Before whose might the universe bends low
In silent adoration! Guide my pen
While from my soul the sounds of music pour
Towards thy praises! For to thee belongs
The sounding stream of never-ending song.
When out of chaos rose the glorious world,
Sublime with mountains flowing from the skies,
On lonely seas, sweet with slow-winding vales,
Clasping the grandeur of the heavenly hills
With soft and tender arms, or lowly glens
Shrinking from glowing gaze of searching sun
Beneath the shade of the high-soaring hills;
Grand with great torrents roaring o'er fierce crags
In suicidal madness, sad with seas
That flash in silver of the gladdening sun,
Yet ever wail in sadness 'neath the skies
Of smiling heaven (like a lovely life
That wears a sunny face, and wintry soul),
Hopeful with fickle life renewing spring,
Gladden'd with summer's radiance, autumn's joy,
And sad and sullen with fierce winter's rain;
Ruled by the race of God-made men who rush
Towards eternity with half-shut eyes,
Blind to the glories of sweet sky and sea,
Wood-covered earth, and sun-reflecting hill,
Thou in the mind of God, almighty power!
Ruled, and directed his creative hand.
With thee the seas spread and the hills arose
To do thy Maker's will; the silvery stars
Like heavenly glow-worms, beautifully cold,
And gladly silent, gemmed the gloom of night,
And shed the gladdening glances of their eyes
On the sad face of the night-darken'd earth.
Without thy sweetening influence, the soul
Of nature's bard were like a sunless plain,
Or summer garden destitute of flowers,
A winter day ungladden'd by the gleam
Of flowing sun, or river searching wild
Through desert lands for ne'er appearing trees,
Or peaceful flowers that sandy scenes disdain.
No thought the philosophic mind imparts
To an enraptured world, but bears thy power,
And owns thee as the agent of its birth.
O'er the sweet landscape of the poet's mind
Thou sunlike shed'st the gladness of thy love,
Inspiring all the scenes that lie below,
Sweetening the bowers where Fancy loves to dwell,
And on the crest of some huge mountain-thought
Placing the glory of thy fleecy cloud,
To make its frowning grandeur greater still,
And heighten all its beauteous mystery.
Thro' the sweet-coloured plains of Poesy
Thou flowest like a sweetly-sounding stream,
Here, rushing furious o'er the rocky crags
Of wild, original thought, and there, 'neath bowers
Of imagery, winding on thy way
Peaceful and still towards the fadeless sea
Of all enduring immortality.
Like lightning flash for which no thunder-roar
Makes preparation, from th' astonished mind
On an astonished and admiring world
Thou dartest in thine overwhelming course,
Leaving a track of splendour in thy train,
And lighting up the regions of thy way.
With thee sweet music sings her various song,
And thrills the soul and elevates the mind
With "thoughts that often lie too deep for tears,"
And own a sadness sweeter than the rills,
A softer sweetness than the sinking sun
Gives to the sparkling face of pensive sea.
With thee great genius walketh hand in hand
Towards the loftiest thought, or sits in pride
Upon the golden throne of starry Fame.
Borne on thy wings the pensive poet flies
To the sweet-smiling land of sunny dreams,
Or pours his floods of music o'er the world.
With thy bright gleams his daily deeds are gemmed,
And by thy balmy influence, his life
Survives when he is dead!
MAIDENKIRK. D. R. WILLIAMSON.
LACHLAN MACKINNON,
OR "LACHLAN MAC THEARLAICH OIG," THE SKYE BARD.
AMONG many who have distinguished themselves by their display of
poetical talents, the subject of the present brief memoir, holds a
prominent place as a Gaelic poet. It is true that he was but little
known to the world, but he was much admired as a bard, and greatly
respected as a gentleman in his native "Isle of Mist."
Lachlan Mackinnon, patronimically designated "Lachlan Mac Thearlaich
Oig," was born in the parish of Strath, Isle of Skye, in the year 1665.
He was son of Charles Mackinnon of Ceann-Uachdarach, a cadet of the old
family of Mackinnon of Mackinnon of Strath. His mother was Mary Macleod,
daughter of John Macleod of Drynoch, in the same island. The poetical
genius of _Lachlan Mac Thearlaich_ showed itself almost in his infancy.
His father, like all Skye gentlemen in those good olden times, was a
very social and hospitable man, who seemed never to be contented unless
he had his house at Ceann-Uachdarach full of neighbours to enjoy
themselves in his family circle. The company were often much amused with
little Lachlan when a mere child, seeing the facility with which he
composed couplets on any subject prescribed to him. At the age of eight
he possessed a vigour of mind, and a vivacity of imagination rarely to
be met with in youths of more than double his age. A predilection for
poetry seemed to have gained an ascendency in his mind, over all other
pursuits and amusements of his tender years. He received the rudiments
of his education, under a tutor in his father's family, and as his
native island had not, at that remote period, the advantage of public
schools of any note, the young bard was sent, at the age of sixteen, to
the school of Nairn, which, from its reputation at the time as an
excellent seminary, was much resorted to by gentlemen's sons from all
parts of the north. The young Hebridean remained at Nairn continuously
for three years, and was greatly distinguished, not merely by his bright
talents, but by his assiduity and perseverance in improving them. His
studious disposition and diligent application were amply testified by
the progress made by him, and no less duly appreciated by his superiors
in the place. His love for study was enthusiastic, particularly in
regard to the languages. He was by far the best Greek and Latin pupil at
the Nairn Academy. His moments of relaxation were spent in the
composition of poems in the English language while at Nairn, although,
undoubtedly, the Gaelic was the medium which was most congenial to his
mind for giving expression in rhyme to his sentiments. At Nairn,
however, he composed several beautiful little pieces, and among the
rest a song which was much admired, to the air subsequently immortalized
by Burns as "Auld Lang Syne." Although his productions in English were
much admired, yet, as it was to him an acquired language, they could
bear no comparison with his truly superior compositions in Gaelic. It is
a matter of much regret that so few of his Gaelic poems are extant. Like
many bards he unfortunately trusted his productions to his memory; and
although well qualified, as a Gaelic writer, to commit them to paper,
yet he neglected it, and hence hundreds of our best pieces in Gaelic
poetry are lost for ever. Had they been all preserved, and given to the
public in a collected shape, they would have raised the talented author
to that high rank among the Celtic bards, which his genius so richly
merited.
In appearance _Lachlan Mac Thearlaich_ was tall, handsome, and
fascinating. He was distinguished by a winning gentleness and modesty of
manners, as well as by his generous sensibility and steadfast
friendship. His presence was courted in every company, and he was
everywhere made welcome. Of most of the chieftains and Highland lairds
he was a very acceptable acquaintance, while no public assembly, or
social meeting was considered complete if that object of universal
favour, the bard of Strath, were absent.
When a very young man he was united in marriage to Flora, daughter of Mr
Campbell of Strond, in the Island of Harris. Fondly attached to his
native isle, he rented from his chief the farm of Breakish, with the
grazing Island of Pabbay, at £24 sterling annually. And as an instance
of the many changes effected by time, it may be mentioned that the same
tenement is now rented at about £250 a-year. From what has been said of
the bard's amiable disposition and gentle manners, it will seem no wise
surprising that he proved to be one of the most affectionate of
husbands, and dutiful of fathers. The happiness of the matrimonial state
was to him, however, but of short duration. His wife, to whom he was
greatly attached, died in the prime and vigour of life. He was rendered
so disconsolate by means of his sudden and unexpected bereavement, that
he took a dislike to the scene of his transient happiness, and
relinquished his farm in Strath. Having removed from Skye, he took
possession of a new tenement of lands from Mackenzie in Kintail. Greatly
struck by what he considered the unrefined manners of his new neighbours
in that quarter, and contrasting them with the more genial deportment of
his own distinguished clan in Strath, he had the misfortune to exercise
his poetic genius in the composition of some pungent satires and
lampoons directed against the unpolished customs of the natives of
Kintail. It is needless to add that by these means he gained for himself
many enemies, and forfeited the good wishes of all around him. Finding
himself thus disagreeably situated, after an absence of four years, he
returned to Skye, where he was cordially received by his chief, and put
in possession of his former farm at Breakish. After being twelve years a
widower he went to Inverness for the purpose of visiting some of his
schoolfellows who resided there. Previous to his leaving the capital of
the Highlands his acquaintances there urged upon him the propriety of
marrying a widow lady of the name of Mackintosh, whom they represented
as being possessed of considerable means. He reluctantly complied with
their wishes, but it became soon too apparent to him that he did so at
the expense of his own happiness. His bride was not only penniless but
deeply involved in debt. Next morning after his marriage he was visited
by messengers who served him with summonses for a heavy debt due by his
wife. In the impulse of the moment, while he held the summons in his
hand, he seized a pen, and having taken his bride's Bible, wrote the
following expressive lines on the blank leaf:--
"Tha'n saoghal air a roinn,
Tha dà dhàn ann,
Tha dàn ann gu bhi sona,
Ach tha dàn an donuis ann."
This marriage proved, in every respect, an unhappy one. The lady, as a
stepmother, was peevish, harsh, and undutiful. Her cruelty to her
husband's children was a continual source of grief to him, and of
unhappiness to his domestic circle. On a certain day, the lady
quarrelling with one of her step-daughters, told her she hated to see
her face, and that she always considered the day an unlucky one on which
she had the misfortune to meet her first in the morning. The girl,
inheriting no doubt a share of her father's power of repartee, quickly
answered her stepmother, and said, "You have every cause to believe that
it is unlucky to meet me, for I was first-foot to my dear father the
unfortunate morning on which he left home to marry you."
Even amid his misfortunes, which he endured with much forbearance,
_Lachlan Mac Thearlaich_ was renowned for his hospitality and genuine
Highland friendship. Remote though the period be since he lived, still
his memory is fondly cherished in the place. He was possessed of so
endearing accomplishments, that time itself can hardly wipe away his
memory from the minds of his countrymen and clan. Many fragments of his
numerous songs continued for ages to be repeated in the country, but it
is feared, from all the changes which have taken place in the
circumstances of the natives, that these are now irretrievably lost.
Many of his witty sayings became proverbial in the island. He was one of
the first sportsmen in the country, and was considered one of the most
successful deer stalkers of his day. Along with his other
accomplishments he was an excellent performer on the violin, and in this
respect he had no equal in the Western Isles. Of him it may be justly
said:--
"To thee harmonious powers belong,
That add to verse the charm of song;
Soft melody with numbers join,
And make the poet half divine!"
As a proof of Lachlan Mackinnon's loyalty, it may be mentioned that,
quite contrary to the wishes of his chief, he went along with some other
loyal subjects, all the way from Skye to Inverness, in the year 1717, to
sign a congratulatory address to George I. on his succeeding to the
British throne. He spent the remainder of his days in his native isle
and parish, and died universally regretted in the year 1734, at the age
of sixty-nine. His funeral was attended by most of the Highland
chieftains, and their principal vassals. His cousin-german, Alasdair
Dubh of Glengarry, and all his gentlemen tacksmen were then present, as
also Macdonald of the Isles, Macleod of Dunvegan, Mackinnon of
Mackinnon, and Mackenzie of Applecross, with their chief retainers. A
numerous band of Highland pipers preceded the bier playing the usual
melancholy coronach. Amidst a vast assemblage of all ranks and classes
his remains were consigned to their kindred dust in the old churchyard
of Gillchrist, being the burying-ground of the parish which gave him
birth. A rude flag, with an inscription, still marks the poet's grave;
but the memory of his many virtues will be handed down in the place to
generations yet unborn.
_Lachlan Mac Thearlaich_ composed a beautiful and pathetic song which is
still preserved, to "Generosity, Love, and Liberality." He personified
those three, and pretended that he met them as lonely outcasts in a
dreary glen, and addressed them:--
Latha siubhal sleibhe dhomh,
'S mi 'falbh leam fein gu dlùth,
A chuideachd anns an astar sin
Air gunna glaic a's cù,
Gun thachair clann rium anns a' ghleann,
A'gul gu fann chion iùil;
Air leam gur h-iad a b' aillidh dreach
A chunnacas riamh le m' shùil.
Gu'm b' ioghnadh leam mar tharladh dhoibh
A'm fàsach fad air chùl,
Coimeas luchd an aghaidhean,
Gu'n tagha de cheann iùil,
Air beannachadh neo-fhiata dhomh
Gu'n d' fhiaraich mi, "Cò sùd?"
'S fhreagair iad gu cianail mi
A'm brïathraibh mine ciùin.
"Iochd, a's Gràdh, a's Fiughantas,
'Nar triùir gur h-e ar n-ainm,
Clann nan uaislean urramach,
A choisinn cliu 's gach ball,
'Nuair a phàigh an fheile cis d'an Eug
'Sa chaidh i fein air chàll
'Na thiomnadh dh' fhàg ar n-athair sinn
Aig maithibh Innse-Gall."
SGIATHANACH.
FINGAL.
IN the yellow sunset of ancient Celtic glory appear the band of warriors
known as the Ossianic heroes. Under the magnifying and beautifying
influence of that sunset they tower upon our sight with a stature and
illustriousness more than human. Of these heroes, the greatest and best
was _Fionn_ or Fingal. Unless our traditions are extensively falsified
he was a man in whom shone all those virtues which are the boast of our
race. The unflinching performance of duty, the high sense of honour, the
tenderness more than woman's, and the readiness to appreciate the
virtues of others were among his more conspicuous characteristics. Now
that Celtic anthropology is being so extensively discussed, is it not
remarkable that Fingal, who so truly personifies the character of that
race, is not adduced as the representative Celt? He was a Celt to the
very core, and Celtic character has been in no small degree moulded by
copying his example. He was, in truth, not the _ultimus_ but the _Primus
Gaelorum_.
Nevertheless, it must be confessed that to many English readers Fingal
is nothing but a name, and that even to most of them he looms dark and
dim through the mist of years. Unhappily, a nature so transcendently
humane and heroic as his is not the sort to win the admiration of the
vulgar. Nay, so far is its simple grandeur removed above the common
materialism of modern life that the most refined cannot, at first sight,
appreciate its exalted loveliness.
The fullest and, we believe, the truest account of him is to be found in
Ossian's poems. That the poetry so denominated was, in substance,
composed by Ossian we have no doubt. At any rate the descriptions of
Fingal therein contained are not only consistent throughout, but also in
accordance with all that we know of him from other sources. But were we
even to adopt the absurd theory that Fingal is a creation of
Macpherson's imagination, the intrinsic beauty of the picture well
deserves our study.
An old man retaining all the energy, but not the rashness of youth; age
with vigour instead of decrepitude, delighting in the words of sound
wisdom rather than the usual tattle of second childhood; and, withal, an
old man who is prone to moralise as old men are; a man able and willing
to do his duty in the present though his heart is left in the past; such
is the most prominent figure in these poems. He is pourtrayed as of
tall, athletic frame and kingly port, his majestic front and hoary locks
surmounted by the helm and eagle plume of the Celtic kings.
Though the idea of Fingal pervades most of Ossian's poems he is seldom
introduced _in propria persona_. Even when attention is directed to him
the poet merely and meagerly sketches the herculean outline, and leaves
our imagination to do the rest:--
At intervals a gleam of light afar
Glanced from the broad, blue, studded shield of war,
As moved the king of chiefs in stately pride;
With eager gaze his eye was turned aside
To where the warriors' closing ranks he sees;
Half-grey his ringlets floated in the breeze
Around that face so terrible in fight
And features glowing now with grim delight.--_Tem. B. V._
In order to introduce his hero with the greater _eclat_, the bard first
places his friends in great straits; represents them, though brave, as
overcome by the enemy and without hope, apart from Fingal. Both friends
and foes speak of him in terms of respect, and even the greatest leaders
acknowledge his superiority. When Fingal appears on the scene the poet
rouses himself to the utmost. He piles simile on simile to give an
adequate idea of his first charge--
Through Morven's woods when countless tempests roar,
When from the height a hundred torrents pour,
Like storm-clouds rushing through the vault of heaven,
As when the mighty main on shore is driven,
So wide, so loud, so dark, so fierce the strain
When met the angry chiefs on Lena's plain.
The king rushed forward with resistless might,
Dreadful as Trenmor's awe-inspiring sprite,
When on the fitful blast he comes again
To Morven, his forefather's loved domain.
Loud in the gale the mountain oaks shall roar,
The mountain rocks shall fall his face before,
As by the lightning's gleam his form is spied
Stalking from hill to hill with giant stride.
More terrible in fight my father seemed
When in his hand of might his weapon gleamed,
On his own youth the king with gladness thought
When in the furious highland wars he fought.--_Fingal B. III._
The notion that Ossian drew in part, at least from real life, is
favoured by the wonderful calmness and absence of effort evinced in
delineating so great a character. Expressions that go far to heighten
our admiration of Fingal are employed in a quiet matter of course way.
"The silence of the king is terrible," is an expressive sentence. Or
this again, "The heroes ... looked in silence on each other marking the
eyes of Fingal."
Nor are the gentler feelings less fully brought out in Ossian's
favourite character. Nothing could speak more for his affability than
the attachment shown by his followers. "Fear, like a vapour winds not
among the host! for he, the king, is near; the strength of streamy
Selma. Gladness brightens the hero. We hear his words with joy."[A]
Gallantry and philanthropy we might expect to find in his composition,
but the tenderness he frequently displays strikes us as remarkable in an
uncivilized chief. His lamentation over the British city on the Clyde is
as pathetic as any similar passage in our language.
Another surprising trait is the generosity he invariably displays to his
vanquished foes. All the more surprising is it that a "savage" should
show magnanimity when the heroes of civilized Greece, Rome, and Judea,
counted it virtuous to torture their captured enemies. "None ever went
sad from Fingal," he says himself. Over and over he is represented as
lamenting the death of enemies when they fall, or granting them freedom
and his friendship when they yield--"Come to my hill of feasts," he says
to his wounded opponent Cathmor, "the mighty fail at times. No fire am I
to lowlaid foes. I rejoice not over the fall of the brave."
A notable fact about Fingal is, that though he lived in times of war, in
disposition he was a man of peace. "Fingal delights not in battle though
his arm is strong." "When will Fingal cease to fight?" he complains, "I
was born in the midst of battles, and my steps must move in blood to the
tomb." Under the influence of this desire for peace he formally gave up
his arms to Ossian--
My son, around me roll my byegone years,
They come and whisper in the monarch's ears.
"Why does not grey-haired Fingal rest?" they say
"Why does he not within his fortress stay?
Dost thou in battle's gory wounds delight?
Lovest thou the tears of vanquished men of might?"
Ye hoary years! I will in quiet lie,
Nor profit nor delight in blood have I.
Like blustering storms from wintry skies that roll,
Tears waste with grief and dreariness the soul.
But when I stretch myself to rest, I hear
The voice of war come thundering on my ear
Within the royal hall, with loud command,
To rouse and draw again th' unwilling brand.--_Tem. B. VIII._
Limited as were the means of communication in those pre-telegraphic
times the fame of such a man must have spread. Accordingly, we read of
his name being known and respected far and near. Foreign princes speak
of him with admiration, and refugees from distant lands seek his
protection.
But it is on the power of his name in after times that we wish more
particularly to dwell. There have been no people who honoured their
heroes so much as the Celts. With them _valour_ and _value_ were
synonymous terms. Theirs was not a nobility of money, or literature, or
æsthetics, or even of territory. Nobleness should be the qualification
of a nobleman, and strange as it may seem, it was among the uncivilised
Celts of Ireland and Scotland that such a character was properly
appreciated. But they held nobleness and heroism to be identical. They
seem to have thoroughly believed that cowardice was but the result of
vice. A fearless man, they felt, must be a true man, and he was honoured
accordingly. _Flath-innis_, the _Isle of the Noble_, was their only name
for heaven. _Allail_ or _divine_ they applied to their heroic men. To
imitate such was the old Celtic religion as it was the primitive
religion of most other peoples.
Among all the heroes whom the ancient Gael worshipped there was no name
so influential as Fingal's. Through the ages he has been the idol and
ideal of the Celt. His example was their rule of justice. His maxims
were cited much as we would quote Scripture. To the youth he was held up
as the model after which their lives should be patterned, and where
Christianity had not yet eradicated the old creed, a _post mortem_
dwelling with him in _Flath-innis_ was deemed no mean incentive to
goodness. He was, in fact, the god of the Gaelic people, worshipped with
no outward altar, but enshrined in the hearts of his admirers. How far
the more admirable traits of Highland character may be attributed to the
assimilating influence of the idea of Fingal we cannot decide. That our
character as a people has been largely influenced for good by the power
of his example we have no doubt. The bards, an order of the old Druidic
hierarchy, became the priests of the Fingalian hero-worship. Songs,
elegies, and poetic legends formed their service of praise. To induce
their countrymen to reverence and imitate so great and glorious a Gael
as Fingal was the object of many of their bardic homilies. Taking into
account the nature and circumstances of the ancient Caledonians, we must
conclude that from position and influence none were more suitable to
become their ethical and æsthetical advisers than these minstrel
ministers of the Fingalian hero-olatry.