34 
JOURNAL  OF  HORTICULTURE  AND  COTTAGE  GARDENER. 
January  14,  1897, 
A  RESTING  TOUR. 
How  the  papers  get  filled  during  holiday  time  is  one  of  the 
mysteries — that  is  if  reports  be  true,  for  these  tell  us  in  their 
babbling  way  that  scribes  and  comps  will  “rest”  then,  whatever  the 
consequence*  may  be.  Facts  prove  the  fallacy  of  such  fancies,  for 
the  papers  were  filled  as  usual,  and  came  out  to  the  moment, 
rather  proving  that  comps  at  least  rank  among  the  most  industrious 
and  self-denying  of  people.  As  for  the  sciibes,  they  have  little 
ways  of  their  own  for  meeting  emergencies,  and  they  give  their 
pens  a  rest  or  a  frolic  when  they  can. 
Since  thi*  pen  was  given  free  scope  to  dance  along  lightsomely, 
the  old  year  with  all  its  joys  and  sorrow*  has  gone,  but  it  cannot 
entirely  blot  oat  the  memories  of  the  pa*t.  Well  it  is  if  these  are 
pleasant — a  mellowed  after-glow  of  warm  greetings  and  fair  scenes, 
even  though  these  may  be  steadily  vanishing  in  the  misty  distance 
of  bygone  days.  One  of  these  memories  was  an  hour  spent  with 
a  grand  old  man  who  was  once  famous  for  Orchids. 
Before  leaving  home  for  roaming  and  resting  an  intimation  was 
given  to  a  knight  of  the  pen  of  a  desire  to  call,  if  Fate  favoured, 
on  Dr.  Paterson  of  the  Bridge  of  Allan.  “  Dead  long  ago  1  ”  wa* 
the  sharp  response.  “Are  you  sure?”  “Certain.”  “When?” 
“  Oh,  don’t  bother  me,  I  am  busy  ;  but  years  ago.”  That  i*  the 
way  these  said  knights  meet  each  other  in  parry  and  fence  with 
their  pointed  weapons.  “  Certainly  he  was  an  old  man  fifteen  years 
ago,”  was  another  venturesome  remark  ;  “  but  I  had  not  observed 
any  record  of  his  death.”  This  brought  the  young  knight  up  in 
his  stirrups,  and  in  voice  stern  and  snappy  came  the  decisive  word 
once  more,  “  Dead,  I  tell  you.  Why  can’t  you  let  him  alone  ?  ” 
This  was  closing  the  door  with  a  bang.  The  matter  ended,  and 
the  doctor  was  regarded  as  “  no  more.” 
A  room  at  Keir,  arranging  for  a  call  at  Stirling  en  route  for 
Glasgow  and  Rothesay.  “  You  take  train  at  the  Bridge,”  com¬ 
menced  the  instructor — “Bridge  of  Allan.”  A  chord  was  touched, 
and  memory  re-awakened.  “  Did  you  know  Dr.  Paterson  ?  ”  Such 
a  question,  asked  within  two  miles  of  “  the  Bridge,”  would  no 
doubt  seem  very  absurd,  and  brought  the  response,  “  Know 
Dr.  Paterson  !  why  everybody  knows  him  ;  he  was  the  making  of 
the  place,  good  quaint  old  doctor.”  *’  But  i*  he  not  dead  ? " 
“  What !  the  doctor  dead  !  No  ;  and  if  you  go  see  him  you  will 
find  him  very  much  alive.”  “But  what  age  is  he?”  “Oh! 
nobody  knows  ;  he  has  been  a*  he  is  for  years — seen  the  whole 
long  town  spring  up,  with  its  “  hydro,”  hotels,  churches.  He  always 
said  it  was  the  healthiest  place  in  the  kingdom,  and  he  seems  as  if 
living  to  prove  it,  and  doing  all  he  can  to  keep  others  alive  too. 
A  famous  man  is  the  doctor.  ” 
A  delightful  autumn  evening.  A  pleasant  walk  found  us 
searching  for  the  cosy  retreat.  Yes,  this  is  the  place.  There  is  the 
glass  in  the  little  garden,  and  here  is  the  name,  all  the  same  as 
before,  but  the  surroundings  all  different,  and  the  most  brilliant 
flower  garden  of  the  season  in  front  of  a  huge  hotel  nearly 
opposite.  To  the  inquiry  for  Dr.  Paterson,  as  we  reached  his 
door,  came  the  professional  response  from  the  dainty  maid, 
“  No,  sir,  not  in  just  now.  Any  message,  please  ?  but  he  will  not 
be  long.  Perhaps  you  will  step  in.”  “Yes,  thank  you,  into 
the  garden.”  It  was  not  the  garden  of  fifteen  years  ago,  and  the 
h  rnses  only  contained  relics  of  the  past.  In  comes  the  doctor, 
not  bowed  down  with  years,  but  brisk  and  active  ;  a  quaint, 
rather  tall  and  spare  figure,  in  conventional  black  and  ancient  white 
neckerchief,  with  the  wide-spread  wings  of  the  olden  time ;  long 
white  hair  hanging  over  his  shoulders  in  wild  abandon — almost  a 
living  portrait  of  his  friend  in  youth  and  during  a  long  life,  the 
late  celebrated  Professor  Blackie  of  Edinburgh. 
“  Eb,  man,  but  I  am  pleesed  to  *ee  ye,  and  ye’ere  wifie — ye 
picked  a  bonnie  lassie  I  can  see,”  was  the  greeting  of  the  grand 
old  courtier.  No  gardening  noo  ;  son’s  gone  ;  always  wanted  ; 
always  busy  ;  folk  don’t  often  die  here,  and  want  a  little  attention.” 
“  But  I  was  told  that  you  were  dead,  doctor.”  “  What  vie  dead  !  aye 
they’ve  had  me  dead  many  a  time,  and  I  should  have  been  gone 
fifty  or  sixty  years  ago  but  for  coming  here,  and  here  I  am  as  well  as 
ever.  Health  is  a  question  of  common  sense,  man  ;  but  come  in 
and  partake  of  frugal  fare  and  a  glass  of  port  to  warm  ye.” 
What  a  museum  is  this  home  of  the  venerable  doctor’s  !  Years 
of  collecting  in  the  form  of  relics  and  curios  of  all  imaginable  and 
unimaginable  kinds  are  treasured  here,  piled  and  buried  under 
each  other.  Ancient  swords,  dagger*,  books,  chair*,  portraits, 
letters  of  historic  interest,  with  mementoes  of  the  Queen  and  a 
bit  of  her  bride  cake.  Neither  numbered  nor  named  are  half  or 
even  one-tenth  of  the  precious  relics  ;  but  the  doctor  knows  them 
all,  also  all  about  them  and  their  associations.  What  will  become 
of  them  ? — the  result  of  a  long  life  of  *earching  and  storing  by  a 
lover  of  his  country  and  his  Queen.  Surely  another  such  room,  or 
room  so  filled,  cannot  be  found  in  Britain.  An  hour  spent  in  it 
takes  us  back  to  the  turbulent  times  of  long,  long  ago,  and  is 
something  to  be  remembered.  But  time  steals  on,  and  it  is  late 
before  we  know  it.  “  Good-bye.  Always  call  and  see  me  when  ye 
come  to  Scotland,  and  bring  the  bonnie  wifie  ;  ye’el  always  be 
welcome  here.  Good-bye.”  And  so  we  left  our  entertainer — 
quaint  and  picturesque,  a  type  such  as  is  rarely  to  be  met  with  in 
these  modern  days. _ 
The  next  day  to  Glasgow  ;  but  a  break  was  made  at  Stirling  to 
see  the  ancient  castle,  perched  on  the  summit  of  a  wondrous 
upheaval  of  rock  out  of  a  level  plain.  A  little  enclosed  garden 
with  lawn,  trees,  and  flowers  nestles  near  the  summit,  and  from  the 
battlements  beyond  we  look  down  the  precipitous  rock  into  the 
almo»t  dizzy  depth  below  ;  then  descend  (by  another  route)  for  a 
drive  round  the  base  of  the  old  fortress,  finding  the  great  escarp¬ 
ment  on  the  western  side,  a  forest  of  wild  Roses,  and  along  the 
Bannockburn  Road,  the  farthest  way  to  the  station.  This 
“  farthest  way  round  ”  was,  in  accordance  with  the  old  adage,  for 
the  purpose  of  “  seeing  the  most,”  and  enjoying  the  pleasant 
suburbs  of  Stirling.  _ 
From  Stirling  to  Glasgow  is  only  about  an  hour’s  run  by 
expres*,  and  a  pause  of  an  hour  or  two  was  made  for  seeing  the 
“  second  city  in  the  Empire  ”  and  the  Botanic  Gardens.  We  saw  a 
little  of  both,  or  perhaps  it  should  be  said  a  good  deal  of  the  one 
and  very  little  of  the  other,  for  the  Gardens  were  only  seen  from 
the  outside.  It  was  in  this  way.  A  station  Jehu  was  asked  to 
drive  us  through  the  city  to  the  Botanic  Gardens  and  back  by 
4.30.  “  Oh,  aye  !  ye  want  to  see  the  toon  ;  it’s  a  grand  toon,  ye’el 
ken.”  True,  it  is  a  fine  city,  with  broad  streets  and  noble  buildings. 
The  worthy  man  kept  time  to  the  minute,  for  he  stopped  at  the 
Garden  entrance,  turned  round,  and  rushed  hack  to  the  station, 
arriving  there  exactly  at  the  specified  time.  The  intention  was  to 
have  had  half  an  hour  or  so  in  the  Gardens,  and  a  handshake  with 
Mr.  Dewar,  but  the  pleasure  was  denied  us  by  a  precise  and 
conscientious  driver.  He  mu»t  have  clearer  instructions  next 
time — not  simply  be  told  to  drive  to  the  Gardens,  but  be  informed 
we  wish  to  go  in  them  for  awhile,  and  he  must  drive  through  the 
“  toon  ”  accordingly,  instead  of  all  over  it.  It  was  a  case  of  being 
“  so  near,  and  yet  so  far  ” — two  or  three  minutes  perhaps  from  Mr. 
Dewar,  yet  for  the  purpose  of  a  friendly  grip,  as  far  as  the  hands 
are  apart  now,  or  over  400  mile*.  The  incident  points  a  moral — 
namely,  if  you  want  your  wishes  carried  out  express  them  so 
plainly  that  they  cannot  easily  be  misunderstood,  and  if  you  fail  in 
that,  and  things  go  wrong,  do  not  blame  the  coachman 
Off  to  charming  Rothesay.  There  are  three  ways  of  reaching 
the  Isle  of  Bute  from  Glasgow.  1,  By  steamer  all  the  way,  about 
three  hours.  2,  By  train  to  Greenock, 
about  forty-five  minutes,  thence  by 
steamer  —  an  hour.  3,  By  train  to 
WemyssBay,  express  about  fifty  minutes 
—steamer  thirty  minutes.  Fares  low, 
and  return  tickets  available  by  either 
route.  A  convenient  train  (4.40)  started 
for  Wemyss  Bay,  only  stopping  once — 
at  Paisley  —  and  brought  to  mind  a 
“Pansy  man”  there,  bearing  a  great 
horticultural  name  —  William  Paul. 
Rothesay  was  reached  before  6  30,  or 
just  in  time  on  an  early  September  even* 
ing  to  see  the  delightful  surroundings  of 
the  creicent-shaped  bay  and  the  attrac¬ 
tive  town  winding  round  as  a  terminus — 
the  hills  of  Argyllshire  on  the  right, 
with  openings  to  the  lochs,  the  Fir- 
clad  slopes  of  Bute  on  the  left,  the 
pier  and  gardens  well  “peopled” — not  with  boisterous  trippers, 
but  with  visitors  of  the  best  type,  who  love  to  *ee  the  splendid 
boats  come  and  go,  as  shown  in  the  photographic  reproduction 
obligingly  furnished  by  the  “  Buteman.”  Not  much  of  a  garden 
scene.  No,  perhaps  not  ;  but  would  that  numbers  of  gardeners 
could  have  a  week  of  autumn  rest  at  this  fair  and  salubrious  place,  to 
which  many  garden  lovers  find  their  way,  not  to  return  disappointed. 
We  had,  alas  !  but  two  days  on  or  among  the  Western  Isles — 
one  on  sea  the  other  on  land,  and  half  the  land  day  rainy,  thi* 
preventing  a  visit  to  Mount  Stewart,  the  princely  seat  of  the 
FIG.  11. 
MR.  CUTHBERTSON. 
( See  page  36.) 
