamers wav'd and danc'd
The wanderer's eye could barely view
The summer heaven's delicious blue
So wondrous wild, the whole might seem,
The scenery of a fairy dream."

Such is Scott's picture of the far-famed Trossachs. will dare to attempt to improve it? To me it seems a perfect picture.

At the end of the [illegible] Loch Achray appears in sight, and now we dismount, at the celebrated—a rural habitation of great taste, paradisaically situated.—While the gentlemen made the carriage arrangements, the ladies enjoyed a pleasant ramble in the garden, and soon we were all mounted on the top of the high and roomy carriage that was to carry us to Stirling in time for the evening trains to Glasgow and Edinburgh. How determinately do the and each other! Most of our party had decided that this place was of all places, the one to stay at; and yet we were, one and all, hurrying on, with speed unknown in the days of our forefathers. A merry party were we, though some of us were fellow-travellers only for a day, and gathered together from different countries, yet had we fraternized, in no uncommon degree. With the exception of my valued friend, we were all seeing Trossachs for the

first time; so he was unanimously made the conductor of the party—two Nova Scotians, a Peruvian, three Americans, (of the quality, and Anti-Slavery,) and an English woman, composed it—the Highland driver, (who spoke little else but Gaelic,) forming another variety of the one great human family. Our romantic road lay along the banks of Loch Achray, and now Ben-Ledi is seen on the left, towering aloft to a vast height above the other mountains, and surmounted by a cairn on its summit. A short distance is traversed, and the beautiful Loch Venmachar lies before us, and we have passed the picturesque little village of Duncruggen. Some of us are by turns, reciting portions of "the Lady of the Lake," when our driver calls out, "Coilantogle Ford," and then does our American friend five us, in admirable
style, the bold words of RODERICK DHU—

"Bold Saxon! to his promise just,
Vich Alpine has discharged his trust:
This murderous Chief, thus ruthless man,
This head of rebellious clan.
Hath led thee sage, through watch and ward,
Fat past, Clan Alpine's outmost guard,
Now man to man, and steel to steel,
A Chieftain's vengeance thou shalt feel.
See, here, all vantageless I stand,
Arm'd like thyself, with single brand:
COILANTOGLE FORD,
And thou must keep thee with thy sword!"

Time and space fail, so I cannot give you
the remainder of "James Fitz James."

We entered the pretty little village of Callender, and enjoyed a delightful view from its bridge, and then proceeded, through a fine range of country, passing Doune, with its cele
brated castle.

"They rise the banner'd towers of Doune,
[They sink] in distant woodland soon."

A few more miles are rolled over, and we look upon

"Grey Stirling, with her towers and town"—which loom up before us, in the far distance, in full majesty; and now we past near by the celebrated old fortress, regretting that we have not time to mount it, before our departure for Glasgow—but is cannot be; the trains will not wait—so, refreshing ourselves with a cup of delicious tea, at the railway station, we unanimously declare that the day now closing has been one of the most delightful day we ever spent travelling. We reciprocate kind wishes, and exchange cards; I promise my American friends, never to visit New York without informing them; and thus, with hasty leave-takings, we separate—they to go to the East, we to the West. We reach Glasgow by nine o'-clock, and soon after tea I am with my kind friends, at Langside.

The above sketch is very thin, and imperfect, my dear friend. Quitting Scotland, as I did, immediately after making the Loch Lomond excursion, I had not then time to write anything in full, from my notes. You, already, know that I came to a house made sad by sudden accident and serious illness; and you will agree with me that a sick room is not the place best fitted for imparting brilliance to ideas, or interest to a narration. I, however, send you my hastily written sketch, in the belief that, with all its shortcomings, you would prefer my committing it to the care of the Post Office, than to the , where, at this present time, I feel some inclination to sent it, knowing that, if not for anything else, it would, at least,
make a -fire

* * * * *

I had intended my last letter from Scotland, to have been written at Langside, whence the first was dated, but I saw so much, and travelled so far, during the latter part of my stay, that I found it quite impossible to keep my journal and letters , to the time present. Much, therefore, that I meant to have said, must now be left unsaid. I have spoken little of the magnificent public buildings, the princely dwellings, and splendid warehouses of the Glasgow merchants. I regret this the more, because I find much ignorance prevails on the subject, and fashionable tourists to Scotland,( some of whom I have me[t] since my return,) steer clear of "vulgar Glasgow," as if it were infected with the plague.—THis is about as silly as is the saying, that "there is not a gentleman in Birmingham or Manchester." Remove these great commercial cities from great Britain, and what kind of aspect would we present to the world of commerce? Americans are generally second to none, in National pride of their gradeur of their cities. My New York fellow-travellers, however, said to me (when expressing their astonishment at the grandeur of Glasgow edifices,) "We thought STEWART'S was the finest place of business in the world, until we saw MACDON ALD'S; but we have seen nothing to compare with Macdonald's warehouse."

The people of Glasgow are proverbially hospitable, and many of them have given me ample opportunity of judging this point. I regret that the absence of many of my friends from the city during my last hurried visit there, and my own limited time, rendered it impossible for me to bid adieu to them.

To the Committee of the "Ladies and Gentlemen's New Association for the Abolition of Slavery," I would also say, that, had I been aware of the fact that their Committee Meeting was the last of the season, I should.

have made a point of being present, as I had particular and important reasons for desiring to meet them in full committee, before I left Scotland.

To the kind friends, whose hospitality I long received; to those friends whose untiring energy, active zeal, and valuable co-operation in advancing the interest of the great cause I am desiring to serve; to those dear and valued friends, who were the first to welcome me to Scotland, and the last to waive the parting adieu, I shall ever feel deeply grateful.

The unbounded hospitality and kindness with which I was received, in every part of Scotland which I visited; the many warm friendships I formed, during my long sojourn in Scotia's land; and the host of , , and friends, I have left behind me, will ever make the name of —brave old SCOTLAND very dear to my heart.

Your friend, as ever,

JULIA GRIFFITHS.