But there is no finality here. If there were, Glasgow would be thinking of shutting up shop. Dredging is still in progress, and the bottomless Loch Long still receives the resultant harvest of mud. Meanwhile, the revenue of the River Clyde Trust goes soaring up. One hundred and fifty years ago it was £1,500 per annum. In 1898 it was £430,000, and doubtless by now considerably exceeds half a million sterling. The Broomielaw, once, in a distant past, a wild waterside common where broom and heather flourished, is now a combination of Thames Street and Blackfriars, London, the resemblance heightened by the similarity of Glasgow Bridge and the lattice-girder railway-bridges to those spanning the Thames. The beauty of these lower reaches of the Clyde has, therefore, departed; but although the river at Glasgow may look and smell very like a sewer, Glaswegians are proud of it, as they have every right to be, for it is their very own. The story is told of such a proprietary Glasgow man being assured by a Canadian that a dozen Clydes could be added to the St. Lawrence, and no difference be observed. “Weel, mebbe,” the Glaswegian is reported to have said; “the St. Lawrence is th’ wark o’ th’ Almichty, but we made th’ Clyde oorsels.” The Clyde shipbuilding yards are to-day the first in the world, and the riverside, from Glasgow city to Port Glasgow and Greenock, rings with the clang of the hammers and the noise of the riveters busily adding to the maritime tonnage of the nation. North of the Cathedral is the more than usually unlovely district of Port Dundas, where, beside the two canals that give the neighbourhood the rather magnificent name of “Port,” are all manner of warehouses and manufactories. This also is the St. Rollox district. I do not know who St. Rollox was, but his name suggest as canonised boating champion. The place is notable for the tall chimney of Townsend’s chemical works: “St. Rollox’s big stalk,” 489 feet in height, said to be the tallest chimney in the world. In a furious gale it sways like a flagstaff. After an existence of fifty years, the lofty chimney was being repointed in August 1907 when John Goldie, a steeplejack, fell from the summit and was of course killed, every bone in his body being broken. [Illustration: DIXON’S BLAZES.] [Sidenote: “_DIXON’S BLAZES_”] The south, as well as the north, has its industrial sights. Across the river in Hutchesontown, is the well-known “Dixon’s Blazes”: great ironworks that shed an infernal glow by night over the street and the tramcars that run by. No Glaswegian ever willingly allows the stranger to depart without seeing “Dixon’s Blazes”: but, after all, Middlesbrough can show bigger sights in that kind.