FROM THE HEBRIDES
TO
THE HIMALAYAS.
=A Sketch of Eighteen Months’ Wanderings in Western Isles and Eastern
Highlands.=
BY
CONSTANCE F. GORDON CUMMING.
“Come o’er the green hills to the sunny sea,
The boundless sea that washes many lands;
Where shells unknown to England, fair and free,
Lie brightly scattered on the gleaming sands.
There, ’mid the hush of slumb’rous ocean’s roar,
We’ll sit and watch the silver tissued waves
Creep languidly along the basking shore,
Kissing thy gentle feet like eastern slaves.”
_IN TWO VOLUMES.—VOL. I._
LONDON:
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE, AND RIVINGTON,
CROWN BUILDINGS, 188, FLEET STREET.
1876.
[_All Rights Reserved._]
_DEDICATION._
_To the Sister, whose loving care preserved such rough “Notes of a
Wanderer” as from time to time reached her from over the sea, I
dedicated the same, when at her suggestion, I strung them together in
their present form._
_These pages have lain by for a little while, and in that interval she,
at whose bidding they were penned, has passed away from earth._
_To her loving Memory I now Dedicate them, ere sending them forth to
meet the eyes of less sympathizing critics._
_CRESSWELL, NORTHUMBERLAND._
PUBLISHERS’ NOTE.
In the unavoidable absence of Miss GORDON CUMMING from England during
the progress of her work through the press, the Publishers have to
acknowledge their indebtedness to Miss ISABELLA L. BIRD, the
accomplished authoress of _The Hawaiian Archipelago_, who at much
personal inconvenience has undertaken the revision of the proof sheets
on behalf of her friend. Miss BIRD wishes it to be known that, with the
exception of certain omissions and verbal alterations, the text remains
as originally written.
PREFATORY NOTE.
As these volumes were compiled mainly from letters to near relatives,
and from journals intended for their perusal, a few allusions to family
memories occur which may not be of interest to the general reader. In
the absence of the author, who sailed unexpectedly for Fiji as the first
sheets went to press, the editor has thought it best to leave these
allusions as they stand.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
THE MULL OF CANTYRE.
PAGE
Its Early History—Its Ruined Churches and Lonely
Churchyards—Sundry Legends of Saints and Warriors—Kelp Burners 1
CHAPTER II.
THE INNER HEBRIDES.
Why the Mull of Cantyre is included—Islay, Scarba, and Jura—Legend
of the Whirlpool of Corrievreken—Oban—The Serpent Mound—Serpent
Legends—Dunstaffnage—Legend of the Coronation Stone—Iona—Legends
of St. Colomba and his Druidic Predecessors—The 360 Crosses—360
Sacred Stones of Mecca—Traces of Heathen Customs—Staffa—Mull—Ben
Cruachan—Legends—Rum—Canna—Isle of Muck or Wild Boar—Traces of
Animals now Extinct in Great Britain—Legend of the Scuir of
Eigg—Reach Portree 29
CHAPTER III.
THE QUIRAING. ISLE OF SKYE.
Old Church Customs—Lack of Timber—Encroachments of the Sea—Dr.
Johnson in Skye—Legend of Hugh’s Castle—The Rock Wilderness of
Quraing—Duntulm Castle—Plague of Midges—Great Sacramental
Gathering on the Hillside—Island Customs 101
CHAPTER IV.
A STRING OF QUAINT BEADS FROM MANY LANDS.
A Concert Room—Duntulm Castle—Chapel of Fladda—Magic Stones and
Crystals—Summer Yachting—Fairy-like Caves—Legends of Water
Kelpies and Brownies—Of Divers Superstitions still prevalent,
and of others now obsolete, common to Britain and India, such as
Planet Worship; Ordeal by Fire and Water; Belief in
Transmigration; the Fiery Cross; Unclean Meats; Distinction
between Wild Boar and Domestic Swine; the Sacred Goose; Sacred
Fish; Sacrifice of Cocks in Illness; Magic Circles; of Spilling
Salt; of Sneezing—Geology of the Coast—The Storr Rock—A Dismal
Walk Home—Sacrifices of Bulls to St. Malruba—Fishers Starting
for the Season—Seals and Cormorants—Fish without Scales deemed
Unclean—An Eel in a Ball-room—Drawing the Salmon
Nets—Transformations of the Jelly-fish and Barnacle Goose—Belief
in Existence of Mermaids 128
CHAPTER V.
MODERN CHIPS OF THE OLD BLOCKS.
Traces of Olden Days—Modern Witchcraft; Selling a Gale; Bewitching
Cows; Evil Eye; Numbering the People; Leaving a House Unswept;
Making Clay Images to Harm a Neighbour; Jealousy of Giving Fire
on Certain Days, answering to the Old Fire Festivals—Kindling
the Need-Fire—Sacrifice of an Ox to Arrest Murrain—Sundry
Customs supposed to bring Luck to the Cattle—Rowan-tree and Red
Thread—Of Reverence for Sunwise Turns common to many
Nations—Churchyard and Funeral Superstitions—Carrying Fire Round
Horses and Cattle—Traces of the Old, Spring Festival, still
called Beltane, or Baal’s Fire—Wheel, Emblematic of the Sun, and
Wheeling Dances—Bonfires—Exchanging Easter Eggs—Midsummer Fire
Festival (Christianized as the Feast of St. John)-Bonfires and
Dances—Leaping, and making Children Pass Through the Fire—Autumn
Fire Festival (Hallow-e’en)—How Christianized—Bonfires and
Divination Games—Winter Festival—Yule—Adaptation of Christmas
and other Festivals—Noel—Rolling Fire Wheel—Burning the Clavie,
and kindred Pagan Customs—Traces of Grian, the Sun-god—Gruagach
Stones whereon Libations were Poured—Hebrides Dedicated to
Goddess Brighit—Institution of Christian Nuns of St. Bridgit to
Tend the Old Sacred Fire!—General Process of
Assimilation—Offerings of Horses—Pagan Customs at Christian
Baptisms—Worship of Neithe, Goddess of Water—Well
Worship—Ineffectual Efforts to Check Worship of Trees,
Fountains, and Stones—But the King’s Touch as a Cure for
Scrofula Sanctioned—Traces of Moon Worship—Odd Customs of
Betrothal—Thumb-licking—An Owl’s Question 182
CHAPTER VI.
A ROYAL FUGITIVE.
Sketch of Prince Charlie’s Adventures while hiding in the Hebrides 277
CHAPTER VII.
THE OUTER HEBRIDES.
St. Kilda—Home of the Sea-bird Inhabitants—High Character—Toilsome
Lives—Traces of Old Churches, and Assimilated Paganism—Edicts
Sanctioning this—Ritual Combs—Martin’s Visit to St. Kilda—Origin
of Certain Gaelic Names—Church Ceremonies under
Difficulties—Sail to Harris—Drive to Fincastle—Temple of
Callernish in Lewis—Kindred Rude Stone Monuments Extending in
Unbroken Succession to Hindustan—Temples or Tombs—Modern
Dolmens—Passing Through the Regenerating Cow, or Perforated
Stone, or Rock Crevice—Herring Fishery—Sail to North Uist—Cattle
Market at Loch Maddy—Story of the Red Dye—The _Machars_—An
Improbable Shell Midden—Isle of Vallay—Fish Market—Tides and
Fords—Benbecula—Treasures Brought by the Gulf Stream—“God’s
Blessings”—Timber Supply—South Uist—Barra—South
Bernera—Mingalay—Sail to Dunvegan—Piper’s College—Legends of
Macleod and Macdonald—Story of Lady Grange 288
CHAPTER VIII.
FROM SKYE TO CALCUTTA.
At Anchor in Loch Staffin—Sail to Portree—A Calm—Whistling for the
Wind—Literal Pouring of Oil on the Waters—A Fortnight Alone in
the Rock Wilderness—Sligachan Inn—The Cuchullins—Divers
Tourists—Loch Corruisk—A Good Day’s Deer Stalking—Old Boar
Hunt—“_Blocs Perchés_”—Giant Fossils on Isle of Eigg—Legends of
a Clan Fight, and the Grave of a Viking’s Daughter—Old
Churchyards of Snizort, Nigg, &c.—Of Funeral Feasts—The Skye
Railway Foreseen by Local Seers—Drive _viâ_ Balmacarra and Loch
Alsh to Shiel House Inn—Glen Quoich—A Bold Outlaw—Fort
Augustus—Castle Urquhart—Eastward-ho! 344
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
OLD KIRKYARD OF KIL-COLM-KILL, THE MULL OF CANTYRE _To face_ 19
KIRKYARD OF KILKEVAN 27
SERPENT-SHAPED MOUND NEAR OBAN _To face_ 37
THE CUCHULLINS _To face_ 100
THE LODGE, UIG 102
THE QUIRAING _To face_ 116
DUNTULM CASTLE _To face_ 129
SCHLOCH MADDIE CAVE, SKYE _To face_ 136
THE KILT ROCK 158
DUNVEGAN CASTLE _To face_ 333
THE STORR 345
LOCH CORRUISK, SKYE _To face_ 354
CASTLE OF EILEAN DONAN 371
GLEN QUOICH 373
FORT AUGUSTUS AND THE GLENGARRY HILLS _To face_ 374
CASTLE URQUHART _To face_ 376
FROM THE HEBRIDES
TO THE
HIMALAYAS
CHAPTER I.
THE MULL OF CANTYRE.
“Both in character and in intellect the Bengalee is the Oriental Celt in
almost everything good or bad, except the Celt’s bravery.”—ALLARDYCE.
A pleasure trip to India seems to be one of the possibilities, still so
novel as hardly to have taken a definite place in the British mind,
which invariably conjures up dreary visions of burning plains, with
everything that can tend to make life hateful. Long summer months,
during which the fair fresh Western faces become paler, and more pale,
as they lie gasping, under the monotonous swing of the punkah, dreading
heat-apoplexy, should the weary “punkah-wallah” fall asleep (as he is
only too likely to do), and living from dawn to sunset in such darkness
as precludes the possibility of almost any occupation, even reading,
while it greatly favours the inroads of every horrible variety of
creeping animal life.
This being the general impression of Indian life, and certainly my own
till a very short time ago, it is pleasant for once to glance at it
through a rosier medium, and see how those who have times and seasons at
their own disposal, may now visit this wonderful land, and store their
minds with its grand pictures, without being subject to any of its
miseries. For my own part, I can tell of a year of unmitigated
enjoyment, during which my “panorama of travel” has carried me over
twelve thousand miles, full of infinite variety, and with no greater
trouble or inconvenience than often attends the simplest journey across
country (and such monotonous country!) in Old England; and though an old
proverb tells us that “east or west, hame is best,” it is a very good
thing to arrive at that conclusion for oneself rather than accept an
unproven dictum. I have returned from India, having seen more of its
marvels than almost any old Indian of twenty years’ service, and yet
have never felt one day of real heat, and have rarely seen a punkah in
action. Nor have I made acquaintance with any species of venomous
creature in its wild state except three harmless snakes, much like those
familiar to us on English moors.
Of course, everyone who lands at Calcutta receives the homage always
paid by the mosquito to the new-comer; but I never saw them anywhere
else, nor found occasion to use those large bottles of “Essential Oil of
Lavender” which I had proved to be the only safeguard from the plague of
midges, which were the continual torture of my daily life in Skye. My
experience of Indian climate, by dint of judicious locomotion, has been
to prolong a balmy continuous summer, from one December till the next;
and to this a second and a third might well be added, always wandering
over new ground. Perhaps these wanderings gained an additional charm
from the aimless, easy-going way in which I found myself, almost
unconsciously, drifting from the Western Isles to the Eastern Hills. The
only mistake was, drifting homeward in like manner; and only the rude
shock of finding myself once more in the bitter snows of an English
spring, awakened me all too quickly from this fascinating dream, to
return to the prosaic commonplaces of ordinary life. Nevertheless, the
dream has left the mind stored with multitudinous odds and ends, of
picturesque scenes and thoughts, but all so jumbled and ravelled, that,
like the tangled skeins in the old nursery story, it would need the
touch of a fairy godmother to bring order but of such dire confusion.
That good fairy will, I fear, not come to my aid, so I must unravel the
threads as best I can. Should any prove interminably long-drawn yarns,
you must recollect they were partly spun by jolly tars, who rarely know
when to stop. For the most part they can be but a heap of short, broken
threads, as diverse in colour as in quality, and so I fully expect that
you will dismiss my journal, with a criticism akin to that once passed
on an odd volume of Johnson’s “Dictionary,” by a hardheaded Scot, who
for a whole week had been laid up with a broken ankle and with no other
light reading. “Weel,” he said; “there’s no doubt the facts may be real
interesting; but as a whole, it’s vara unconnected!”
Do you remember the sunny morning when we parted from you, under the
blossoming old cherry-tree? little thinking then of all that would
befall us, before you welcomed us home again. Our only plan was to spend
some quiet weeks in the most out-of-the-world place we could find; one
where my pencil might keep me busy, while my brother could rejoice in
perfect idleness after a course of hard reading; and what spot more
suitable than the Land’s End of Scotland, the dear bluff old Mull of
Cantyre, which had already given us so many pleasant days?
So we started, but without reference to our neighbours, and soon found
to our cost that they were keeping holy-day, or holiday, as the case
might be. It was a Sacramental Fast—very solemn to one section of the
community, but a very “fast” day to the majority. Thus it came to pass
that every station was crowded, and the line blocked with extra trains,
and hours before we reached Greenock, our steamer had quietly sailed
down the Clyde. So far as we were concerned, we had good reason
afterwards (and indeed at the time) to rejoice in the delay, as it
enabled us to test for the last time what, alas! we may never claim
again, the unfailing hospitality of one of our truest and oldest
friends,—whose most unexpected death, one short month later, added one
more great blank to those which all too quickly thin that precious
list.[1]
The third morning found us under weigh, and by midday we were watching
the changing lights on the Isle of Arran, or Ar-rinn—‘the land of sharp
pinnacles’ most rightly named. Dark shadows were drifting over the
granite peaks of Goatfell, which seemed to tower so high above the mist,
though their actual height is only 2,875 feet. I little thought, while
gazing wonderingly on the grim peaks of Ben Ghoil, the “mountain of the
wind,” that I should soon be wandering among mountain ridges as shapely
in form, and more than ten times their height. Here and there were
little clusters of tiny brown huts, nestling in the shadow of the great
hills, and human beings with collie dogs and flocks of sheep moved to
and fro, like atoms scarcely visible. Nevertheless, the sight of these
reminded us of Pennant’s quaint description of his visit to this island
in the last century, when he speaks of the terrible prevalence of
pleurisy, and describes its cure by bleeding—a process to which every
inhabitant was subjected twice a year, in spring and autumn; a ceremony
which was observed with the utmost regularity. He tells how “the Duke of
Hamilton keeps a surgeon in his pay, who at those seasons makes a tour
of the island. On his arrival at any farm, the people bare their arms,
when they are bled into a hole made in the ground!” I think our modern
Highlanders would object to such treatment almost as much as to the
wages for which their grandfathers worked. For, according to the same
authority, the farm men considered themselves well paid by thirty
shillings a year, together with house, meal, and shoes; while the
dairy-maids received thirteen shillings and fourpence, and common
drudges only six and eight-pence.
As we passed gloomy Loch Ranza, with its fine dark background to the old
ruined castle, once a royal hunting-seat, our attention was called to
the boats of the oyster-dredgers; and we would fain have halted for a
night to find out whether the oysters of Loch Ranza have the same ear
for music as their brethren in the Firth of Forth, who require a
continuous dredging-song to lull them to their doom, so that the wily
fishers must perforce keep up an incessant monotonous chaunt, in which
all their conversation must be carried on. Various collectors of old
ballads have from time to time gone out for a night with the dredgers,
hoping to add new songs to their store, but all agree in saying that the
same words never occur twice unchanged; and so they only gain the bitter
cold of a night in an open boat in one of the months “with an R,” which
you perceive excludes all the bonnie summer nights. One allusion to this
graceful old custom in fisher-life is found in a charming ballad which
begins:—
“The herring loves the merry moonlight,
The mackerel loves the wind,
But the oyster loves the dredging song,
For he comes of a gentle kind.”
We passed various small vitrified forts, on prominent headlands, said to
have been purposely burnt, so that by the action of fire, a rock-like
solidity might be produced. These old ruins generally have the prefix
“Dun”—a fort, as Dunaverty, which is at the furthest point of the
peninsula.
Among the many theories which have been propounded concerning the traces
of a bygone age, none is, to me, so attractive as that which assumes
them to have originally been fire temples, the altars of Bel, or Bael,
the Celtic Baal, or Sun-god. These vitrified circular masses are
generally placed on some commanding height, often too near together to
have been used as beacon lights. The stones are fused into glassy
masses, the inside more perfectly vitrified than the outside, as would
naturally be the case, if these raging fiery furnaces were the altars
where fire burnt day and night, and where hundreds of animals and human
sacrifices were offered at the great Baal festivals. It is said that
long after Christianity was introduced in Britain, the fire worship was
continued; and even human sacrifices were immolated on Bel’s devouring
altars, the land long remaining in a strange twilight state, halting
between two opinions—the grossness of heathen darkness, mitigated indeed
by Christianity, but still very far from the light of perfect day; and
the people in general resembling the “mixed multitude” which followed
the Israelites in their Exodus, with some leaning to the new faith, but
a strong hold on the old idolatries.
The golden sunset fell on Ailsa Craig, and the bold headland of Davaar,
as we entered the fine land-locked harbour of Campbeltown, wherein lay
many fishing-boats of all sizes, with rich brown sails. Again we
bethought us of old Pennant, and his account of this crowded harbour,
where as many as two hundred and sixty “busses” might be seen at once. I
fear that the Cockney mind, picturing a ’bus of the present day, would
be somewhat disappointed to find so very dull a little town. Campbeltown
is chiefly remarkable for the amazing fact that its annual tax for
whisky-duty amounts to £600,000; of which £350,000 is paid to the
collector of Inland Revenue at Campbeltown, and the remainder in Glasgow
and elsewhere. This is pretty well for “fire-water.” The whisky of
Campbeltown and Islay bears a very high character, and the distillers
give so high a price for good barley that there is no longer any
inducement for the Highlanders to deal with the smugglers; who in very
recent times had stills for mountain dew all over this part of the
country, so extensive a seaboard affording good scope for their trade.
The Hebrideans crossed from the Isles to Rhunahourine (the Heron’s
Point), thence marching across the hills to Skipness in bands of thirty
or forty armed men, whose rough shelties were laden with heavy creels
containing the moonlight produce, which was then sent to Glasgow. The
“stream in the moonlight which kings dinna ken” has not wholly ceased to
flow, and I have heard of sundry mysterious presents of kegs of “the
crathur,” very superior in quality to any that is to be procured from
the large stills. But the days are gone by when the wild Skipness men
thought it all fair play to fight their battles with a revenue cutter;
and, having overpowered her crew, to turn them all adrift again without
oars or tackle, to be tossed at the mercy of the waves! Some of the old
stills are yet pointed out, or rather the caves and deep hollows where
the smugglers used to work. Deep pits such as those where we have so
often lingered, on hot summer days, in the dark fir woods above Dufftown
(that paradise of wild flowers), where, amid richest purple heather, you
note in one place a circle of white-stemmed birches, in another a fringe
of golden broom and tangled wild roses, clustering round a deep,
circular cup, where once the mountain dew was distilled, but where now
the greenest and richest ferns nestle in the cool shade, while
wood-doves murmur on every side. A pleasant resting-place, in truth.
To such as prize the rarest flora of our isle, that wood has one special
interest, as being one of the very few places in Britain where the
dainty little _Linnæa Borealis_ has, from time immemorial, uplifted her
delicate hair-like stem and tiny pink bell from the low heather beneath
which her long sprays of leaflets creep along the ground, only revealing
her presence in the noonday, by the faintest fragrance, and reserving
for the moonbeams her most honied breath. She is a coy beauty, not to be
lured from her chosen home. Only on one small patch of moorland are
those fairy blossoms to be found; a safe retreat, happily known to but
few, too covetous admirers.
To return to Campbeltown, or as it was anciently called, Dalruadhein.
Remote as it now seems to us, there was a time when it was the centre of
Scottish life, and for upwards of three centuries it was, in fact, the
capital of Scotland. This continued till the reign of Kenneth II., King
of the Scots, who, having finally subdued the Picts, and merged both
races in one kingdom, selected Forteviot, in Perthshire, as a more
suitable capital.
These Dalriads seem to have come over from Ireland about the year 502
A.D., and to have founded that kingdom known in Scottish history as
Alba; their power and numbers must have increased rapidly, for not long
afterwards we hear how the King of Alba invaded Ireland and fought the
great battle of Moyra, famous in old song. In fact, these Scots-Dalriads
held their place as a strong Celtic race, till the Norsemen overran the
land, and moulded existing institutions to suit their own convenience.
In later days James IV. here held a Parliament, as “Parliament Close”
still attests. There were, however, certain turbulent chiefs who would
by no means render obedience to his laws; more especially one Macdonald,
whose castle of Cean Loch stood on the very spot now occupied by the
large Castle-hill Church. In order to keep this man in check, James V.
came here in person, and repaired the old fort of Kil-Kerran, leaving in
it such a garrison as might overawe all rebellious subjects. But before
the King had got clear of the harbour, Macdonald sallied out of his
castle, took possession of the fortalice, and, in the sight of the King,
hanged the new governor from the walls.
This old castle of Kil-Kerran stood about a mile from Campbeltown. A
very large old burial-ground, close by, still marks the spot where St.
Kieran, the Apostle of Cantyre, first taught the people. St. Kieran was
baptized by St. Patrick, and soon afterwards seems to have found his way
to these shores, where, according to one account, he died fifteen years
before St. Columba landed in Cantyre, though they are generally said to
have come together. The cave in which he lived, the Cove a Khiaran, lies
among the rocks so close to the sea, that you cannot enter it at high
water. At all times it is a difficult, slippery scramble. Once there,
you find a fine cave, with a dripping well, filling a rock basin with
clear sparkling water, whence the Saint drank. And beside it, on a great
stone, is a rudely sculptured cross, where, in the solitude of this
grand wild temple, guarded from all human intruders by that barrier of
mighty waters, he might worship his God undisturbed. Of his church, once
the most important in Cantyre, little, if any, trace now remains; but
two shafts of broken crosses, carved with galleys, figures and
arabesques, are among the very ancient stones in the old kirkyard.
While speaking of saintly names associated with this town, I cannot
forbear to remind you of one, who has so recently passed away from our
midst, that the mention of his birthplace cannot fail to recall to
multitudes (and assuredly to every Scotchman, of whatever denomination)
the name of the great, and good, and genial Norman Macleod—a teacher as
influential and beloved, and one as unsparing of his work, as the
mightiest of those Celtic Fathers; one who needs no canonization at the
hands of earthly Councils to rivet his hold on the affections and his
influence on the life of multitudes, even of those who were never
privileged to hear his voice, but who, nevertheless, were followed to
the uttermost ends of the earth by his good and loving words—so tender,
and yet so strong and invigorating—learning from him year by year
something of deeper reverence for things human and divine, and perchance
catching from his large-hearted liberality something of a broader and
more glowing charity, such as would fain enfold the whole great world in
its own boundless love. Truly, were it only for having given birth to
one such son as he, Cantyre may henceforth claim to be not least among
the provinces of Scotland. In the market-place of Campbeltown there
stands a very fine cross of hard blue whinstone, covered with
well-carved figures, foliage and runic knots, and bearing an
inscription, but whether this is Saxon or Lombardic is still disputed.
It is supposed to have been brought over from Iona, where at one time
there stood 360 stone crosses, in the cemetery. These the Synod of
Argyle, in A.D. 1560, pronounced to be “monuments of idolatrie,” and
commanded that they should be thrown into the sea. Some, however, were
rescued, and taken to old churchyards and market-places in the
neighbouring islands, or on the mainland. They are all very similar,
being monoliths, generally of whinstone, and covered with elaborate
designs.
About two miles from Campbeltown lies the old kirkyard of Kilcousland,
one of many which, to me, give an especial charm to these green shores;
lying, as they do, almost within reach of the wild spray, which, dashing
heavenward, falls in lightest showers over the rank grass and golden
iris, and mossy stones, beneath which sleep so many forgotten
generations. Kilcousland has no stones of especial interest, but many
are quaint and old, and though the majority only show crowns and shields
and grotesque death’s-heads-and-crossbones, and fat-faced cherubs with
lumps of moss for their eyes, or else such growth of golden lichen as
Old Mortality would have loved to scrape away, there are some devices
which tell the daily work of the sleeper forcibly enough. Thus, a
ploughman has quite a graceful grouping of reins and harness; a
carpenter keeps his hammer and saw and sundry other tools; while poor
Snip, the tailor, carries his shears and his goose to the end of time.
Why is it that this most useful of honourable trades should be connected
in our minds with so many uncomplimentary sayings? The German proverb
says that “If it rains while the sun shines, a tailor has gone to
heaven!”—apparently an exceptional occurrence. Then we are told that the
word “snob” is a contraction of the tailor’s motto “Sic Nobilitas.” From
our cradle we are taught that, much as he may impress our childish mind,
he is nevertheless only the ninth part of a man; and here we find him
carrying a goose to the grave. On the broken shaft of an old cross, a
carved galley tells of some forgotten Island chief, while a neighbouring
stone bears a knight’s two-handed sword, surrounded with runic knotting.
The next tomb bears only a heavy dagger on a shield, no name to mark who
sleeps beneath. The Saint to whom this spot was dedicated is said to
have been a certain St. Constantine, a Scotch king slain by the Danes in
881. I sat for many hours in this calm “God’s-acre,” in the shade of the
ruined church, watching the ever-changing colours of the quiet sea,
lipping up to the foot of the green hill on which I rested; constant
changes from blue to green, and purple and silvery greys, all blended by
the reflection of every tint of sky and cloud according as the angle of
the broken wavelet either mirrors these, or lets us see beneath its
surface, into its own depths; giving us hints of the wonderful world
below the waters. There were broken reflections, too, from the hills of
Arran, and from Ailsa Craig, and now and then a white sail would round
the light-house and enter the quiet haven. I thought of the words of one
whose dying prayer was—
“Lay me beneath the grass,
Where it slopes to the south and the sea;
Where the living I love may pass,
And, passing, may think of me”—
and I thought that just such a churchyard as this was the resting-place
for which she craved. It was a scene of great peace, and I lingered till
the blue sky of noon had changed to that pale primrose against which
each form of earth cuts with such intensity of colour; and the evening
breeze, rustling among the tall flags, sounded like a mysterious whisper
from the sleepers around me.
The fine old Castle of Saddell, with its kirkyard and ruined monastery,
lie further along the coast, and here quaint sculptured tombs of
ecclesiastics and warriors lie under shadow of some fine old trees close
to the shore. Unhappily the monastery has proved a useful quarry for
ruthless hands, and the modern dwelling-house has been in a great
measure built at the expense of the church, all the hewn stones having
been removed, and the offices paved with gravestones—a species of
sacrilege unfortunately but too common even in these days. You remember
with what difficulty our father stopped similar devastation at Kinloss
Abbey, whose old stones were being fast converted into dykes and
farm-buildings, one fine old stone coffin being used as a pig’s trough!
And I am told that the same barbarous work goes on in many of these
neglected burial-grounds, where the most beautiful old slabs are
sometimes taken as convenient stones for fresh graves, and a modern name
roughly chiselled over the weather-worn escutcheon of some brave knight
of old. In many instances the stone is smoothed and cleaned, to begin
with, as in the case of that beautiful stone at Hilton of Cadboll, where
the elaborate tracery has been completely obliterated from one side, and
replaced by an inscription to the memory of “Alexander Duff, Esq. and
His Thrie Wives”! Often, these stones have been found convenient for
modern gate-posts, sometimes built into bridges. In some cases the grey
ruins of the old church are used by the neighbouring farmer as a
convenient byre or sheep-pen, or even pigstye.
The Monastery of Saddell is one of considerable interest. It was founded
in the twelfth century by one of the Lords of the Isles—whether by the
great Somerled or by his son Ronald seems uncertain, but it very soon
acquired a reputation for sanctity, and great men of old craved to be
buried there. Of Somerled, and his wars with Godred, King of Man, both
old Sagas and Gaelic legends tell many tales. There were terrible
sea-fights, in one of which the Manx fleet of galleys was so sorely
beaten, that Godred was compelled to yield all the Sudereys, or Southern
Isles, including “Yla and Kintyre,” retaining only the island of Man
itself. The wife of Somerled was a daughter of Olaf the Swarthy, King of
Man and the Isles. Various accounts are given of the manner of his
death, but whether in a sea-fight with pirates, or by assassination in
his own tent, seems uncertain. One version is that he sailed with 160
galleys to besiege Renfrew, and fell in action with the Scottish army.
In any case his body seems to have been brought to Saddell for burial,
and laid where so many turbulent spirits now sleep in stillness, and the
only unrest is that of the restless ocean.
“Now green o’er their bones the grass doth wave,
And the wild wind over their tombs may rave.”
In the castle is shown an old dungeon where Macdonald starved a luckless
Irishman who had the misfortune to own too beautiful a wife. At first he
only confined him in a granary; and the prisoner found means to get at
the grain, and so was kept alive. Then he changed his prison; but
through the barred window a kindly hen came daily, and gave him her egg.
So the flickering flame of life still burned. Once more he was removed,
and cast into this deep noisome cell, where nor bird nor beast could
bring him supplies—and here at length he died, having gnawed his own
flesh in the agony of his hunger. Then Macdonald gave him burial; and
the beautiful wife, looking down from the high tower, espied the
funeral, and asked whose it was; when she knew that it was her own liege
lord, she cried in bitter anguish that she would be with him anon, and
with one wild spring, she dashed herself from the battlements, and was
buried by his side.
The ruins of another old prison still remain in the wood close by, and
many tales of the treachery and vengeance of the lords of Saddell are
told in connection with these grey walls. This part of Cantyre also has
one or two traditions of Robert the Bruce; and the little Isle of
Rachrin, off the Irish coast (distinctly visible from the Mull), was to
him a haven of refuge in times of danger. In the old Fort of Dunaverty
he also found warm welcome. A few scattered stones, on a rocky
promontory, are all that now mark this old Castle of Dunaverty, “the
Fort of Blood,” once a mighty stronghold of the Danes, whose fleets were
wont to anchor near the opposite Isle of Sanda, still known to the
Highlanders as the gathering-place of the Danes, by whom it was called
Avoyn, the Island of Harbours. Upon it are the ruins of St. Annian’s
Chapel, once a place of refuge, where all outlaws might find sanctuary.
On the ruins of the Danish Fort a new castle was built by the
Macdonalds, who held their own in Cantyre till the days of Montrose,
whose cause they espoused even unto death. But when the star of the
Covenanters was in the ascendant, and the Royalists were driven even to
this Land’s End, Sir Allister Macdonald sailed for Ireland, there to
raise new forces. He left his castle in the hands of his brother, with a
garrison of three hundred men. Very soon General Leslie, with three
thousand of Argyle’s men, advanced to besiege the old fort. Bravely it
was defended, but after awhile Leslie discovered that the only well for
the supply of the garrison lay outside the walls, and that the water was
brought in artificially. Of course this was at once cut off, and not one
drop was to be had to quench their raging thirst. It was midsummer, and
even the kindly rains from heaven forgot to fall. Vainly were all eyes
strained to watch for Sir Allister’s return, across the sea, whose cool
green waves dashed their salt sea foam so mockingly in the faces of
these dying men at their last extremity. Sir Allister had been slain in
battle; so they might watch till they were weary, but all in vain.
At length they were forced to capitulate, and for five days were kept
prisoners on their rock together with a hundred more who had been
captured in a cave, or rather, smoked out of it, as the manner was.
Leslie seems to have inclined to mercy towards the captives, but he was
hounded on by a Puritan preacher, Nave by name, and knave by nature, who
insisted on the slaughter “of these Amalekites.” At length his counsel
prevailed, and all the helpless captives were either put to the sword or
dashed from the precipice into the sea, where they lighted on hard,
cruel, jagged rocks. And so they perished (all save one man, and one
infant), and from time to time bleached bones and skulls are still
washed up from the clefts of the rocks; and the fishers tell how, when
the wind drifts the sand from the bank close by, heaps of human bones
are sometimes seen, which the next kindly wind covers up again with a
fresh layer of soft yellow sand.
The escape of the little infant was the only gleam of light in that
day’s devilish work. Its nurse caught it up naked in her arms and fled
along the shore. She was stopped by a Campbell, and vowed the child was
hers: “It has the eye of the Macdonald” was the answer. Nevertheless,
the heart of Craignish was soft, and, dividing his plaid, he gave her
half for the naked baby and suffered her to escape. During those five
days of waiting on the rock, another Macdonald drew near with a small
body of men, to relieve the garrison. As soon as the piper perceived
them, he struck up a note of warning to bid them turn back. Thus they
were saved from the cruel fate that awaited their brethren; but the
piper paid dearly for his tune, the enraged Campbells cutting off his
fingers to prevent his playing any more such strains. Thus it was that
Cantyre passed from the hands of the Macdonalds to those of the _gleed_
(squinting) Marquis of Argyle and his clansmen. It seemed as though
Heaven’s righteous retribution sought them out, when, ere many years had
past, a terrible plague came and utterly depopulated the whole of
Cantyre. It was the same year that the Great Plague was raging in
London. The pestilence swept over the land in visible form, as a great
white cloud laden with death—just such a cloud as, in later days, has
rested on Malaga, and other cities, in times of cholera; on Dumfries,
for instance, where in 1843 the cholera raged for months, nor ever
stayed its ravages till one-third of the inhabitants were laid in great
pits in the overcrowded churchyards. And during all the time that the
Angel of Death thus brooded over the city, a pestilential cloud hung
like a death pall, floating in mid-air, above the circle of hills which
enclose the city as in a cup. It was a dull heavy film, through which
neither the foul air could escape nor could fresh air circulate, but all
was dead stagnation; even the sunbeams passing through were discoloured,
and fell with lurid glare upon the scene of horror below. The
fever-cloud rested long on Cantyre, and left its traces for many
generations. So sorely did Argyle’s estates suffer, that moneys were
voted by Parliament for his relief, while the poorer folk received such
help as the churches could collect.
A sunnier legend of Dunaverty in its palmy days tells how its chief
rescued the fair daughter of the King of Carrickfergus from the pillion
of O’Connor, the King of Innisheon, who had run away with her against
her will. He restored her to her father, and continued his honoured
guest till, in his turn, he claimed the maiden’s hand, and was cast into
a dungeon to rue his presumption. Thence rescued by the damsel, he
escaped to Dunaverty; but once more returning in quest of his love,
found that she too was now in durance vile, for having aided his flight.
So, like the hardy Norseman of old, he showed that neither bolt nor bar
could part him from his own true love, and carried her safely across the
sea to his own old castle. The wrathful king followed in his galley,
with many mighty men of war, vowing swift vengeance. Happily counsels of
peace prevailed, and the lady obtained pardon for her lord; so they all
went back together to the Emerald Isle, and lived merrily to the end of
the chapter, and their children became kings, from whom the Earls of
Antrim claim descent.
The names of the old churches or cells, all about this country, are at
once recognised by their prefix Kil—as Kil-Choman, Kil-Michael,
Kilcoinan, Kilkeran, Kilcoivan, Kilkevan, Kilcousland, Kilraven,
Killdavic, Kileolan, Kill-blaan, Kil-ewen, Killean, Kil-Kenzie; most of
these have some carved stones—sometimes knights, sometimes ladies,
always swords. On some we find the galley of the Isles; on others
deer-hunts, hounds, otters, creatures like griffins with wonderful tails
of scroll-work, winding about in intricate patterns of foliage or other
tracery; sometimes birds fighting; sometimes shears or other implements
of work. All, or almost all, are alike nameless, covering the dust of
long-forgotten heroes. Some of those in the best preservation are in the
chapel of St. Cormac at Kiels, in North Knapdale, where there are an
unusual number of well-carved devices of all sorts. At some of these old
churchyards there now remains literally no trace of the ancient cell,
though they are still used as places of burial. As Wordsworth has it:—
“Of Church or Sabbath ties
No vestige now remains. Yet thither creep
Bereft ones, and in lowly anguish weep
Their prayers out to the wind and naked skies.
Proud tomb is none; but rudely sculptured knights
By humble choice of plain old times are seen
Level with earth, among the hillocks green.”
The majority, however, still retain some ruins of the old churches.
Others, again, do not betray their character by their name, as Patchen,
an enclosure among the sand-hills where the old tombs are half overgrown
with bent, and half veiled with salt drifting sand. Many a sad story
these churchyards of our seaboard could tell; of terrible nights in
which all the breadwinners of a hamlet have been lost, and none but lads
and women left to fight life’s battle. Such women, though! so brave and
hardy; and withal so leal to the dead. In one of these quiet little
churchyards in Yorkshire is a simple headstone, and the fishers will
tell you that the man who lies there was drowned one awful night, and
the sea did not give up her dead till the end of eleven weeks!—from
December till March; and during all those bitter wintry days his wife
followed every receding tide, scanning each ledge and crevice of the
black rocks, each pool below the slippery tangled sea-weed. Vainly did
the neighbours urge her to forego the hopeless search. Early and late
the sad solitary woman was at her post, reckless of the beating storm
and bitter frosty wind, still keeping her weary vigil; and at last, when
almost despairing of success, her prayer was granted and the waves
brought him to her feet. So she buried him in “mother clay,” and watched
by the green mound for upwards of thirty years, ere she was laid by his
side.
Of the old kirkyards in Cantyre, perhaps the most striking is one at the
extreme end of the Moyle, near the ruined Fort of Dunaverty before
alluded to; just such a one as that where King Arthur was laid, when
sorely wounded in that battle among the mountains beside the winter sea—
“A ruined shrine, beside the place of tombs,
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,
Old knights. And over them the sea wind sang
Shrill, chill—with flakes of foam.”
This is Kilcolmkeil, or the Cell of St. Columba at Keil.
In defiance of the commonly received account of his having first landed
on Isle Oronsay, near Colonsay, and having thence departed because he
could still see Ireland, which he had vowed never to behold again, the
tradition in Cantyre is that he first landed at this spot; and that,
although in full view of the Irish coast, he here built this little
church, where he preached for some time before he went to Iona, leaving
his saintly mark on many a nook. The Highlanders still point out the
“Bay of the Boat,” as the spot where his frail currach, of wickerwork
covered with hides, first touched the shore, whence he was to make his
way to the court of Connal MacCongail, King of the Northern Scots, to
whom he was nearly related, being himself of the blood-royal. Connal and
his people, being already Christians, gave him warm welcome, and sent
him under safe escort to Brude, the King of the Picts. He too declared
himself a Christian; and his chiefs and people were not slow to follow
his example. Soon even Broichan, the Arch-Druid, was converted, having
been cured by St. Columba of a dangerous and sudden illness.
The illness of Broichan was as miraculous as his cure. St. Columba had
requested him to release a certain captive, an Irishwoman. This Broichan
refused to do. Columba proceeding to the River Ness, took thence a white
pebble, and, showing it to his companions, told them that the Angel of
God had stricken the Arch-Druid with a sudden stroke, so that he lay
nigh unto death, but that should he repent, he had only to drink a cup
of water in which that pebble had been dipped, and he would assuredly
recover. While he yet spake, two horsemen galloped up, bearing tidings
from the king that all had befallen even as Columba had predicted. The
holy man straightway sent messengers to the palace; they received the
captive from the hand of the repentant Broichan, while he himself,
having drunk of that mystic cup (whereon the pebble floated as though it
had been a nut), was immediately made whole. That little pebble was
afterwards preserved among the treasures of King Brude, and, retaining
its miraculous power of floating on water, in common with other magical
stones, it wrought divers wondrous cures. Thus it was that, when the
king proposed to bestow on St. Columba the Innis-nan-Druid-a-nach, the
Holy Isle of the Druids, he was suffered to hold it in peace, and
without great opposition.
I am told that no part of Scotland is richer than Cantyre in relics of
those pre-Christian times; cairns and barrows, monumental pillars
erected above stone coffins, and rude urns containing the ashes of
bodies that had been burnt, having been found in many of its green
downs.
There seems every reason to believe that the honour of having first
introduced Christianity to this district has been erroneously attributed
to St. Columba, his tutor, St. Kieran, “the Apostle of Cantyre,” whose
church and cave we saw near Campbeltown, having come over from Ireland
with a colony of Christian Dalriads, who settled in Argyleshire, some
fifty years before Columba, the fiery Abbot of Durrow, had quarrelled
with and been banished from Ireland by the Ardriagh, or President of the
Irish King. It seems that when attending a great meeting of the lords
temporal and spiritual of the Green Isle, Columba was rash enough to
take with him a young son of Aodh, King of Connaught, who was at enmity
with the Ardriagh. Even the sanctity of the Abbot proved no protection
for the young man, who was treacherously slain. Then followed war, in
which Columba sided with the aggrieved father, and eventually received
that command to quit Ireland which brought his fiery energies to the aid
of the little Christian band of Dalriads in Cantyre; whence he moved
onward to that Isle where, in after years, kings and rulers craved
permission to lay their dust near that of one so holy.
St. Kieran is not the only pioneer of the faith whom we are apt to rob
of honour due, while heaping veneration on St. Columba. How constantly
we hear the latter spoken of, as though he first had brought to our
western isles that light of Christianity, which thence radiated to the
furthest corners of the mainland! So far from this being the case, we
know that for a century before the birth of Columba, a series of duly
ordained bishops had ruled over Scottish dioceses in various parts of
the land; these being, for the most part, native Christians, who of
their own accord had gone to Rome to study. Their existence as
Christians gives some colour to the belief that, so early as the third
century, Christ’s Name was known in this land.
The first bishop of whom we hear was that St. Ninian who, in the end of
the fourth century, returned from Rome to his native county of Galloway,
where, we are told, “he ordained presbyters, consecrated bishops, and
organized parishes.” At Witehorn may still be seen his _Candida Casa_,
the first Christian church built of stone in Britain. Here he was
buried, about the year 430. In the following year St. Palladius was sent
to this country as “Primus Episcopus to the Scots believing in Christ.”
The next great name that appears is that of St. Patrick (born about the
year A.D. 373, at Kilpatrick near Dumbarton), who, having been captured
by pirates and carried over to Ireland, seems then and there to have
longed to Christianize the Hibernians. We hear that he escaped from
slavery, and contrived to reach the shores of Gaul, where he studied the
Scriptures for thirty-five years before he was ordained priest. Nor was
it till he was about sixty years of age that he was sent back as bishop
to commence his mission in the Emerald Isle. The patient student proved
a long-lived teacher, and is said to have died at his post in his 120th
year.
[Illustration: OLD KIRKYARD OF KIL-COLM-KILL, MULL OF CANTYRE _To
face p. 19._]
Early in the sixth century, we hear how St. Kentigern (better known to
us as St. Mungo, the patron saint of the beautiful old Cathedral at
Glasgow), fixed his see at the place where that city now stands. To him
the credit seems due of first Christianizing part of Wales. He owed his
early training to St. Serf, the Apostle of the Orkneys; so those remote
Isles must have had their first rays of light long before the disciples
of Iona went thither “as doves from the nest of Columba.” The fame of
that most energetic worker certainly has no need to borrow lustre by
defrauding his predecessors of their rightful share; doubtless, when he
landed on this wild shore of Cantyre, his heart was gladdened by the
knowledge that the light he strove to diffuse was already glimmering in
divers corners of the land. This old Church of Kilcolmkeil (where first
he taught the people) lies so close to the sea that the salt sea foam
dashes over the old tombs, and the tough green bent creeps up amongst
the stones, while bright sea pinks gleam through the mossy grass. A
steep crag of reddish rock rises directly above it; and, just beyond,
the bluff headland of the Moyle itself rises abruptly from the sea,
which here scarcely ever knows calm, but seems to revel in its joyous
liberty. There is not a sailor or a fisher on all this coast, or the
opposite shores of Ireland (Antrim being but twelve miles distant) who
does not dread the mighty green waves that are for ever raging in their
ceaseless battle with the stern old Moyle. In quick succession the
booming breakers burst on the unfeeling rocks, which have withstood them
for such countless ages, and now fling them back once more. With swift
rush the baffled waters fall back on the advancing wave, and thus
reinforced renew the ceaseless; hopeless attack, then, “white with
rage,” dash themselves to atoms, and fall in dazzling spray and foam
over the cliff. If you count the waves, you will see that about every
sixth is larger than the others, a chieftain in fact; and if, as it
curls proudly over, you can catch a gleam of light through the
transparent water, you will see its wonderful clear green, at the very
moment that the land breeze carries back its crest in tossing spray,
like the mane of some white sea-horse. Most beautiful of all is the
moment when two waves, whose courses differ slightly, come to a violent
collision, and dash their white spray heavenward, an encounter which you
will here see to perfection, as two strong currents meet at this point.
Perhaps if the sea is not very angry indeed, there will come a lull—an
amnesty,—and the graves that were drenched with the salt sea spray will
dry in the sunlight; and the shepherds can put off their boat, and row
to the grassy islands to see how it fares with their sheep.
It was on one of these unwonted days of rest, that I found my way to
Kilcolmkeil. You, who love the peace of nature even more dearly than I
do, can picture the scene for yourself The beetling crag,—God’s-acre
bathed in light,—earth and sky, gleaming with that clear shining that
cometh after rain. And the hush and silence of the calm wide sea,
noiselessly stealing on and on, till the great brown rocks, with their
wealth of golden sea-weeds, lie hidden, like purple shadows, beneath the
cool and quiet blue, and only a tiny edge of white rippling foam, marks
the lip of the lazy wave as it glides to and fro, or brims over the
ribbed sand, glancing and gleaming in the bright sunlight. Only here and
there, the still surface of the waters is broken by a broad leaf of
brown sea-ware, waving idly from the forest below, with quivering
motion, like some curious wriggling sea-snake; or a floating tangle,
like long human hair washed to and fro, suggests some fancy of the sea
giving up her dead to this green resting-place. Now and then there is
the quick flash of some white-winged gull, as it darts upon its prey,
and then again floating upward, hangs idly poised in the sunny air.
Altogether it is a scene of most blessed peace, such as sinks into the
heart with strange sweet power, soothing and lulling the turmoil of its
cares. For there is no more dear companionship than that of the sea,
which in its ever-changing moods seems almost like some human thing,
that one day claims our sympathies with its own wild joys or sorrows,
ready in its turn to weep or laugh with ours; to-day so calm and
peaceful, laughing in the sunlight; to-morrow roused to mad excitement,
lashing itself into wild rage; then, when its wrath is spent, subsiding
as though repentant, lying still and silent beneath the cold mists,
dreary and desolate and sad, like a sorrowful spirit, when all life’s
energies are subdued.
They only who have been cradled and nurtured within sound of that
ceaseless song of the wild waters can fully realize their subtle charm,
or tell the unutterable yearning for their music,—the craving for their
breadth, for their reflections of the great clouds,—for their incessant
movement, which oftentimes comes over the spirit, when the body is tied
to some monotonous inland region; the unspeakable longing for sight and
sound of the great green waves, the tossing spray and screaming
sea-birds, and the wild breeze that rushes past, laden with the salt sea
brine. None else can understand the intensity of that passionate love
which the sea and its shores can inspire—the thousand memories linked
with those wide white sands—those slippery rocks—that brown, wet tangle,
each leaf of which seems to have some hidden power whereby to twine
itself round the innermost depths of the soul. None else can sympathize
with the bitter disappointment of awakening from some blissful vision of
shell gathering or idling by those great waters to find that in truth it
was but a dream.
To such I say, if you would see Old Ocean in its glory, come to Cantyre;
but those who desire true mountain scenery had better stay away, for
when once you leave the seaboard and turn inland, you will find that you
have left all beauty behind you; the great swelling green hills do
indeed rise to a height of 2,000 feet; but the very name Cnoc Maigh, or
the Hill of the Plain, suggests mere shapeless high ground. Much of this
is arable, but at the time of our visit a sore pest was troubling the
land, owing to the lack of frost in the previous winter. This was a
gluttonous grub, which had appeared in countless myriads, and had eaten
bare all the fair green crops, leaving only fields of parched red earth.
Some of the farmers were brave enough to hazard a second sowing, but
with small hope of better success.
But the glory of Cantyre lies in her dairy farms; the rich fine soil
yielding abundant pasture, and supporting from twenty to thirty cows on
each farm. It is a land flowing with milk and honey, with comfortable,
well-to-do inhabitants who thankfully told us that the cattle plague had
as yet never found its way to their shores. But though the farmer will
offer you wine and spirits in abundance, you must not test his
hospitality so cruelly as to expect such a bowl of creamy milk as any
old “Caillach” in a black bothy would be proud to offer you, should she
own but one gentle “Crummie.” At these great dairies, the farmer prides
himself on his unbroken pans of rich milk, therein estimating
prospective pounds of butter and cheese for market, with as strong a
sense of their pecuniary value as any modern shooter (sportsman, I
cannot say) counting heads after a good day’s battue; in which
comparison, by the way, the farmer has, perhaps, the best of it; his
rich green fields, and bevy of well-paid dairy-maids, leaving no room
for invidious qualms, such as may sometimes afflict the seller of game
which may possibly have fattened at the expense of tenants, and has
certainly been bagged at that of guests, whose dog-carts too often
return home after these modern days of butchery and game-dealing much
lighter than they came. Just imagine the indignation of a genuine
sportsman of the generous old school, on being referred to a head keeper
for permission to buy at market price the bird that has just fallen to
his own gun, slain by his own powder and shot! Yet such things are, even
on Highland braes, in these degenerate times.
There are countless old legends attached to these green hills, and to
the cliffs and caves along the shore; tales of the warrior and Nimrod,
Fingal, and his faithful hound Bran; wonderful holes in the rock, that
have served for his cooking pots, wherein to boil rude kettles formed of
the skins of the deer, and filled with flesh, such as he loved to eat
half raw, and caves that have been honoured by his presence; but these
tales have been so carefully collected by our kinsman, Campbell of
Islay, that all lovers of such lore need only refer to his writings. A
quaint story is told of the old stone at Kilcouslan, with a hole in the
centre; namely, that kindly old St. Couslan, who had a strong sympathy
with luckless young couples, and very little for stern guardians,
established a law that every runaway couple reaching this stone, and
here joining hands, should be considered indissolubly tied. So here, you
see, was a forerunner of Gretna Green, or else a trace of Scandinavian
mythology, as the old Norse custom of betrothal bade the lovers join
hands through a circular hole in a sacrificial stone. This was called
the promise of Odin, and was practised in the northern Isles long after
they had embraced Christianity.
On the other hand, St. Coivin gets the credit of the most wonderful law
of divorce, namely, that all unhappy couples should, on a given night,
meet at his cell, when they were all blindfolded, and started on a
pell-mell race thrice sunwise round the church, suddenly the saint would
cry “Cabhag!” _i.e._ seize quickly! and each swain must catch what lass
he could, and be true to her for one whole year, at the end of which, if
still dissatisfied, he might return to the saintly cell, and try a new
assortment in the next matrimonial game at blind-man’s-buff! This
disorderly proceeding has given no character of unwonted frolic to the
peaceful and “dacent” inhabitants of the present day. No spot on earth
could well be more calm than the shores of beautiful Macnahanish Bay,
and the green woods and braes of Losset. The fields close to the house
are white with narcissus, the uncultured growth of many generations;
while genuine wild flowers, blue and green and gold, riot in the shelter
of the glen, and all day long the mavis and merle pour forth their
jubilant songs in the quiet wood.
It is curious to note how the absence of frost favours the growth of
plants too delicate for our eastern coast. Camellias bloom in the open
air, and great hedges of crimson fuchsia live securely all the winter,
on the lee side of sturdy fir trees, whose upper branches, however, are
all scorched by the blighting sea winds.
I wonder what peculiarity of atmosphere causes the wonderful splendour
of the sunsets on this coast. You know how much we have always heard of
the amazing glory of sunrise and sunset in the East, more especially
during the rains. I may safely say that I have scarcely once neglected
to do homage to these outgoings of morning and evening, but with perhaps
two exceptions, I have seen nothing that could bear away the palm of
beauty from our own skies; and I am more and more tempted to believe
that these “odious comparisons” are due only to the different hours of
rising and dining, which compel travellers to use their eyes in a way
they quite forget to do when at home.
Have you not sometimes wondered at the dull hearts and blind eyes that
could scarcely glance westward for one moment, though the golden gates
seemed to have opened behind the heavy purple clouds, just flushed with
rosy crimson; and all so quickly changing; softening and mellowing in
the hazy sunset light, till earth, and sea, and sky, alike lay steeped
in loveliness? Blind eyes they must be, that have not yet been opened to
read the Divine Book of Nature, written day by day by the finger of GOD
Himself; the GOD of Infinite variety, Whose worship men are so apt to
reduce to a mere system of forms, of infinite sameness. Surely the mind
that most dearly loves to drink in the beauty of the visible world, must
be the most in sympathy with that of the Great Artist who delights in
creating such refinements of beauty, “rejoicing in His work.” One
advantage over the sunsets of the East we certainly possess, in the long
beautiful hours of twilight, when the curlew and the plover alone are on
the wing; and that still later hour “’twixt the gloaming and the mirk”
when all voices of nature are hushed, except the grand old music of the
sea, murmuring its endless harmonies to the wild bent hills.
I doubt if there is any spot in all the British Isles, where you may
study Old Ocean in all its varied tempers, more perfectly than you can
here, in beautiful Machrihanish Bay, which lies outspread before our
windows, so that morning, noon, and night, we watch its changing moods.
From earliest times this spot has been noted for the tremendous size and
roaring of the waves, which on the slightest provocation seem to lash
themselves to raging fury, and many a brave ship has perished here,
deceived by the lowness of the land, and so lured on to destruction. The
whole force of the broad Atlantic seems to sweep into the Bay, as the
great wild waves rush onward, chafing in their tumultuous wrath, albeit
with such “method in their madness;” rising and swelling so
deliberately, as each mighty green billow curls and breaks, in a crest
of gleaming foam; and the seething water dashes noisily over the
shingle, bubbling and surging among the masses of rock which lie heaped
in such grand confusion along the coast—or else tossing its spray in
wild sport, right over the cliffs and caves, where the delicate ferns
are nestling, to the green bank above, where the young lambs are
learning to crop the sweet short grass from those dangerous ledges, and
spring back, startled, by such chilling practical jokes.
The waves are not idle in their sport. They are washing up great masses
of brown sea-ware, not carefully gathered with a loving hand, but torn
up by the roots, from the great gardens in the ocean depths. And the
poor kelp burners are watching anxiously to see what harvest they may
hope to reap. Some have only their creels, rough wicker baskets, which
they carry on their own shoulders, but here and there is a little cart,
drawn by a strong pony; a willing little beast, which strains every
nerve to drag its burden of wet, heavy weed, over the rough shingle, to
some spot above high-water mark, where it may be spread over the grass
or sand, and left for several days to dry; this is the most anxious time
in the harvest, as anxious as haymaking, in this uncertain climate; for
one heavy shower of rain will wash away all the precious salts and
iodine and leave the beach strewn only with useless lumber. As soon as
it is safely dried, the weed is heaped into little stacks, till the last
moment, when the furnace is ready to burn it. It is not “all fish that
comes to the net” of the kelp burner. Those broad fronds of brown wrack
which strew the shore are useless to him. He only collects the masses of
brown tangle covered with little bladders, and when the tide goes out,
he will cut all that he can find growing on the rocks, and add it to his
store; this being by far more valuable than that which is cast up by the
sea.
Let us sit down awhile, and watch him burn those brown heaps which he
collected last week. We cannot stand on the open shore, or the bent
hills, for the wind is blowing inland with such violence, that we should
be sent right across the Isthmus—but there is a green bank at the foot
of the cliff, facing the sea, where hardly a breath of air stirs the
blue bells and foxgloves; for the wind strikes the shore in front of it,
and then seems to be thrown upward at a sharp angle to the top of the
crag, and though we seem to be right in the wind’s eye, we shall really
be in perfect shelter. This is a wrinkle, which holds good for all rocky
coasts.[2]
Now the kelp burners have made their kiln—it is a long deep grave lined
with large stones. First they sprinkle a light covering of dry weed over
these stones, and coax it till it burns, then slowly they add a handful
at a time, till the grave is filled, and heaped up, with a semi-fluid
mass, which they stir incessantly with a long iron bar; and a very
picturesque group they are, half veiled by volumes of white opal smoke
which has a pungent marine smell. This work will go on for hours, and
when all the tangle has been burnt, the kiln will be allowed to
half-cool, and its contents cut into solid blocks which become as hard
and as heavy as iron, and are then ready for the market. From this
material, much carbonate of soda, iodine, and various salts are
obtained. And it was formerly of very great value in the manufacture of
soap, alum, and glass.
The great extent to which potass is now imported has however proved a
very heavy loss to the kelp burners, whose hard work now brings in very
small return. And years ago, the removal of the duty on Spanish barilla
was a matter of ruin to many of the Islanders, chiefly those of Skye,
where the weed contained a much smaller proportion of the precious
salts, than on other shores, such as those of Orkney, and where,
consequently, this manufacture has been almost entirely given up. The
Orkney kelp is used in the manufacture of plate glass, and fetches
double the price of that made in the Hebrides, which is only fit for
soap. Within the last few years, the price of kelp has fallen to 4_l._
per ton. In former times 6_l._ was the average, though it varied from
2_l._ to 20_l._ This high price was of short duration, and only
continued during a sudden failure in the supply of Spanish barilla. When
you consider, with what infinite labour and risk this crop is gathered,
and that every ton of kelp represents twenty-four tons of sea-weed, you
must allow that there is pretty stiff work for the money, and that these
kelp burners do not eat the bread of idleness.
Of all beautiful sandy shores, I know none to compare with the golden
beach of Macnahanish Bay, where the broad firm strand stretches for
miles along the coast, making the pleasantest drive that can well be
imagined, close to the water’s edge, where the sand is hard and firm,
and the rippling wavelets run up past the horses’ feet, and retreat
again, till you become giddy with watching them, and are fain to look
away across the mellow sea, to where the sun is sinking behind the hills
of Islay, and the five blue peaks of Jura, endeared to you and to me by
many early associations with those who have now gone from us. This drive
along the sands being the shortest road to Tarbert, it is not only on
fine days that it proves tempting, and sometimes the well-trained
horses, who have never felt a whip, but work gladly in obedience to
their master’s kind voice, have a difficult task to make their way; with
blinding surf almost bewildering them.
Once, only once, the beautiful shore proved treacherous. A long line of
shingle had been thrown up, by an unusually violent tempest, and great
beds of wrack lay between that and the sea, till day by day fresh layers
of sand were blown up, and washed up, and it all looked smooth and firm
as usual. But underneath, the hidden weed lay rotting, and as we drove
confidently along, suddenly we found ourselves sinking lower and lower
into dangerous quicksands. The good steeds knew the danger, and with
violent effort dragged us out into the deeper water; and so, got round
the perilous bank, which stretched far along the shore. Happily the sea
was dead calm, or we should have had a poor chance of escape, especially
as we had tied the children into the carriage with a series of intricate
knots, to prevent their jumping out to catch jelly-fish, and such-like
treasures.
[Illustration: KIRKYARD OF KILKEVAN.]
On the high ground overlooking the bay lies the old Kirkyard of
Kilkevan, where St. Coivin’s strange games at blindfold love were
played. It is one of the most interesting of those we saw, from the
extreme beauty of some of the carved stones. Some of these bear the
figures of knights, with sword, as long as that of Robert the Bruce, and
devices of the chase or armorial bearings, carved all round them. Others
have no figure, only one long sword; some have only daggers. There is no
mark to tell who sleeps beneath, or whence came the stones, though the
people have a tradition that they were brought from Iona,—which, indeed,
is likely enough; not as the spoils of ruthless pillage, but as the
handiwork of some of the holy brethren, well skilled in cunning
stone-work, who doubtless supplied these monuments to such of their
neighbours as were willing to pay for them. Be that as it may, the
carvers and the knights have been alike forgotten for many long ages,
and here they still lie, all facing the east—waiting. The restless
agitation of the mighty waters has not troubled their sleep; though, to
the idle dreamer who lies among the golden iris watching the broad
lights and shadows passing quickly over old Ocean’s face, it seems such
a constant emblem of the tossing and unrest of life, that he cannot well
put away the thousand thoughts thus awakened, and as the murmurous
echoes rise and fall with the breeze, they seem to whisper the words of
an old song:—
“Like the wild ceaseless motion,
Of the deep heaving wave,
Is our heart’s restless beating,
From our birth to our grave.
Toss’d by strong stormy passions,
On the swift wind we flee,
Till life’s bark reach the haven
When is no more sea.”