This beautiful and romantic glen is situated about half a mile to the north of the village of Row. The principal approach to it is through the grounds of Ardenconnal or Aldouwick; but there are several by-paths which are preferable if the pedestrian does not object to overcome a few obstacles, such as hedges, dykes, and ditches. The glen is about a mile in extent, reaching up front the Gareloch northwards. At its termination there is said to be a bottomless linn, where, according to the tales of ancient days, many dark and bloody deeds were perpetrated. Certainly the rugged, rocky, picturesque character of the glen is such as to corroborate the most startling traditions associated with it. The south part of the glen is thickly wooded with birch, fir, and hazel trees, and the craggy rocks are overrun with brambles, ivy, and brushwood, presenting an almost impenetrable jungle, while at the depth of twenty or thirty feet the water flows sluggishly along or tumbles over some projecting rock in mimic falls. The glen has of late years been made much more accessible than formerly, a pathway having been formed on each side and rustic bridges thrown across the ravine at short intervals. In one part the water, as if about to leave the little glen, suddenly disappears under the ground and is distinctly heard murmuring below the surface, but again, in obedience to an inexorable destiny, after a few hundred yards, reappears and continues its wandering course till it finally assumes the form of a considerable burn, which flows uninterruptedly into the Gareloch. The view from many points of the glen is beautiful, and must attract the most careless eye. Ascending the glen till you reach the outskirts of the wood, there bursts upon you an almost unrivalled scene of beauty: the clear and silvery Gareloch, bearing on its bosom the bark of many an honest fisherman, now appearing a mere speck, or the noble vessel with its living freight, ploughing its way through its peaceful waters; the opposite shore stretching out into the Firth of Clyde forming the peninsula of Roseneath. Almost at its extremity and partially hid by noble trees, stands the palace of Roseneath, the seat of the Duke of Argyll; and at a short distance westward, near the shore, is the Clachan, with its picturesque school-house, and troops of merry children. Towering in the background, the rugged and heath-clad hills which border Lochs Long and Goil, while away to the west, and, most lost in the distance, the craggy mountains of Argyll-shire, and a little to the south, disappearing in the clouds, rise the shattered and thunder split-ten peaks of Arran. In former days this glen, as its name implies, was a favourite and secure retreat for smugglers, and not a few drops of mountain dew have been carried from it unscathed by Government influence.

This glen is worthy the attention of the botanist, and would amply repay his toil; he might spend days in supplying himself with many rare and beautiful plants, especially of the fern tribe, and mosses of every variety and rainbow-coloured hues.

Tradition records that many years ago, and always when the moon was at its full, the figure of a woman in gray might be seen by night on the stone, crouched down, with clasped hands, and murmuring a low soft wail to the babbling stream.

This glen is sometimes known as the Whistler’s Glen; by this name it is recognised in the “Heart of Midlothian.” The author has connected it, despite a little anachronism, with the son of Jeanie Deans’s sister. He while an infant had been sold by the person to whom he was entrusted, to a wandering tribe of gipsies, and by them given up to Donacha Dhu, the chief of a party of freebooters, who appears to have made the glen a place of retreat, and here the young lad was brought up in a state little removed from the savage, and only known by the name of “The Whistler.” The reader of the Heart of Midlothian will remember that his mother, while on a visit to her sister Jeanie, then Mrs. Butler, nearly lost her life while wandering through the glen. She was attacked by a party of Donacha Dhu’s followers, among whom was her son, though quite unknown to her at the time, and was only rescued by the free use of her purse, and the appearance of some of her sister’s friends. The poor Whistler’s end was a very melancholy one; he was taken prisoner while attempting to set fire to a house, but making his escape, he succeeded in hiding himself in this glen, till having mortally offended Donacha Dhu, he was sold by him to some American traders lying at Greenock, and lost his life in attempting to escape from a brutal Southern driver.

This story, and other circumstances, give an interest to the glen, which would once have rendered a visit to it an undertaking requiring some courage, but it is different now. By any one alone, and unprotected, the glen may now be traversed. No whistle shrill can now clothe, as in days of yore, its rugged sides, with “plaided warriors armed for strife.” The change is no less welcome than pleasing.