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Rambles Round Glasgow
Govan, Renfrew, and Inchinnan


One of the most interesting, if not of the most picturesque walks in the vicinity of our city is that down the margin of the river to the "Water Neb," where the mingled streams of the Black and White Carts, blended with the Gryffe, pour their watery tribute into the bosom of the Clyde. From the facilities of transit afforded by the river steamers, which are continually passing and repassing between the Broomielaw and the various watering-places on the coast, almost every denizen of our city must be perfectly familiar with the landscape features of the country in this direction. Every turn and bend, every house and tree along the channel is an old acquaintance, whose aspect is quite as well known as those of the Laigh Kirk steeple, the statue of King William, or the ancient Westport well. The beautiful, however, can never become commonplace; familiarity with nature never begets contempt, the Dominie’s dictum notwithstanding. Often as we have traversed on foot, or afloat, the seaward windings of our native stream, we have still found something to excite our admiration afresh, some hitherto overlooked charm to endear its verdant banks still more to our affections.

"Scenes must be beautiful which, daily viewed,
Please daily, and whose novelty survives
Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years,—
Praise justly due to those that I describe."

So sang Cowper in laudation of his favourite Ouse, and so, with greater truth, may we sing of our stately and ever-beautiful Clyde.

Glasgow may well be proud of her river, and of the valuable improvements which, by the energy and perseverance of her Sons, have been effected on it as a commercial channel. Originally obstructed by fords and shallows, it was insufficient for the transport of the humblest "gabbart." &c. It has gradually been cleared and deepened, however, until in our day it is freely traversed to and fro by barks of stateliest build and the most gigantic proportions. Not quite a century has elapsed since Mr. Smeaton reported to the authorities that the depth of the river at Govan Pointhouse was only one foot three inches at low water nay, there are men still alive who remember fording it when they were boys, with their "breeks scarce buckled aboon the knee;" and now such "leviathans afloat" as the "Glasgow" and the "Simla" steam unimpeded down its course, when going forth to brave the billows of the stormy ocean. Old M’Ure, the quaint historian of the city, writing about the beginning of the last century, complacently sings,—

"More pure than amber is the river Clyde,
Whose gentle streams do by thy borders glide;
And here a thousand sail receive commands
To trafflic for thee into foreign lands."

Considering the depth of the river at the period, we have our suspicions that the good old man must have exercised the poetic license to its full extent in his enumeration of the shipping, and that he must have had Dumbarton and Greenock in his eye when he talked of "foreign lands," This is all the more likely, as we find that a few years earlier, Patrick Bryce, tacksman of the Gorbals coal-heugh, complained that he could not get his coals loaded at the Broomielaw, from the scarcity of water, and that he had to crave license from Sir George Maxwell to have them transport through the lands of Pollok to a place of embarkation near Meikle Govan. How the enterprising coalmaster and the sage historian would stare, if they could rise from the land of shadows, and be for a time permitted to gaze on the busy, bussing scene which our harbour now presents; or if they could witness the lengthened vista of towering masts which is to be seen from the Glasgow Bridge, stretching away into the distance, and enlivened by never-ceasing arrivals and departures! Clyde floweth not now past the "borders" of the town. Far and wide, since the days of M’Ure, has the city spread its ever-extending labyrinths, and the stream which then was its border has now become as one of its central streets. The giant steam, too, has since arisen, increasing indefinitely the productive powers of man, and in defiance of wind and tide annihilating time and distance by its wondrous powers of transit. Marvellous indeed would the changes which have occurred appear in the eyes of the old historian, and proudly would he acknowledge that his native town, since he left the scene, has amply justified its motto of happy augury, "Let Glasgow flourish!"

Taking our way down the southern bank of the Clyde along the crowded quays, and passing spots where, in our own recollection, green fields, hedgerows, and trees once occupied the space where stately vessels are now moored, we soon arrive at the picturesque, and despite its vicinity to the city, still rural-looking village of Govan. The walk in this direction has long been a favourite one with the denizens of Sanct Mungo, who, on Saturday afternoons, or on Sundays after the skailin’ of the kirks, love to stroll by the waterside to "snuff the caller air," as Ramsay has it, and to gaze upon the landscape, well pleased to see that green is still the livery nature loves to wear. The gradual extension of the harbour has, however, divested the banks in a great measure of their natural charms. Many of our readers, we dare say, will remember the bitter lines which the bard of Hope penned, when, after an absence of many years, he revisited the haunts of his boyhood in the vicinity of Glasgow. On these very banks he had wandered many a happy day, and often, when far away, we need not doubt, his fancy would bring back to his gaze the joys of langsyne and the scenes with which in his mind they were associated. He sought the Clyde, but the hand, of improvement had wrought what to his eye was a woful change, and he sang in the fullness of his sorrow the following

"LINES ON REVISITING A SCOTTISH RIVER.

"And call they this improvement?—to have changed,
My native Clyde, thy once romantic shore,
Where Nature’s face is banished and estranged,
And Heaven reflected in thy wave no more;
Whose banks that sweetened Mayday’s breath before
Lie sear and leafless now in summer’s beam,
With sooty exhalations covered o’er;
And for the daisied green-award, down thy stream
Unsightly brick-lanes smoke and clanking engines gleam.

"Speak not to me of swarms the scene sustains,
One heart free tasting Nature’s breath end bloom
Is worth a thousand slaves to Mammon’s gains.
But whither goes that wealth, and gladdening whom?
See, left but life enough and breathing room
The hunger and the hope of life to feel,
Yon pale mechanic bending o’er his loom,
And childhood’s self as at Ixion’s wheel,
From morn till midnight tasked to earn its little meal.

"Is this improvement? where the human breed
Degenerates as they swarm and overflow,
Till toil grows cheaper than the trodden weed,
And man competes with man like foe with foe,
Till death that thins them scarce seems public woe?
Improvement! Smiles it in the poor man’s eyes,
Or blooms it on the cheek of labour? No!
To gorge a few with trade’s precarious prize,
We banish rural life and breathe unwholesome skies.

"Nor call that evil slight; God has not given
This passion to the heart of man in vain,
For earth’s green face, the untainted air of heaven,
And all the bliss of Nature’s rustic reign:
For not alone our frame imbibes a stein
From fetid skies; the spirit’s healthy pride
Fades in their gloom; and therefore I complain
That thou no more through pastoral scenes shouldst glide,
My Wallace’s own stream and once romantic Clyde."

The sweet singer of Hope seems to have been altogether in a despairing mood when his muse gave utterance to this most doleful effusion. Poets, however, have seldom been remarkable for devotion to the study of political economy. They are generally conservative of the beautiful, even to the sacrifice of the useful. Wordsworth raised his voice against the intrusion of the rail into the green solitudes of Cumberland, and Campbell could see nothing to admire in the commercial elevation of the Clyde, although the prosperity of his country was thereby infinitely enhanced. The splendid discoveries of a Watt, or the ingenious application of these discoveries to the propulsion of vessels by a Bell, were nothing in his eyes to the preservation of a flowery bank. We have no sympathy with the maudlin sentiment which is ever selfishly crying, "Woodman, spare that tree," when the said tree is a public inconvenience; or, "Injure not the lovely banks of that stream," when the so-called injury would be productive of benefit to a whole community. Such was not the purpose which pervaded the genius of Burns. He mourned the impending fate of the "wee modest crimson-tipped flower," but he turned not the ploughshare aside to spare its bloom. Addressing it, he says,—

"For I maun crush aneath the stour
Thy slender stem;
To spare thee now’s ayont my power,
Thou bonnie gem."

While regretting the destruction of the beautiful, he well knew that the right onward furrow of utility was not to be interrupted by a sickly sentimentality. Wordsworths and Campbells may foolishly protest in measured phrase against the march of improvement, and gild their maunderings with the richness of an exuberant fancy, but the ploughshare of progress can neither be stayed nor turned aside from its course, although here and there a flower may be "crushed beneath the furrow’s weight."

The village of Govan, like most other old townships, is a long straggling congregation of houses, having been permitted apparently to "hing as it grew," each individual proprietor "biggin" where it best pleased himself, and without the most distant regard for the opinion or convenience of his neighbour. It is, in fact, the most curious and eccentric little townie that we know, and always wears, to our fancy, a kind of half-fou aspect. At two places, the Pointhouse and the Ferry, it comes rambling down towards the river; but, as if startled at its own temerity, it staggers rapidly away back, zigzagging into nondescript lanes and wynds, the irregularity of which would break the heart of any individual whose hump of order had an extraordinary degree of development. It has a predominance of thatched houses, too, as if in its sturdy independence it was determined to retain its straw bonnet in defiance of the innovating slate. Altogether Govan has a genuine old world look, which is perfectly unique in these days of improvement and change, and which forms a not unpleasing contrast to the stiff though stately angularity of our own somewhat overgrown town.

In the vicinity of Govan there are a considerable number of elegant villas, embowered in cosie garden-plots, screened amidst hedgerows and trees, and generally occupied by well-to-do citizens of the Western Metropolis, who can afford to combine the pleasures and profits of the city with the charms of rural retirement. These are in many instances so situated as to command a view of the river, with its steamers and sailing vessels ever passing and repassing on their watery way; while the country around, with its fertile haughs, gentle undulations, belts and clumps of trees, all chequered with the verdant fences of the thorn, presents many a sweet snatch of landscape of the fairest English type. The village itself, as seen from the margin of the Clyde, with its handsome church and elegant spire—a facsimile of that at Stratford-on-Avon, the birth and burial-place of the great dramatist—has an exceedingly fine effect, and has often tempted into action the imitative skill of the artist. The church is a chaste Gothic structure, and the churchyard is one of the most beautiful that we know. It is surrounded by a girdle of tall and rugged elms, which throw their chequered shadows over the green mounds below, lending an air of quiet and seclusion to the spot, which harmonizes appropriately with those sombre reflections which the field of graves is so well calculated to excite. We linger for a brief space among the silent mansions of the dead, poring over the records of mortality on the tombstones which are scattered around, but nothing calling for special remark rewards our search. There is a dreary monotony in the tales of the auld kirk-yard. They were born and they died is ever the sad legend—repeated with endless iteration, and to be repeated till time shall be no more; a few short years of difference the only variation. The redbreast perched on the roof of the church piping the dirge of the departing year, and the yellow leaves dancing in the air to his melancholy strain, are also but sad repetitions of sounds and symbols which season after season have thrilled the heart of man with the same unwelcome moral, that "the end of all these things is death."

Adjacent to the church of Govan is the manse, a plain but comfortable looking habitation, surrounded by a garden, and commanding a fine view of the Clyde where it is joined by the Kelvin. The predecessor of the present worthy incumbent, Dr. Leishman, was the celebrated Mr. Thom, whose caustic wit and keen spirit of satire have ever since his day furnished our local Joe Millers with an inexhaustible supply of anecdotal lore. The pungent genius of this preeminently witty minister is also obvious in a collection of sermons, tracts, and letters, which was published in Glasgow about the commencement of the present century, but which is now only to be found in the libraries of the curious. We may also mention that an individual who resides in Govan preserves religiously the wig of the reverend wit.

The antiquary or the relic-hunter will find but little to attract his attention in Govan. Formerly there was an ancient green tumulus called "the Doomster’s Knowe," near the bank, a short distance east of the ferry; but within the past few years, to the chagrin of the local Oldbucks, this interesting memorial of the pre-historic past has been levelled to permit the extension of a neighbouring dyework! Sic transit gloria mundi. An individual in the village, who combines the professions of publican and poet, and who has deservedly attained considerable celebrity under his Parnassian nom de guerre of "Bue," has several objects of antiquarian and sentimental interest in his possession, which will repay the inspection of the curious. Among these are the chair on which Burns habitually sat by his "ain fire-end" at Durnfries, and (incongruous association!) the Bible of Wishart, the Scottish martyr. With regard to the genuineness of the chair we have no doubt, but as to the authenticity of the legend which "Bue" has attached to the antique Bible—and a curious old blackletter copy it is—we have our own misgivings. Poets, "with reverence be it spoken," are not the most trustworthy authorities in regard to matters of fact. "Bue" himself, by the by, a thing that does not always happen, is the most interesting piece of furniture in his own house, as every one must admit who has had the pleasure of hearing him recite some of his beautiful and heart-touching effusions.

We may mention, before leaving Govan, that besides a weaving and a silk-spinning factory, it can boast of an extensive dyework; and that from building-yards erected by the enterprising firms of Tod & M’Gregor on the north, R. Napier & Sons, J. & G. Thomson, and Smith & Rodger on the south side of the river, it has recently produced some of the most handsome specimens of marine architecture that have ever graced the bosom of the Clyde.

The walk from Govan to Renfrew, a distance of some four miles along the margin of the river, is in the highest degree pleasing, but it presents few features calling for particular remark. On both sides the country is somewhat flat, partaking, in this respect, as well as in its general fertility, more of the softer character of English landscape than of that which is peculiar to our own mountain land. An abundance of trees and hedgerows still further heightens the illusion, so that, as we pass along, without tasking our imagination overmuch, we could almost fancy ourselves rambling through some genial scene in "merry England," were it not for the Kilpatrick Hills towering in the distance, and reminding us by their familiar features that we are still located on the kindly breast of our "auld respected mither." Wordsworth talks somewhere of a river "wandering at its own sweet will," and a lovely sight it is to see a streamlet turning and winding like a playful child in very lightsomeness of heart. No such vagaries, however, are permitted, in this part of its course, to the Clyde. It is here "cabined, cribbed, confined," and compelled to own the mastery of man, and like a steed in harness, carry his burdens, and do his drudgery. Passing in succession the houses of Broomhill, Fairfield, Linthouse, and Shieldhall, each girt with its own gardens and groups of trees, tinged with the variegated hues of autumn, we arrive opposite Scotstoun, the fine mansion of Miss Oswald, which is beautifully situated on the right bank of the river. Scotstoun and Renfield (now Blythswood) have been elevated to poetic honours by the author of "The Clyde," who thus celebrates their charms in his fine descriptive poem:-

"Where Scotstoun shines afar with snowy light,
And beauteous Renfield captivates the sight,
His ample mirror Clyde to both displays,
Where each her image with delight surveys;
So at one glass, two rival beauties stand
Their charms admiring, one on either hand:
Now self-approved, each looks with lofty scorn—
Now sinks each bosom, with black envy torn;
Now triumph flashes from each lovely eye,
Now pride, desponding, heaves the unwilling sigh."

"A plague o’ both your houses," honest John, say we, for a couple of "capernoited biggins." The jealousy of the rival houses, however, was, after all, only a fond fancy of the poet, as our readers will readily believe, when we assure them that the one tenement is situated a good mile farther down the river than the other. It is not often that our author stretches the professional license so far as in this instance. His descriptions are generally correct, and his reflections appropriate and judicious. We have frequently, in the course of our rambles, had occasion to quote from "The Clyde,"—a poem which, we humbly think, is far from being so well known as its merits deserve. Dr. Leyden characterized it as "the first Scottish loco-descriptive poem of any merit," and remarked that the author’s "descriptions of rural scenes and occupations are always true to nature, and often diversified by striking and picturesque touches." The poet traces the Clyde from its origin down its entire course, glancing at every scene which is remarkable for natural beauty or historical association, until its waters are lost in the wide Atlantic. To the people of Clydesdale his delineations of scenery should prove especially interesting; and we are only surprised that it has never attained a more extensive popularity. Before taking leave of Wilson, we may mention that it was while occupied as a teacher in Rutherglen that "The Clyde" was partially composed and prepared for the press. He was afterwards invited to become superintendent of the Grammar-school of Greenock. This situation his necessities compelled him to accept, although one of the conditions of his engagement was that he should for ever renounce "the profane and unprofitable art of poem-making." To this bitter condition he seems ever after to have rigidly adhered, although, as might have been expected, not without murmuring. Many years afterwards he thus expressed himself in a letter to his son :—" I once thought to have lived by the breath of fame; but how miserably have I been disappointed, when, instead of having my performances applauded in crowded theatres, and being caressed by the great,—for what will not a poet master in the delirium of possession dream !—I was condemned to bawl myself to hoarseness among wayward brats, to cultivate sand, and wash Ethiopians for all the dreary days of an obscure life, the contempt of shopkeepers and brutish skippers." He died at Greenock on the 2d of June, 1789.

A short distance to the west of Scotstoun, and on the opposite side of the river is Elderslie House, the seat of Alex. Spiers, Esq., finely embowered in trees, and with a spacious and beautiful park in its front. This handsome edifice was erected in 1777-78 by the great-grandfather of the present possessor, who named it after the birthplace of the great Scottish patriot, of which he was also proprietor. The house has since been extended and improved, while the numerous and graceful sylvan groups with which the lawn toward the Clyde is thickly studded, render its appearance peculiarly pleasing and attractive. About thirty years ago an ancient stone was dug from the foundation of "Wallace’s house" at Elderslie, which is still, we understand, carefully preserved at this stately residence.

Passing the spots and crossing a filthy and stagnant-looking water, half canal and half stream, which here joins the Clyde, and which rejoices in the unmusical but appropriate name of "Pudyeoch," we find ourselves in the burgh of Renfrew, the capital of the shire, and although far from the greatest, certainly the most ancient of its towns. Renfrew was formerly designated "Arenthrou;" and, remembering an old rhyme which we learned in our boyhood—

"Arenthrou! Arenthrou!
There's yill and whisky there for you,
And a cut o’ caller sawmon,"

we at once look about for a place where we may have the wants of our inner man properly satisfied. The "caller sawmon" are not so plenty now-a-days as they were when our rhyme first saw the light, but the "yill and whisky" are quite as abundant and good as in days of yore, while there is no lack of the more substantial creature comforts.

The town of Renfrew proper is situated about half-a-mile from the margin of the Clyde. It is of no great extent, and consists principally of one main street with a number of lanes or wynds branching off irregularly from it. Architecturally speaking, Renfrew has but few claims to attention, the houses for the most part being of the humblest and most unpretending description. Many of them are old-fashioned thatched edifices, of a highly venerable and occasionally even picturesque appearance. The whole town, including a number of suburban villas and cottages, has an air of neatness and quietude which has an exceedingly pleasing effect. At the cross there is a townhouse and jail, attached to which is a somewhat diminutive spire, with a clock. The dwarfishness of this spire, or steeple, is rather a sore subject with the inhabitants, and has been the occasion of much banter and even bickering between them and their Paisley neighbours. A threat of carrying away the "steeple" will raise the bile of a Renfrew man at once. Formerly the mischievous Seestu’ lads were in the habit of coming down, and while placing their shoulders to the wall of the structure, crying out, "I say, Jock, gie’s a hand with this lift," to any Pudyeochian who might chance to pass. The result generally was an appeal to fisticuffs, when the jesters had frequently to pay for their joke with a sound drubbing. Of course, we pass the "steeple" without a hint as to its stability.

The illustrious house of Stuart, from which such a lengthened series of our kings and queens have sprung, had at an early period their principal residence in the vicinity of Renfrew. No vestige of the edifice now remains, but its whereabout is indicated by certain names which still cling to the locality. The site where once the proud embattled keep reared its stately towers is called "Castlehill" to this day, while the "Orchard," the "King’s Meadow," and the "Dog-row" are the names of places in the immediate neighbourhood, and probably derived from their connection with the ancient home of the Stuarts. "Baron of Renfrew" is still one of the numerous titles to which the eldest son of the reigning monarch of our country is by birth entitled; and we understand that considerable disappointment was experienced in the burgh, on the occasion of the Queen’s visit to the Clyde, that the heir-apparent did not land, when passing, to inspect his Barony, and the spot where once stood the home of his fathers.

The educational wants of the juvenile population of Renfrew seem to be well supplied. Besides several private schools, there is a large seminary at the western extremity of the town, designated the "Blythswood Testimonial." It is of elegant architectural proportions, and was erected by subscription in 1842, in honour of the late Archibald Campbell, Esq., of Blythswood. This institution, which is highly ornamental to the locality, has been endowed by the Town Council, and is conducted, we understand, in an efficient and superior manner. It were well that more of our testimonial builders imitated this excellent example, and united the useful with the ornamental in their monumental structures. The memory of Mr. Campbell will be none the less effectually perpetuated that it has been associated with an edifice in which utility and beauty are combined.

Leaving Renfrew we now take our way to Inchinnan, which lies about a mile to the westward. About midway we pass the spot where the unfortunate Earl of Argyle was wounded and taken prisoner, after the failure of his imprudent expedition in the year 1685. After the dispersion of his troops in Dumbartonshire the Earl crossed the Clyde, and, disguised as a countryman, was endeavouring to make his escape towards Renfrew. He had just forded the Cart, which is in the immediate vicinity, when he was recognized and attacked by two militiamen. These he managed to keep at bay with the aid of his pistols, but, assistance coming up, he was ultimately wounded and disarmed. We are shown a large stone on which tradition asserts the ill-fated nobleman leaned himself after his capture, and which is said to have been stained by the blood which flowed from his wounds. This interesting relic is within the policies of Blythswood, and is situated a few yards off the road. It is a large sandstone, about two tons in weight, and had probably at a still earlier period formed the pedestal of a crucifix, or monumental pillar, as it is hewn into a form which would adapt it for such a purpose. It is elevated considerably, however, at one end, and is now thickly crusted over with mosses and lichens. There are certain veins of a ruddy nature in the stone, which, in wet weather, give a tinge of red to portions of its surface. These ruddy spots are, or we should rather say were, supposed by the superstitious to be the effect of the sanguinary stains which it had received on the occasion alluded to. Archibald, Earl of Argyle, as the readers of Scottish history are aware, was beheaded, by the "Maiden," at Edinburgh, on the 30th of June, 1685, rather less than a fortnight after his capture.

A few minutes’ farther walk brings us to Inchinnan Bridge, which is situated immediately above the junction of the Gryffe and the White Cart, over both of which it is erected. The prospect from this point is very beautiful, including "the meeting of the waters," which, after a brief union, are absorbed in the bosom of the Clyde at the "Water-neb," about half-a-mile to the south. For several hundred yards before the Cart and Gryffe intermingle, they are only separated from each other by a narrow stripe of land, thickly covered with willows, which, at the period of our visit, are turning up in the breeze the silver lining of their leaves with a most delicious effect. The fine plantations of Blythswood also lend an air of sylvan grandeur to the spot, and materially heighten the loveliness of the picture. Old Pennant, who had a keen eye for the picturesque, said in reference to the scenery in this vicinity, that it was "the most elegant and softest of any in North Britain."

About two hundred yards from the bridge, on the margin of the Gryffe, is the church of Inchinnan, a small edifice in the Gothic style, with a massive square tower and supported laterally by buttresses. This structure was erected in 1828 on the site of an old building which had previously been removed. It is surrounded by a church-yard of limited dimensions, but which is girded with trees and shrubs, and which forms altogether one of the most quiet and secluded resting-places of the dead that can be well imagined. Gray would have been delighted with it. A little vestry at the end of the church is quite embedded in ivy of the most rich and glossy green, which is also beginning to straggle up one of the side walls :—

"Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.

A horse chestnut tree, as we linger, is showering down its broad yellow leaves with a low rustling whisper of dreariest import; while a gloomy yew—nature’s perennial mourner—stands unmoved and solemnly by, garnished with its deep red berries, like drops of blood intermingled with its funereal foliage.

"Cheerless, unsocial plant! that loves to dwell
Midst sculls and coffins, epitaphs and worms;
Where light-heeled ghosts and visionary shades,
Beneath the wan cold moon (as fame reports),
Embodied, thick, perform their mystic rounds:
No other merriment, dull tree, is thine."

In a long-vanished age the church of Inchinnan, with all its revenues, belonged to the Knights Templars. On the suppression of the order, in 1312, their property was conferred on the Knights of St. John, who held it until their dispersion at the Reformation. Strange to say, a number of the Templars’ tombstones are still to be seen in the churchyard. Centuries have passed away—the houses in which they dwelt have "left not even a rack behind "—the place which knew them once shall know them no more for ever— and yet here still, in despite of time and change, are the memorial-stones of the Knights, with the symbols of their calling uneffaced. The swords of the cross are still there, but the names of the bearers have utterly perished. There are four narrow-ridged stones, each having the form of a warrior’s brand in relief sculptured upon one side of it. There are also a number of flat stones somewhat in size and form like a coffin, each with a cross upon it, but varying in the style of execution. The majority of these interesting fragments of the past are still in a tolerable state of preservation. They are lying exposed in the church-yard, however, and consequently are liable to be trampled on and injured. They are surely entitled to a little more care.

The manse, a plain but neat building, is situated in the immediate vicinity of the church. The Rev. Laurence Lockhart, minister of the parish, is a native of our own city; his father, Dr. Lockhart, having been minister of the College Church for many years. His brother, Mr. J. G. Lockhart, editor of the Quarterly Review, and author of a variety of miscellaneous productions, both in prose and verse, has attained a highly respectable name in the literature of his country. [J. G. Lockhart Is now among the men that were. He was born in 1793, and died in 1854. A monument either has been, or is about to be raised at Dryburgh Abbey to his memory, by a party of surviving friends, among whom are some of the most eminent living names in the literature of England.]

Before we leave Inchinnan the shades of evening have begun to lower, and

"The gloomy night is gathering fast.’

We therefore hasten back to Renfrew, taking the route down the margin of Cart to the Clyde, and from thence across the fine lawn of Blythswood. On arriving at Renfrew we find a steamer roaring at the wharf, and proceeding on board, are speedily wafted to the Broomielaw.


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