I wrote just now of the tradition which tells how the coronation stone

was the very pillow whereon St. Columba rested his dying head. I need

hardly say that one of our chief objects in visiting the Hebrides was to

make our pilgrimage from Oban to Iona, that little lonely isle round

which such countless memories have clustered from all ages; once the

Holy Isle of the Druids, and held most sacred by our Pagan forefathers,

and in later ages, that is to say, some thirteen hundred years ago, so

hallowed by the burning and shining light of that most energetic of

saints, Columba, that all races of northern Europe made pilgrimage

thither, in constant succession, some seeking the learning of the

fathers; wise men coming from afar to consult those deemed wiser still,

on affairs of Church and State; chieftains and vikings coming to seek

blessing; penitents to confess their crimes (murder and sacrilege and

cruel forays), that they might do penance meet, and open a fresh account

with heaven. Here kings came, seeking consecration, and their fleets of

strange quaint galleys, with curious sails and multitudinous oars, were

anchored in these quiet harbours; such vessels as that in which King

Haco came from Norway—a great ship built wholly of oak, having

twenty-seven banks of oars, and adorned with curiously-wrought gilded

dragons. Oftener than all came sad funeral processions, galleys

freighted with the dead coming to claim a last resting-place in this

hallowed isle of graves. Chiefs and kings, ecclesiastics and warriors,

were thus brought from afar across the stormy seas, that their dust

might not be disturbed by the terrible flood announced in an ancient

prophecy—

“Seven years before that awful day

When time shall be no more,

A watery deluge shall o’er sweep

Hibernia’s mossy shore.

The green-clad Islay, too, shall sink,

When, with the great and good,

Columba’s happy isle shall rear

Her towers above the flood.”—_Translation._

Thus it came to pass that on this bleak isle,

“Beneath the showery west,

The mighty kings of three fair realms were laid.”

Here forty-eight crowned kings of Scotland sleep their last sleep; a

long list of royal names, ending with those of the murdered Duncan and

Macbeth, both of whom were, as Shakespeare says of Duncan:—

“Carried to Colm’s-kill,

The sacred store-house of his predecessors,

And guardian of their bones.”

Four kings of Ireland were also buried here, and even from “Noroway over

the foam” were royal dead carried hither. Eight Danish and Norwegian sea

kings were brought in solemn state, that they might sleep the more

peacefully near Columba’s sainted dust; of great lords, temporal and

ecclesiastical, the multitude is without number, and includes at least

one Bishop of Canterbury, Turnbull by name; and among the monuments of

these holy men were 360 carved stone crosses, which in later days were

destroyed by order of a ruthless Synod. In short the island has been

described as “the Jerusalem of the various Celtic tribes, who sought

safety in the eternal world by laying their bones in Iona.” Strange, is

it not? to think of all the interests that gather round one little rocky

isle, lying so far away in the midst of this lone Hebridean sea, and to

think how from its wave-beaten shores the great pure light arose, which

radiating thence on every side, never waned till the whole land was

Christianized, and churches and chapels were established in every

corner. Then the noble Mother Church, having done her great work, seems

to have died an unnatural death, and been suffered to fall into such a

state of ruin and decay as is hard to account for, unless the solution

lie in that old proverb which tells how, “when the croziers became

golden, the bishops became wooden,” and so perhaps the old fire and

vigour died out, and the churchmen preferred more secure dwellings on

the mainland, to the dangers and perils that surrounded them on

Columba’s Isle.

Remote, indeed, must have seemed their island home, when frail sailing

boats were their sole means of access to the great world, and a

difficult and dangerous journey this was too, for the pilgrims who

crowded thither; but an easy pleasure-trip nowadays for the bands of

tourists who, availing themselves of Mr. Hutcheson’s swift steamers,

contrive to “do” Iona and Staffa as mere incidents in a delightful day’s

sail, returning to their comfortable hotels at Oban in very good time

for a late dinner! It is needless, however, to remark that such a trip

allows only about one hour’s halt on either isle, just time to run

helterskelter from point to point, rushing in mad haste over ground

which more reverent and leisurely pilgrims would fain traverse on their

knees; at least figuratively!

Of course there are points of interest in every corner of the holy isle

which these luckless tourists cannot possibly visit in their one little

hour, during which they must, with breathless speed, follow the guide,

who rapidly pours forth his concentrated history of each spot ere he

hurries on to the next point—a history which they may digest at leisure,

when they once more rush on board, feeling surely very much like

over-fed turkeys on escaping from the clutches of a merciless crammer.

The velocity of their meal, however, depends a good deal on the season

of the year; in other words, on the number of sheep which the steamer

may have to carry from isle to isle, to or from their winter pastures;

so that perhaps in the height of summer the halt may be somewhat more

leisurely. And indeed, I am bound to confess that we felt we had wasted

a good deal of compassion on the unhappy tourist flock when we noticed

how many of them found time to spend fully half their allotted hour on

the holy isle in eating and drinking, which they might as well have done

on board!

Nevertheless there must be many true pilgrims who would thankfully spend

a few days on the isle, were they aware of the existence of a cosy

little inn, within a stone’s throw of the cathedral kept at the time of

our visit by the kindliest of Highland landladies, to whose motherly

care we can bear full testimony, as well as to the excellence and

abundance of her dairy produce. Such bowls of creamy milk, and snowy

curds, with fresh floury rolls! Such fare as recalled the childish

feasts served to us in bygone years by a faithful Highland dairymaid,

whose delight it was thus to minister to “her little calves.” Who would

not be a pilgrim to Iona to share such fare? Nevertheless my kindly

hostess would scarcely think that I did justice to her house, if I

allowed you to imagine that she was lacking in all the more orthodox

courses of fish, flesh, and fowl; but those I leave you to test for

yourself!

To us there was a charm even in the name of her house. Fancy being

welcomed to St. Columba’s Arms! The arms of that very unchivalrous

saint, who guarded the strict and severe sanctity of his isle so

jealously that he would not suffer womankind to set foot thereon; nay,

forbade even cattle on their account, because, he said, “Where there is

a cow there must be a woman, and where there is a woman there must be

mischief!” So such tradesmen and labourers as were indispensable to the

monastic community, and so had to live on the isle, and yet insisted on

having wives, were obliged to keep them on a neighbouring islet, called

the Woman’s Isle.

Even in death Columba would not suffer feminine dust to rest on this

holy ground; nor could even the Lords of the Isles obtain a little space

where they might lay their wives and their little ones. Consequently

while they themselves were buried in Iona with all due ceremony, these

lesser creatures were always taken to the Isle of Finlagan. After a

while, however, the women carried the day, and the Canoness of St.

Augustine here established a nunnery, or rather a priory of Austin nuns,

where, doubtless, the fair daughters of the land lived lives to the full

as holy as the holy brethren. The ruins of this nunnery are the first

object that we come to on landing. They bear date from about the 12th

century, which is also the date of the oldest part of the cathedral,

though it was not finished till somewhat later. Of the actual buildings

of St. Columba, all trace has, of course, long since passed away, as we

may well believe from their frail nature, all his churches on island or

mainland being built of wood and wattle, thatched with reeds, where such

could be obtained, while here, where wood was probably almost as unknown

in his day as it is now (though his biographers do mention that the

brethren were sent forth to gather bundles of twigs to build their

hospice), the buildings must have been chiefly made of unmortared stone

and rubble. Consequently, by far the oldest Christian building on the

isle is that which bears the name of St. Oran’s Chapel, which was built

in the eleventh century, (that is, five hundred years after St.

Columba’s death) by the saintly Queen Margaret, wife of Malcolm Canmore,

on the very site of the original chapel, built by the great Abbot

himself, and called by the name of his friend and co-worker.

Touching this chapel, the Highlanders have a legend, which, if true,

would tend to prove that the search for truth at any price had not

gained favour among these Culdee teachers. It is said that while they

strove to build this (the first Christian Church on the Druid Isle) the

power of the evil spirit so prevailed, that the walls were overthrown as

fast as they were raised. Then it was revealed to the perplexed saint

that a compromise must be made, and one last sacrifice offered to the

powers of evil. Oran having generously devoted his own life to the good

cause, was interred alive, and remained three days in the grave. On the

third day, St. Columba, wishing for one last look at his friend, caused

the earth and stones to be removed, when, to the amazement of all, Oran

sat up, and spake, revealing strange stories of the border land, more

especially that the doctrine of hell, as commonly understood, was a mere

fiction of priestcraft, having no real existence. St. Columba having a

firm faith in the Eternity of Evil, could by no means suffer such

revelations to proceed, so he ordered the earth to be thrown in again,

and the voice from the tomb was silenced. You see he lived in the Dark

Ages, before the Spirit of Enquiry was fully awakened. Perhaps also, he

shared the sentiments of a district visitor who once asked me if I could

tell her the names of any strong damnatory tracts, as her people seemed

to find them so very consoling.

Tradition seems, however, to have very unfairly fixed this legend on St.

Columba. There seems small doubt that it refers to a very much more

ancient period, when Iona was most especially the Sacred Isle of the

Druids, and known only as Inis Druineach, or Nan Druidhean, “the Druids’

Isle,” which continues to this day to be the name by which the

Highlanders call it. Another old legend of the isle, quoted by several

writers of the last century,[17] tells of a circular Druidic temple

which has now disappeared (at least, we failed to find it). It consisted

of twelve great stones, beneath each of which a human victim was buried.

Sir Walter Scott has told us that the Picts thus bathed the foundation

of their strong buildings in blood, as a propitiation to the spirits of

the earth, and that sometimes a human body was thus buried beneath the

foundation stone; sometimes only that of an animal. The Welsh too, in

building their strong forts, found it necessary thus to appease the

earth, else the spirits would demolish by night whatever was built

during the day. Thus in Borneo, a slave is still sometimes buried;

though more frequently, both there and in India and Ceylon, the burial

of a chicken is now considered a sufficient offering. To such as care to

trace coincidences between the customs of East and West, these

traditions are therefore, of marked interest.

For the same reason, and supposing the probability of the Isle having in

early days been colonized by settlers from the east, the name bestowed

upon it by the Druids is worthy of note. In the oldest Irish annals it

is spoken of simply as I or Hii, which is commonly supposed to have

simply meant “The Island,” _par excellence_, but which some assert to

have been equivalent to the name Ei, Lord, under which the Sun-God

Apollo was worshipped at Delphi. The addition of “On” would mark the

Isle as specially consecrated to the Sun; as in Egypt we read of On, the

city of the Sun. The word Ionn in old Irish signifies the Almighty God.

In Basque the same word is Ioun. The Scandinavians and Welsh worshipped

Baal the Sun-God under the title[18] of Ion, and the Trojans under that

of Iona. Hence the Ionian Isles and Colonies of the Greeks. These

latter, however, were among the ancient worshippers of the Dove, and it

seems to have been the custom of many nations to unite the worship of

the Sun with that of their representative plant or living creature—their

Totem God in fact,—who was thus in many instances identified with the

Sun. Thus the Babylonians, whose great Pyramids were dedicated to the

Sun-God, “were also called Iönim, or children of the Dove; and their

city Jönah; the Dove being the national emblem and depicted on the

military standard and on one of the gates.”

Whether Dove-worship had any hold in these northern regions does not

seem to have been ascertained,[19] but so soon as St. Columba settled on

the Island as his head-quarters, it was suggested that its name Iona

signified in Hebrew a dove. Hence the common belief that the Island was

called after Columba, as indeed it was, being thenceforth commonly known

as I-Colm-Kill, “the Isle of Columba’s cell.” To his predecessors there

now remained only a little earth; the spot still known as Pitandruich,

“the grave of the Druids.” Only the sons of Erin still retained the old

name, and spoke of the Holy Isle as the Irish Drunish. Not that all

traces of the ancient faith were at once swept away. Even in the last

century, Pennant tells of an unmistakable Cromlech; two great upright

stones, supporting a third. He was also told by Bishop Pocock, that on

the Eve of St. Michael, the islanders brought all their horses to a

small green hillock, whereon stood a circle of stones, surrounding a

cairn. Round this hill they all made the turn sunwise, thus unwittingly

dedicating their horses to the sun.

There seems also every reason to believe that the 360 great stone

crosses, which by the bigotry of a Protestant Synod were cast into the

sea, as being “monuments of idolatrie,” may originally have been

Druidical monoliths, possibly inscribed with the rude cross, which, as

the emblem of universal nature, we find in various heathen lands; or

perhaps with that circle divided into four equal parts, which was the

Scandinavian symbol of the sun-god, and may possibly have first

suggested the form of the ancient round-headed cross. But whatever the

original inscriptions may have been, there can be no doubt that the

monks of Iona found ample employment in carving beautiful and elaborate

designs, like those few which still remain, thereby turning the

memorials of a heathen worship to Christian uses. We know that in all

parts of the kingdom, these sacred stones were, (by order of Pope

Gregory, A.D. 601), sprinkled with holy water; and thus sanctified,

while the people were still permitted to offer sacrifices of blood,

according to their old customs. In like manner in speaking of the first

dawn of Christianity in America, Souvestre says, “On lui baptisa ses

idoles, pour qu’elle pût continuer à les adorer. Ce fut ainsi que, ne

pouvant déraciner les Menhirs, on les fit Chrétiens, en les surmontant

d’une Croix, ainsi que l’on substitua les feux de Saint Jean à ceux qui

s’allumaient en l’honneur du soleil.” Thus the people might continue to

offer sacrifice to the gods of their fathers, while bearing the name of

Christians. In Ireland too, Borlase has told us how crosses were carved

on old Druidic monuments, that the people who could not give up their

superstitious reverence for these stones, might henceforth pay them a

sort of justifiable adoration, as Christian memorials. Doubtless the

same history belongs to those tall monoliths, surmounted by a roughly

hewn cross and circle, which stand by themselves, on the barren heaths

of Cornwall, with no trace of human work near, except the ancient Celtic

barrows, and grey weather-beaten Druidic stones. Even in Scotland, we

still find great Menhirs, such as those at Meigle and Aberlemnie, where

the cross appears in combination with many Pagan emblems; serpents,

large fish, centaur, mirror and comb, and sun-circles;—or that at Deir

in Aberdeenshire, engraven on one side with a rude cross, but on the

other with the circle, crescent, or double-wheel, crossed by a royal

sceptre emblematic of the worship of sun, moon and planets. Even on the

more advanced round-headed cross we find the same strange mixture of

Christian and Pagan emblems, commemorating both faiths, and blending as

the Runic knots, which so mysteriously interlace the whole. The number

of these stones of Iona is remarkable—three hundred and sixty.

At the time when Mohammed protested against the idolatrous worship of

the Caaba at Mecca, it was surrounded by 360 rude unsculptured stones,

all of which he caused to be destroyed, though he allowed his followers

to retain their custom of walking seven times in procession, Deisul,

_i.e._, Sunwise, round the Caaba itself, in reverence for Abraham and

Ishmael, who he declared had rebuilt it after the deluge. For you know

the original Caaba was a tabernacle of radiant clouds, which came down

from heaven in answer to the prayer of Adam, who besought the

restoration of that shrine where he had been wont to worship in

Paradise, and around which he had so often seen the angels move in

adoring procession. When, therefore, the cloud temple was restored to

him, he daily walked round it seven times sunwise, in imitation of the

angels. On the death of Adam, this tabernacle returned to heaven, but

one resembling it in form, was built by Seth; this being destroyed by

the deluge, was subsequently rebuilt by Abraham, to whom the Angel

Gabriel brought a precious black stone from Paradise, to be inserted in

a corner of the outer wall, and adored by the faithful and reverently

kissed. This stone is an aerolite of oval form, seven inches in

diameter, and incircled by a silver band.

Mohammed having by this angelic legend sanctified the old intense

reverence for this black stone, permitted the people still to kiss it

and do it homage, as tens of thousands do to this day. It is curious

that long before his own public career had commenced, he was chosen by

the people as the most fit person to lift this sacred stone into its

place as chief corner stone, after the building had undergone certain

necessary repairs. Here from time immemorial, the Arabs had been wont to

assemble for solemn worship; and here, when vast multitudes were

gathered together, bards and poets sought to win fame by pouring forth

in song or recitation just such stirring or pathetic lays, as those

whereby Ossian and his kindred bards enthralled our Celtic forefathers.

Perhaps among those who heard their lays, may have been Odin the

Scythian himself, it is said once a worshipper of the only God, ere he

sought his way to Scandinavia and became the demigod of his people.

Perhaps (who knows?) some of his followers may have brought to our isles

the tradition of the 360 sacred stones. We know that many such

Scandinavian settlers did come to our shores, bringing their own

traditions to mingle with those of our fathers, and a curious blending

of manifold superstitions we have acquired from the various invaders of

our land—Phœnician and Norse, Semitic and Aryan. Mohammed being wise in

his generation, encouraged these old pilgrimages to Mecca, and made much

of the bards, knowing well their influence on their listeners. So

instead of the old lays of the desert, they sang new songs in his

praise, and their prize poems were written in letters of gold and posted

on the gates of the Caaba.[20]

Speaking of Dove-worship in its possible connection with Iona—it is

worthy of note, that amongst the idolatrous emblems which Mohammed found

in the Temple at Mecca, were two pigeons carved in wood, sacred to

Semiramis. These he caused to be destroyed, as well as the 360

monoliths. Nevertheless, with his accustomed sagacity in turning old

superstitions to his own account, he tamed the white dove to sit on his

shoulder and peck grains of wheat from his ear, that when the simple

Arabs beheld the bird first hovering near, then lighting upon him, as

though whispering in his ear, they might believe that the spirit of God

thus revealed His will to His Prophet. Thenceforth their reverence for

the Dove was recognised as orthodox, and even to this day a golden Dove

is suspended within the Caaba in memory of this tradition, while myriads

of living doves nestle in safety in the city of Mecca, none daring to

molest them. You will remember how, in the Latin Church, the Holy Spirit

is represented as thus resting in the likeness of a Dove, on the

shoulder of St. Gregory, and inspiring his writings; also the clouds of

almost sacred doves, which claim special protection from priests and

people, as they nestle amid the rich carvings of St Mark’s beautiful

church at Venice, the home where probably their ancestors were

encouraged to settle by the Byzantine architects, who brought their

eastern grace and colour to this western world.

Another curious fact is, that the black stone, which Mohammed could not

induce the Arabs to cease from worshipping, had its counterpart in Iona.

It was preserved in the Cathedral till the year 1830, and in such

reverence was it held, that on it solemn oaths were sworn and agreements

ratified. A similar black stone, lying close to the sea, was also long

worshipped in the Isles; just as in India, at the present day, we are

told that one of the most sacred forms under which Juggernaut is

worshipped, is that of a shapeless black stone, unhewn, with diamonds

let in, as eyes. You will recollect that Juggernaut, with his rolling

cars, is held to be symbolic of the sun.

It would be strange indeed if the coincidence in the number of these 360

great monoliths at Iona, and at Mecca, had been the result of mere

accident, when we remember that both these races, who worshipped the

heavenly bodies, divided the zodiac into 360 degrees;—that the Arabs, as

well as the ancient Hindoos, and their Western Druidic brethren,

reckoned a lunar year of 360 days, believing the sun’s revolution to be

completed in the same period.

Among the stones of Iona, destroyed by order of the Synod, were three

crystal balls, which lay in three hollows worn on a large stone slab.

Every person visiting the island was expected to turn each of these

thrice round following the course of the sun, according to the custom of

Deisul, of which we find so many traces in these Isles. The action of

course represented the motion and form of the earth or the apparent

motion of the sun. The stone on which they rested was called

Clach-bratha, because it was supposed that when they had, by constant

friction, worn a hole right through the stone, then the _brath_ or

burning of the world would come. The stone still lies beside the door of

St. Oran’s Chapel, though, unfortunately, it has been broken across the

middle. In size and shape it resembles a flat tombstone, and might be

passed by as such, were it not for a row of cup-like hollows worn at one

end of it. These were pointed out to me by the old guide, as having

been, in his youth, occupied by stone balls, about the size of a child’s

head—balls which doubtless had replaced the original crystal destroyed

by that barbarous Synod. He told me, that in his younger days, he, like

all his neighbours, had never passed that place without stopping to turn

each of these balls thrice sunwise for luck. How and when these also

disappeared, he could not tell. Probably, like their predecessors, they

had fallen victims to some ruthless and senseless hater of ancient

superstition, himself too ignorant to perceive the bearing of such

trivial matters on divers vexed questions of the day—faint whispers from

the speechless past, they make one long the more to unravel its

mysteries.

For instance, how curious is the coincidence between this custom of the

old Druids of Iona and that of the modern so-called Fire Worshippers.

Rabbi Benjamin in his account of the Ghebers at Onlam, says: “Early in

morning, they go in crowds, to pay their devotions to the sun, to whom

upon all the altars are consecrated _spheres_, resembling the circles of

the sun, and when he rises, the orbs seem to be inflamed, and _turn

round_ with a great noise, while the worshippers, having every man a

censer in his hand, offer incense to the Sun.” The crystal globe seems

also to have been reverenced as a sacred symbol by the Babylonians; at

least we hear of such a one being suspended on high in the camp of the

great king, that it might catch and reflect the first rays of the rising

sun. This connection between the symbolism of the East and West was

repeatedly recalled to my mind while wandering through the depths of

mighty forests in Ceylon. There, in the ruins of the vast city of

Anaradhapura, which flourished upwards of two thousand years ago, I

noted three sacred Bulls carved in stone, each resting on a small

pedestal. To this day, women, whose offspring are not so numerous as

they desire, drag these figures round and round three times, following

the course of the sun. At another ancient city, whose ruins lie hidden

mid the richest wealth of tropical vegetation (_Pollonarua_), I noticed

a flat stone, the counterpart of the Clach-bratha of Iona, dented with

such hollows as could only have been worn by the continual rotation of a

heavy stone ball. A custom akin to the sunwise turning of the balls, and

one which was so long retained that it is doubtful whether it is even

now wholly extinct, was that of making three turns sunwise in solemn

procession, round the dead, as they lay on the green hillock of Eala,

the Mound of Burden; that is, the spot near the Martyr’s Bay where

corpses were laid on first landing when brought to their last

resting-place on the Holy Isle. There they were sometimes waked for

three days and nights, with singing of psalms, and wild wailing

coronachs, ere they were borne, slowly and sadly, with bitter

lamentations, along the “Street of the Dead,” and through the Narrow

Way, to the place prepared for them in the Reilig Orain, there to be

laid mid kindred dust. It is strange that this isle should be so

generally spoken of as having borrowed all its sanctity from the fame of

St. Columba, the truth being that (to whatever cause it was

attributable) the same feeling of superstitious reverence for the isle

was clearly in existence long before he found his way thither. Thus we

find King Fergus sailing to Iona for his coronation, though the mainland

would surely have been more convenient for that ceremony; and we

afterwards hear of his body being carried thither for burial, many years

before the fiery young priest had been exiled from his loved home in the

Emerald Isle.[21]

We find yet another trace of the old heathenism in connection with one

account of the cause of that exile and of the unjust decision, which

stirred up Columba’s wrath against the Irish King, and led to his taking

so violent a part in what we may call the civil wars, that he was

recommended to carry his energies across the seas, which he accordingly

did, greatly to the benefit of Scotland. The story was, as you may

remember, that the youthful Columba (always of a devout turn and

addicted to sacred studies) was struck with special admiration of a Book

of Psalms belonging to St. Finian. The latter, saint though he was, must

have been a noted churl, for Columba dared not ask leave to copy the

manuscript, but determined to do so in secret, for which purpose he

remained in the church every night after vespers. He had no candle, but

a miraculous light shone from his hand and illuminated the page while he

wrote.

After a while, this mysterious light attracted attention and led to his

discovery. St. Finian, however, feigned ignorance till the work was

completed, and then he claimed it for his own—a claim which the vexed

scribe resisted. The matter was referred to King Diarmid, who decided

that “To every cow belongs her own calf,” hence, to every book its copy,

a judgment the injustice of which Columba hotly resented. This book was

afterwards known as the Catach or Book of Battles, by reason of the

great battles and bloodshed to which it gave rise. Soon it came to be

used as a charm, which secured victory to any army which possessed it,

provided it was _carried thrice sunwise_ round the host on the morning

of battle. This most precious relic is still preserved in the Royal

Irish Academy in Dublin; it is a Psalter encased in a highly ornamental

silver shrine.

The accounts of St. Columba’s obtaining possession of Iona are various.

One tells how he cured the Arch-Druid Broichan of a sore disease, by a

draught of water in which he had dipped a white pebble, thereby

converting him to Christianity, and inducing him to give up his Isle at

the bidding of King Brude. The more plausible story is that it was

granted him by his kinsman Conal, the Christian King of the Northern

Scots. Certain it is, that this little isle became henceforth the centre

of such work as has rarely fallen within the scope of one man. On every

side Columba’s resistless energies spread themselves forth, as he sailed

from isle to isle, from shore to shore—the busiest Bishop that ever

ruled and comforted a flock of his own gathering. Though we associate

his name so wholly with Iona, we know that the greater part of his time

was spent in constant visitation of the neighbouring isles and mainland,

where he founded upwards of fifty churches, while in latter life he so

far retracted his vow of eternal separation from the Emerald Isle that

at least thirty abbeys and churches in Ireland are said to owe their

origin and celebrity to him. Besides the work he did in person, he sent

forth his brethren in all directions to teach and to preach, so that ere

long there was scarcely an island or a quiet bay along the seaboard

where one or other of the Celtic Fathers had not built his little lonely

chapel, to shed its ray of light on the Gentiles’ world.

With all these dreams of old days fresh in our minds, you need not

wonder that every corner of the Isle seemed to us haunted by the spirits

of Druids and Culdees. My favourite evening stroll was a solitary

expedition across the moor towards the western side of the Isle, to the

wildest rocky valley, where a small circle of stones is still dear to

the islanders, as the Cathan Cuildich, or tabernacle of the Culdees, for

here, they say, it was that the Standard of the Cross was first planted,

and that the little band of Christians were wont to assemble in secret,

to worship after the new fashion taught them by these strange

Missionaries. The circle was however probably of older date still; its

avenue of carefully placed stones seems rather to belong to the

buildings we call Druidic, and whether as temple or tomb, was probably

associated with the earlier form of worship. The mysterious gloom of

this lonely glen seemed well in keeping with both traditions. I

generally found my way there just as the closing day left the valley in

deep shadow, often made darker still by heavy clouds overhead, which,

closing in, carried the eye onward, to where the sea and far-away isles

lay bathed in lurid sunset light. Not a sound was there to break the

deep stillness of the hour, save when the low whistle of the curlew, or

the sharp cry of some lonely sea-bird, woke the echoes for one little

moment, only to be succeeded by silence more intense.

Returning thence in the deepening twilight, I loved to rest a while on

the green hillock overlooking the old monastery, which still bears the

name of Tor Ab, the Abbot’s hill; because here it was said, he was wont

to sit and survey his domain, or else scan the blue waters, to catch the

first glimpse of galleys that might be approaching his Isle, bearing

saints or sinners—perplexed brethren, or warriors red-handed from foray

or murder—coming to seek his counsel in their difficulties, or

absolution from their crimes. Once the little hill was crowned with one

of those tall Ionic crosses, the site of which, however, is now marked

only by a fragment of the base. Soon a golden glow in the eastern sky

told that the great yellow moon was about to rise behind the hills of

Mull; another moment and the old Cathedral stood out in deepened shadow

against the rippling silver of the intervening straits—those narrow

straits, across which the brethren of the monastery used to ferry those

pilgrims, who chose to shorten their long sea-voyage by traversing

Mull’s savage mountain glens, and who, on reaching the opposite shore,

had only to cry aloud to attract the attention of the brethren.

Now, all is very still and lonely within those once hospitable walls,

where only a few sheep browse peacefully, while a colony of jackdaws

find shelter in the crannies of the great Cathedral tower. The islanders

have divers superstitions about these birds, which they would on no

account molest. They maintain that since the days of Columba they have

claimed a home in his monastery, and that their numbers have never

either increased or decreased, but that they are uncanny birds, and know

many things. I confess I was sometimes tempted myself to agree with the

latter clause, for there was something strangely weird in the way they

guarded the old place, and resented the approach of human footsteps.

Again and again I tried the experiment of whether I could not enter the

sacred precincts under cover of night without arousing these vigilant

birds, but invariably failed. I might wander wherever I pleased outside

their domain, but the moment I stepped within the gate, how noiselessly

soever I entered, the watchful sentinel sounded the alarm. As I stood

motionless in the deep shadow of the tower I could see him going his

rounds, to waken the colony who seemed to be sleepily remonstrating at

being thus disturbed, and very much disposed to return to their

slumbers, but the instant I ventured to move so much as a hand, the

whole body started up with angry, querulous cawing, and after an instant

of noisy confusion formed themselves into a close phalanx, a corps of

observation, intent on watching every movement of the invader.

Thenceforth not a cry was uttered, but in total silence this black cloud

of witnesses swept backwards and forwards athwart the dark sky; no sound

save that of multitudinous rushing of wings, which, like a blast of

wind, one moment came sweeping close above my head, the next seemed to

vanish into space, losing itself in the darkness, anon returning at

intervals of a couple of minutes. Often I tried to deceive them by

moving rapidly along under cover of some dark wall or row of tall

columns, but it was quite useless; the dark cloud returned, straight as

the flight of an arrow, not to the place where they had left the foe,

but direct to the spot where I then stood. This invariably went on as

long as I stood within the Cathedral walls. The very moment I stepped

beyond it, the cawing recommenced, and continued while the black, living

cloud, once more settled down on the ruined tower, and composed itself

to sleep, not caring how long I might linger in the Reilig Orain, the

sacred enclosure round St. Oran’s Chapel, where sleep the kings, and

saints and warriors of old.

This place is called in Gaelic, “the ridge of kings,” and formerly three

separate covered chapels, inscribed in Latin as Tumulus Regum Scotiæ,

Tumulus Regum Hyberniæ, Tumulus Regum Norwegiæ, were set apart to

receive the royal dead of those nations. Now however all trace of the

chapels has vanished, and the kingly dust has mixed itself with common

clay, without even the distinction of such beautifully carved stones as

mark the graves of abbots and warriors—stones inscribed with figures of

the chase or emblems of life on land and sea—knights in full armour with

long two-handed swords, or ecclesiastics in their robes and mitres; all

showing as clear in the bright moonlight as at midday; nevertheless

gaining from that soft reflected light something of the mystery and

peaceful calm which is ever lacking in the rude, uncompromising noon.

One stone is shown, (of red unpolished granite, marked only with a

rudely cut cross) beneath which sleeps a nameless King of France, of

whom tradition avers that he was compelled to abdicate the crown, and

then retreated to this isle to find a last resting-place among Macleods

and Macleans, Mackinnons, MacQuarries, and Macdonalds.

Whatever peace may have been in store for the dead, there certainly was

not much security for the living, who again and again beheld their homes

laid waste and their lives in jeopardy by the incursions of savage Danes

and Norsemen. Four times between the years A.D. 795 and 825 was the

island ravaged by the latter, who on the last occasion massacred

sixty-eight members of the brotherhood. Little more than a century

passed, ere they returned, and, landing on Christmas Eve, wasted the

island, and murdered the abbot and fifteen of his monks. It was after

this, that Queen Margaret rebuilt the chapel of St. Oran, a tiny place

it seems to us, but one to which surely, some unwonted influence was

attached, for we hear how, when a few years later, Magnus Barefoot

landed here with his wild hordes, he was the first to enter the chapel,

but awe-stricken, he started back, and closing the door, commanded that

the place and the people should be left undisturbed.

One lovely walk in the early summer morning, is up the green hill of

Dunii, which though little more than 300 feet in height, is nevertheless

the highest point of the island, which thence appears outspread,

map-like, before us, while on every side, as far as eye can reach, the

sea is dotted with countless islands, changing colour with the varying

play of light, as showery cloud, or glittering rainbow float over them,

transforming cool pearly greys into living opal. “Dark Ulva’s Isle” and

Inch Kenneth and the distant peaks of Jura, claim our glance by turns,

while just across the narrow straits, the great hills of Mull, piled up

in strange fantastic form, rise from behind a huge rampart of red

granite, the latter contrasting strongly in colour with the clear

aquamarine tints of the sea, toned here and there to richest purple by

the great beds of brown sea-ware, which lie hidden beneath the water,

themselves unseen, yet none the less doing their part in that beautiful

picture, and whispering a nature-parable on hidden influences. A little

further the same sea is blue as the sky which it reflects—nay, bluer by

some tones—a fair setting for the Holy Isle, with its long reaches of

pure white shell-sand, which gleam dazzlingly in the sunlight; and the

eye hails the rich green grass and banks of delicious white clover and

wild thyme which grow so luxuriantly wherever this white lime sand can

find its way, and indeed all over the Machars (as these sandy reaches

are called). Looking down from our green hill-top, on this scene of so

many historic associations, it needed but a little play of fancy to pass

over the intervening twelve centuries, and call up visions of that old

life, when in place of the stately cruciform cathedral of massive red

granite, the ruins of which lie before us, there existed but a rude

group of monastic cells, clustering round as rude a church, a church

however, from which Christian hymns were wont to rise in tones so sweet

and clear that the heathen could not choose but listen and believe. One

of St. Columba’s distinguishing features was that marvellously clear and

musical voice, so powerful, that according to his biographers, he could

be distinctly heard a mile off.

Just below us still lie the remains of that well-laid, causewayed, road

which connected the monastery with the western, and only fertile, side

of the island. Along that road St. Columba was carried shortly before

his death, in a car drawn by oxen, that he might once more behold his

brethren working in their fields, and looking down on that peaceful

scene, the grand old saint, whose busy, useful life on earth was so

nearly ended, announced to his faithful co-workers that the hour of his

departure was now at hand, and standing up on the waggon he lifted his

hands heavenward and blessed them, and likewise blessed the happy isle

which he was so soon to leave. A week later, on the last day of his

life, he once more ascended his favourite green hillock, and looking

down on his loved monastery, he blessed the land, the granaries, and the

people; then he pronounced his farewell benediction on the isle in words

that proved prophetic, for he foretold how “this little spot, so small

and low, should, nevertheless, be greatly honoured, not only by Scots,

kings, and peoples, but by foreign chiefs and barbarous nations, and

saints of other churches.”

Returning to his cell after vespers, he continued his work of

transcribing the Psalter, and ending at the thirty-fourth Psalm, told

his brethren that Baithen[22] must finish it. When the midnight bell had

rung to herald the dawn of the Sunday festival, and call the brethren to

matins, he rose quickly, and hurrying forth with feeble steps, hastened

towards the church, not waiting to trim his lamp, but finding light

enough in the summer night to guide him along the oft trodden path.[23]

The first to follow him was the faithful Diarmid, who on approaching the

church beheld a radiant light beaming forth from the windows, and

entering quickly beheld a glorious vision of angels, who vanished as he

drew near. He called his master aloud, but no voice answered. Other

brethren now hurried in, bearing lanterns, and beheld their loved abbot

lying prone before the altar, unable to speak, but his face radiant with

joy. He strove once more to raise his hand to bless his weeping

children, and as the hand fell back powerless, the master spirit passed

away.

Thus in the seventy-sixth year of his age died this kingly priest. A man

of fiery energy, bold, impetuous, passionate (anything but dove-like),

earnest alike in teaching, counselling, reproving; unsparing of himself,

and continually braving peril by sea and by land, “in journeyings often,

in perils of robbers (or pirates), in perils by the heathen, in perils

in the wilderness and in the sea, in weariness and painfulness, in

watchings and fastings, in hunger, and thirst, and cold.” St. Paul

himself can scarcely have borne a harder life than did our Celtic

apostle. In personal appearance he was tall and commanding, with regular

features, and long hair falling on either shoulder, the tonsure being

only worn on the crown of the head. It is said that in later years a

halo of glorious light shone around him and illumined the little cell

where he was wont to pray. Also that angels came and talked to him on

the hill, still called by the people Cnoc-an-Aingel, “the Angel’s Hill.”

Curiously enough, the spot pointed out as having been his place of

burial is not within the precincts of St. Oran’s chapel, the site always

occupied by the church of the Culdees, but on the further side of the

cathedral, which, six hundred years later, was built by the Church of

Rome. His saintly remains, however, did not long find rest upon Iona,

for when, again and again his followers were driven forth from their

homes by ruthless invaders, they carried his bones with them, both as

precious relics, and to save them from molestation. Kells in Ireland and

the cathedral of Dunkeld in Scotland, henceforth divided the honour of

possessing them, and thus it was that, until the close of the fifteenth

century, Iona came to be included in the diocese of Dunkeld.

One more point of great interest on the isle is the Port-na-Churraich,

or Harbour of the Boat, the spot where St. Columba and his brethren are

said to have buried the frail wicker corracle in which they sailed

hither, lest they should ever be tempted to return to their beloved

Ireland; not, however, till they had climbed the neighbouring hill to

ascertain that the Emerald Isle was no longer even in sight; hence the

name of that hill is to this day the Cairn-cul-n’-Erin, denoting that

henceforth they had turned their backs for ever on Erin’s shore. Wishing

to visit this point by water, so as to miss none of the beauty of the

many-coloured rocks which lie on the south side of the isle, I chartered

a boat intending to row thither, close along the coast. The weather

hitherto had been so faultless that any immediate change seemed

impossible, and the dull grey clouds on the horizon spoke their warning

so vainly that I made no objection when the boatmen proceeded to hoist a

sail. Clumsily in truth they did it, yet it was not till we were fairly

under weigh that I realized that their unsteadiness was due to having

been over well treated by their friends on board the steamboat, which

had called that morning, and in fact that the barley bree had done its

work pretty effectually. Meanwhile the wind was rapidly freshening, and

a heavy swell setting in, so that, instead of keeping sufficiently near

the shore to distinguish its peculiarities, we spent the afternoon in

making long and wearisome tacks, and by the time we reached our

destination the waves had grown so angry that landing at all was a

matter of considerable difficulty. Once ashore, I deemed it more prudent

and pleasant to find my way home alone across the moor, greatly to the

dismay of my boatmen, whose chivalry was not so clouded by their

potations as to let them be willing to desert their charge in so wild a

place. I am sure their minds were greatly relieved when, in the evening,

on returning to the Baile Mòr (the great town) they found me safe in my

usual comfortable quarters.

The spot on which we, like the Celtic fathers, landed is a small bay,

closed in by great rocks of gneiss—certainly not much of a harbour, to

judge from the violence with which the great waves sweep in and dash

themselves upon the beach—a beach composed wholly of hillocks of

shingle, composed chiefly of green quartz and serpentine, and red

felspar, all glittering like jewels when wet with mist and spray; very

pretty to look at, but most unpleasant to scramble over. In the middle

of this stony expanse lies one small grassy hillock, just the shape of a

boat lying keel uppermost, and, curiously enough, corresponding in size

to the measurements of St. Columba’s Curragh. This is the place where it

is supposed to be buried, and the only spot where (doubtless out of

compliment to the Emerald Isle) the grass contrives to grow. A little

further, and far above reach of the highest tide, the shingle is heaped

up into innumerable great cairns, said to have been piled, stone by

stone, by penitents working on their knees, in expiation of divers

crimes. A more painful and wearisome form of treadmill could hardly be

devised than that of which these heaps are still the tokens.

Turning away from this dreary scene, for once sympathising with

Montalembert’s colourless description of the grey and misty Hebridean

sea, and cold inhospitable shores, I made the best of my way across the

hills towards the cathedral, guided by the position of the neighbouring

islands. The storm was gathering fast, and a cold chilling blast would

scarcely suffer me to linger a moment at the Pit-an-druidh, the cairn

which marks the burial-place of Columba’s predecessors. An old man was

standing by who told me that he had seen this grave opened by men who

doubted the legend, and that sure enough they had found a great heap of

human bones, all of which were reverently replaced. It was well,

however, to have found this tangible proof of the actual presence of

men, whose shadowy memory has been almost wholly lost in the dim mist of

ages. I felt, while standing beside those lonely graves, that there was

something strangely in keeping with their desolation in the wild wailing

of the sobbing wind, which seemed to echo the dirge-like moaning of the

sullen waves, as if murmuring a solemn requiem for the forgotten dead.

Near this place stands the only cottage still remaining on the Isle,

with the old fashioned fire-place hollowed in the centre of the floor,

and with no chimney except a hole in the middle of the roof. Its inmates

gave me cordial welcome, and as the gudeman of the house “had the

English” we sat and chatted awhile beside the cheery blaze. He pointed

out the manifold advantages of a fire-place that allowed of no monopoly,

but round which the whole family could always gather, and as to the idea

of any extra danger being involved, he could only say he had reared as

promising a brood as any father could desire, and no accident had ever

befallen his hearth. As to the smoke, they were used to it, and really

had little more than their neighbours, whose wide chimneys let in as

much cold air as they let out smoke. So you see there are advantages

even in a central fire.

It was pleasant once more to find myself safely lodged beneath Mrs.

Ritchie’s comfortable roof. That night there was no moonlight visit to

the jackdaws or to the ghostly kings. Such boats as had put out to sea

were hurrying home, and the fishers were preparing for foul weather. All

night long the waves roared, and the winds raved and shook the

shutterless windows till we were fain to own that the name of Ithona,

the Isle of Waves, was as just a description as Ishona, the Blessed

Isle, which hitherto we had believed to be the name most suitable to so

calm and peaceful a retreat.

But with the dawn the angry waves were hushed, and the sea that had been

churned like yeast gradually subsided, only heaving as though still

sullen, till at length, as if exhausted with its own passion, it once

more lay still, and calm, and smiling.

Distinctly visible from Iona, at a distance of about eight miles, lies

Staffa “the Isle of Columns,” so its name signifies in the Scandinavian

dialect. An island now as famous for its natural wonders, as Iona for

its human associations, though, strange to say, while the latter has

from time immemorial been a centre of attraction, first to the Pagan,

and then to the Christian world, the fame of Staffa dates back only for

one century. It is just one hundred years since its wonderful caves were

first discovered by Sir Joseph Banks, whose glowing descriptions drew

thither a handful of geologists and men of letters. Now the name of the

Isle is a household word in the mouths of thousands of tourists who pour

in thither day by day, throughout the summer, and spend one little hour

rushing from cave to cave, disturbing the solemn echoes with their

howling and hooting, to the unspeakable disgust of the seals, and

cormorants, and white sea-mews whose solitude is thus rudely invaded—to

say nothing of the feelings of the mighty Fingal, whose spirit is

supposed still to haunt the wondrous cavern that bears his name.

I need not say how eminently unsatisfactory to many minds, must be such

a mode of scampering over one of nature’s most awe-inspiring works. But

the only way in which it is possible for anyone not yachting to see it

more leisurely, is by remaining at Iona, or Ulva, and taking a boat

thence for the day. And truly, it is well worth this exertion, to know

the inexpressible delight of standing alone within that glorious cave,

with no sound of jarring human voice to disturb the sacred silence of

that grand temple, “not made with hands” but reared by the great Creator

Himself. A wondrous fane indeed, with the perfect symmetry of its

countless gigantic columns, and marvellous roof, formed like the strange

pavement outside, and like the gallery on which we stand, of the broken

bases of hexagonal pillars, which fit together in faultless honeycomb.

The colouring too, is a marvel of beauty, for this basalt combines every

tint of rarest marble that ever human skill brought together to decorate

the costliest temple. Warm red and brown, and richest maroon tones

prevail, but the whole gleams with green and gold lichen and sea-weed,

while here and there a mosaic of pure white lime has filtered through,

encrusting the pillars, which seem transformed to snowy alabaster.

Ever and anon, the innermost depths of the great chancel gleam with a

sudden flash as the clear green wave comes swelling in, overflowing the

causeway of broken pillars that forms so marvellous a pavement, and

breaking in pure white foam which shows more dazzling against the gloom

of that sombre background, and casting trembling reflected lights, which

trickle and waver over every hidden crevice of roof, or clustered

columns. Quick as thunder-roar follows the lightning-flash is that white

gleam succeeded by a booming sound louder than the thunder itself, yet

mellow as the sweetest note of some huge organ, and wakening echoes

deeper and more sonorous than ever throbbed through dim cathedral

aisle;—echoes which linger and repeat themselves on every side, and are

but hushed for one moment of awful silence while the exquisite green

water recedes, only to rush back again with renewed force, re-awakening

that thrillingly-solemn chorus, which in ages long gone, earned for this

cave its old Gaelic name of _Uaimh Bhinn_, the melodious cavern.

Altogether it is a scene of which no words can convey the smallest idea,

and, as we pass suddenly from the glaring sunlight, into that cool deep

shade, and look down into the wondrous depths of that world of clear

crystalline green we cannot choose but believe that we have invaded the

chosen home of some pure spirit of the sea—some dainty Undine, whose low

musical notes we can almost think we discern mingling with the voice of

the waves.

For us, this cavern has acquired a special interest, since the day when

one of our kinsmen narrowly escaped finding here a briny grave among the

seals and cormorants. He had left his boat and scrambled along from one

basaltic pillar to another, till he was far in the interior of the cave,

when a terrified shout from those outside, made him turn round, to see

the whole mouth of the cave darkened by one mighty green wave, pouring

its volume of water towards the spot where he stood.

There was not a second to lose, but by a quick flash of inspiration, he

remembered having a moment before, observed one pillar so detached from

its fellows, that a man could clasp it; and springing to the spot where

it stood, he grasped it, with so firm a hold, that, though the rushing

waters boiled and surged above his head, he was safe—and when the wave

receded, he was able to follow it, and rejoin the more cautious friends

who pale with terror, were watching to see his drowned body floating on

the water. The steamboat authorities remonstrated with him for his

imprudence, but were quite pacified on his assuring them that he had no

wish to do it again! It seems that this occasional big wave is a

well-known feature of this sea, and one for which the wary are always on

the alert.

Although the chief interest of the isle, naturally attaches to Fingal’s

cave, there are many others, whose beguiling beauty might well bid us

linger awhile in each. Such are “Mackinnon’s” and the “Boat Cave”—the

latter so called because it can only be entered by a boat. But more

curious than these, is that known as the “Clam-shell,” where the huge

columns instead of standing vertically, lie bent like the curved ribs of

a ship, showing at _both ends_ of the pillars the invariable honeycomb

pattern, and telling of some strange and unwonted influence, which most

have affected the mass of molten basalt, and prevented its assuming its

regular upright form.

But it is time we passed on to other isles; else you will never have

patience to listen to the story of our further wandering. From Iona we,

of course, returned to Oban, that great centre of all the West Coast

steamers and coaches, thence starting at daybreak for the Isle of Skye,

and a more exquisite fifteen hours’ sail than this proved could not well

be imagined. The sea was like glass, or oil, or whatever you can think

of that is most smooth and mellow.

“Each puny wave in diamonds rolled

O’er the calm deep, where hues of gold

With azure strove, and green.”

Every peak and shapely outline of island or mainland lay before us in

ethereal lilac, On the one side Ben Cruachan, without a cloud, on the

other, the wild beautiful ranges of Mull.

Every rock, every inlet, every old castle has its own tradition. Of one

desert rock a mile from Castle Duart, on the shore of Mull, it is told

how the chief of the Macleans, having married the Lady Elizabeth, the

daughter of Archibald, second Earl of Argyle, thereby incurred the wrath

of his own clan, who swore that the blood of the Campbells should never

rule over them. Rather than this, they would slay both the lady and her

little one. The cowardly husband consented to remain passive. One dark

winter’s night, they forced her into a small boat, and without pity for

her tears and cries, left her on this barren rock, which at high tide is

covered by the waves. Slowly the tide rose; and in her bitter anguish

she cried in vain in the darkness, and yet there was no voice that

answered—no friendly fisher had spread his nets near that treacherous

rock. The remorseless waves crept on and on, lipping so gently over her

white feet, and silently stealing upward, till she stood knee-deep in

the cold, icy darkness; and still her straining ear could catch no sound

of welcome oars. Only the white sea-birds circled round, and mingled

their sharp, piercing cries with her own. The cruel waters had reached

her breast, as the first flush of dawn streaked the east, when a tiny

skiff came in sight. With agonised effort she managed to attract

attention. The fishers proved to be some of Argyle’s men, who, having

thus rescued their ladye from the very brink of the grave, soon brought

her safely to her father’s castle. Here she remained hidden till a

solemn announcement of her death was sent by her disconsolate husband,

who of course had connived at the abduction of the lady. Presently he

arrived, with his kinsmen and followers, all clad in deepest dule, to

mingle their lamentations with those of her bereaved father.

Argyle received them, also clad in black, and a solemn feast was

prepared in the great hall; when the door opened, and the lady entered,

superbly dressed, and calmly took her seat at the table. Maclean sprang

up aghast, and escaped as far as the castle gate, where the Lord of

Lorne, following, slew him as he fled. His kinsmen were made prisoners,

and detained as hostages for the safety of the infant, which had been

saved by its nurse, and was in due time restored to its mother.

It fared worse, however, with another infant chief of these turbulent

Macleans, whose young life was forfeited as a sure revenge on its

father. The story runs that Maclean of Lochbuy went forth on a grand

hunting expedition, taking with him his wife and only child; the latter

being still in the arms of its nurse. The deer, hotly pursued by the

hounds, came swiftly up the glen, but turning aside by a narrow pass,

guarded only by one of Maclean’s vassals, they burst past him, and

escaped. The chief, in dire wrath, caused the man to be instantly

stripped and flogged in presence of the clan, a degradation which the

hot Highland blood could not brook. Before that day was done, the insult

was amply avenged, for the forester, burning with rage, watched his

opportunity, and in a moment snatched the heir of Lochbuy from the arms

of the nurse, and, bounding from rock to rock with the speed of a red

deer, he reached an almost inaccessible crag overhanging the sea which

boiled below. The screams of the agonised mother, the anguish of the

father, were as music and balm to the triumphant Highlander, who laughed

aloud as he held the shrieking child outstretched above the waters. In

mad despair Maclean craved forgiveness, and prayed for the life of his

only little one. At length Allastair relented, and made conditions with

his chief. He agreed to restore the child, provided Maclean would bare

his own back to the cord, and submit to be publicly scourged, as he had

been, in presence of his clansmen. To their grief and indignation the

chief consented, and calmly underwent the penalty that must for ever

degrade him in their eyes, hoping thereby to save his child. Then

turning once more to the pinnacle where Allastair still stood high in

mid-air, he bade him fulfil his promise and restore the child. With a

burst of fiendish laughter the vassal held the child aloft, and crying

aloud “Avenged! avenged!” he sprang from the cliff, still grasping the

infant. In another second the raging waters had closed above him, and

sucked him down into some deep basaltic cavern, whence, says the legend,

neither wave nor storm ever brought back the body of man or child to the

wailing mother, who day after day, through long years, wandered wearily,

seeking for her little one in every crevice of those cruel rocks.

Beautiful Ben Cruachan has also his own legend to tell concerning the

formation of Loch Awe, a story handed down by a long line of Gaelic

bards, from the days of Ossian himself, even to the present time. He

tells how, in bye-gone ages, the Cailleach Vera or Bera, the aged

daughter of Griannan, the Mountain of the Sun, kept ceaseless vigil on

his summit. To her charge had been committed a certain spring on the top

of the highest crag, and her duty it was each night to seal up the mouth

of the fountain, laying thereon a mystic stone, carved with strange

symbols, ere the sun’s last ray had kissed the mountain-top. For many

long ages she had done her work faithfully, and prosperity blessed the

fertile lands around. But in an evil hour, Vera was overcome by the

gentlest of all insidious foes. When the wild deer gathered around her,

waiting to be milked, one refractory hind darted away from the herd, and

Vera followed her, over moor and moss, till her aged limbs were weary;

so on returning to her seat beside the fountain, she laid her down to

rest in the sunny noontide, and a sweet dreamy sleep stole over her. The

day wore on—the shadows of evening crept up the mountain side. Vainly

did the sun’s last rays gleam on the sleeper. The fountain still lay

unsealed, and the murmuring of its waters only lulled her in deeper

slumber. The darkness closed around, and with it came a mighty tempest,

but still Vera slept. Three times the sun rose and set, ere she awoke

from that strange deep dream-world. Then, starting up, she remembered

her duty, and sought to seal the fountain with the mystic stone. But

instead of its quiet waters, a raging torrent now poured down the

mountain side, and all the flood gates of heaven seemed open; while

crashing thunder rolled amid the hills. Then, as she glanced downward to

the valley of Lorn, hitherto the greenest and most fertile land in all

Argyle, she beheld only a raging sea of dark, stormy waters; and Vera

the Aged trembled, for she knew what mischief her ill-timed sleep had

wrought. Even to this day, the waters lie in the valley; and in wild

wintry squalls they can still rage as madly as when first they flooded

the land; and the fisher, whose frail boat has battled with those black

waves, will tell you that at such times Loch Awe is “awesome” indeed.

But when the great lake, with its green islands and overhanging birches,

lies bathed in peaceful sunlight, shepherd and fisher alike confess that

Vera’s sleep was no dire evil after all. One little island in the midst

of those broad waters has for centuries been dear to the hearts of the

people. They call it Inishail; and here in olden days an order of

Cistercian nuns found a calm retreat, and solemn chaunts and litanies

rose from that old chapel, and floated upward through the sunlit air.

Here too many a solemn funeral procession came rowing up the lake, while

women’s voices wailed shrill coronachs, and the pipes played wild

pibrochs and laments. For from many a distant valley the dead were

brought, that they might sleep within sound of holy prayer and psalm.

Here, even to this day, new generations are laid beside their fathers,

but the boat that bears them comes and goes in silence; for some of the

“unco guid” fear that the bagpipes are wicked, so the old pathetic music

has been put down, and no sound now breaks the stillness, save the

shrill cries of the beautiful oyster catchers, or the liquid whistle of

the curlew. But wild flowers innumerable lend their honeyed fragrance to

this sweet and quiet spot, where a tremulous cloud of blue bells veils

each nameless grave, their dainty cups scarce stirred by the faint

breezes, which seem as though they loved to linger here. A silent,

lonely resting-place is this little island of the dead, floating on the

clear, blue waters; while the great hills watch on every side, in grand

shadowy masses, as if guarding that store-house of most precious dust.

But beautiful as we may deem this lovely lake, its creation was an hour

of bitter grief to poor old Cailleach Vera, who straightway forsook her

home on Ben Cruachan, and passed over to the Emerald Isle, where a hilly

range at Lough Crew still bears her name. Here she busied herself in

piling a great number of cairns of all sizes, which remain to this day.

In an evil hour, however, she contrived to break her neck, and several

Irish traditions record her burial near one of these great tumuli. One

of the most curious Dolmens in County Meath is commonly known as her

house, while a roughly hewn stone seat, quaintly engraven with mystic

lines and circles, is shown as her chair.

As we sail onward, legends seem to multiply. A wild tale was told us of

the little Island of Canna, lying on the other side of Rum. On the top

of a high rock, quite detached from the Isle, are the ruins of a small

castle, to which the sole access is by a dangerous, almost precipitous

path among the crags. This is

“Canna’s tower, that steep and grey

Like falcon-nest o’erhangs the bay.”

From these giddy turrets a fair woman looked and watched through many

weary years for the help that never came. One of the cruel Ocean Lords

had brought her from foreign shores, and being madly jealous of her

beauty, chose this grim fortress as a cage meet for his lovely captive;

and many a time the boatmen passing near her prison saw her weeping on

the castle wall, or heard a plaintive song in some strange unknown

tongue. Even to this day they whisper how the fishers who pass by that

grey crag in the moonlight have heard low music of a lute, and the sad

heart-broken cry of a woman.

When Pennant visited this island in the middle of last century he was

much struck by the multitude of horses, in proportion to the few

scattered herds of sheep; and also noticed a quaint old trace of

sun-worship, like that practised in Iona, namely, that on the Eve of St.

Michael every lad mounted his horse without saddle, taking some lass _en

croupe_. He might take his neighbour’s wife if he pleased, but not his

own. The couples then rode in procession from the village to an old

stone cross, round which they rode thrice sunwise, afterwards returning

to a publichouse, where the lass treated her swain, and all present

shared a huge oat-cake, made in the form of a quadrant of a circle, and

daubed with milk and eggs. The cake was so large as to consume two pecks

of meal. Of the origin of this quaint custom the people knew nothing,

save its antiquity. It was also observed in the Long Island and North

and South Uist, where the places of meeting were the old graveyards.

Now the green island yields its sweet pasture to lowing herds of kine;

and calm pictures of pastoral life meet you at every turn, telling the

every-day story of many a quiet life, begun, continued, and ended on

this lonely sea-girt rock. Those who have dwelt among its people tell of

their generous kindliness to the strangers, but never fail to wonder at

the strange undertone of melancholy which seems to pervade the whole

character of all these islanders, as though a life-long communing with

mists and waves had enfolded their spirits in a silent chill, such as

comes over even the unimaginative and the full-fed, when wandering on

some barren moor, with, cold, grey, spiritual mists floating on every

side. Perhaps these people of Canna grow weary of “the ever-sounding and

mysterious main,” for from time immemorial they have laid their dead on

the furthest point inland, where only a distant murmur of the sea can

reach them. A little rugged kirkyard it is; a field of rank waving

grass, dotted with grey rocks, carried thither from the shore, to mark

the resting-place of the sleepers; while a broken cross of yellow

sandstone guards this lone God’s-acre. It is one of those stones that

tells, perhaps, of ancient superstitions, for on it are carved divers

emblems of unknown meaning; amongst others, a camel, the sole instance

in which that Eastern treasure appears in Scottish sculpture. There also

remain some traces of a church, once dedicated to St. Columba.

Every ledge of this rocky coast is the abode of countless sea-birds. All

along the face of the crags they make their home; they float on the

waters, and they float in mid-air, with ceaseless varying cry. White

gulls and grey gulls; kittiwakes and sea-swallows; black-headed gulls,

and snowy gannets; cormorants innumerable, with black glistening

plumage, and long necks that rise snake-like from the water; and,

quaintest of all, the little puffins with their thick scarlet beaks,

peeping out from the old rabbit-holes, or teaching their fluffy infants

their first lessons in a life on the ocean wave.

We were now rounding the Point of Ardnamurchan, a bluff, windworn

headland, against which a heavy surge continually beats, the strong

tides here keeping up a ceaseless turmoil, though the sea all around be

calm, as it was this day. This is the most westerly point of Scotland,

and in olden days an imaginary line from this point divided the Hebrides

into two sovereignties, those to the north being Nordereys, the others

Sudereys. When the land was divided into Episcopates, the latter were

assigned to the Bishop of Man. Hence the title “Sodor and Man.” The

Nordereys were subject to the ecclesiastical government of Iona, and now

form part of the Bishopric of Argyle and The Isles.

We next passed the low green pasture lands, which form the Isle of Muck,

or Mouach, the isle of swine, once probably the haunt of the wild boar,

which has bequeathed its name to many a hill and valley. I should rather

have said the wild sow. The boar has namesakes of its own, as

Beinn-an-tuirc, but the sow has Scuir-na-Mouach, Sloch-Muick, the

swine’s pass, Muckerach, Stron-na-Muich, Ben Muich Dhù, Glen Muick, Loch

Muick, Dun-a-muc, Muckairn. There are also two other isles known as

Eilan-na-Muck, to say nothing of the Boar of Badenoch and the Sow of

Athol on the Highland line! while in Ireland we find Muck Island and

Port Muck, near Belfast, and the Abbey of Muck-a-more, the great sow,

near Antrim, and Muckross on the lake of Killarney.

It is believed by many learned authorities that swine were held sacred

by our ancestors. We know for a fact that they were so amongst the

Gauls, and that they had the run of the sacred oak-groves of the Druids,

where they found a plentiful supply of acorns, and were treated with all

possible respect, just as they now are in China, where pig-worship

prevails to a considerable extent, and where sacred pigs are kept in

sacred styes, and only approached with deepest reverence: a fact duly

chronicled by sundry dwellers in Canton, where, nevertheless, the

worshippers of divers other gods do not scruple to offer pigs in

sacrifice, without the slightest regard for the feelings of their

porkyolatrous neighbours.

A curious hint of some strange reverence for this ungainly creature has

just been brought to light, by the discovery in a tumulus at Beregonium,

near Oban, of an urn, in which were stored precious bones and teeth,

which Professor Owen has pronounced to be unmistakably those of a pig!

It is quite possible that our ancestors had adopted this symbolism from

the ancient Scandinavian mythology; from which, also, they had borrowed

the custom of gracing the Christmas or Yule festival with the wild

boar’s head. Whether a lingering feeling of the homage due to the

“primitive mysterious boar” had anything to do with its use as an

ecclesiastical decoration, I leave others to decide; certain it is that

among the records of the old cathedral at St. Andrew’s (anciently called

Muckross, the sow’s headland), it is stated that in A.D. 1520 a gigantic

boar was killed, which had slain both men and cattle. The tusks were

sixteen inches in length, and were attached to the high altar. Probably,

however, their position had no deeper reason than the caprice of some

reverent Nimrod, just as in the far east, we see the beautiful ibex

horns and other trophies of the chase nailed up upon the hill temples by

the Pahari sportsmen.

We had left behind us in Cantyre one noted haunt of these grim old

tuskers, namely, Beinn-an-tuirc, the hill of the wild boar, where

Diarmid, Fingal’s mightiest hunter, slew a terrible beast which had long

ravaged the land. But Connan of the little soul was jealous of Diarmid’s

fame, and sought to compass his death. Now, Diarmid, like Achilles, was

only vulnerable in the heel. Therefore Connan, with fair words of

praise, bade him measure the length of the boar. Diarmid was barefooted,

but he measured from snout to tail, and the bristles bent beneath his

foot. But Connan bade him measure backwards, and a venomous bristle

pierced his heel, so that he died.

Then all the mighty hunters cried out in their grief because Diarmid,

the swift of foot and the sure of aim, lay dead. And his beautiful wife,

Griana, heard that evil had befallen him, and she hastened to his aid.

But as she hurried on, it chanced that one drew a bow at a venture, and

the arrow pierced her heart, so that she fell mortally stricken. Then

they carried her to the side of Diarmid, and laid the beautiful and the

mighty in one grave. And all the heroes stood around in grief, and

Fingal, leaning on his spear, wept bitterly in silence. And Diarmid’s

hounds gathered close round his bier, and large tears fell from their

soft faithful eyes, because they had loved Diarmid with exceeding love.

Speaking of the wild boar, it is interesting to remember that all those

places in the English lakes in which the word Greys occurs, as

Gryesdale-tarn, near Helvellyn, Gryesfell, Grasmere, and also such names

as Eversley, Evershot, and Evershaw (derived from _eofer_, the wild

boar), all bear testimony to his presence there in olden days, though he

has long since passed away, together with the wolves and the beavers,

both of which have likewise bequeathed their names to some of their old

haunts, such as Wolferton near Sandringham, Wolferlow in Hereford, and

Wolvesey near Winchester, where the Welsh used to pay their annual

tribute of wolves’ heads. The beavers have left many a trace of their

favourite retreats in the midland counties, where we find such names as

Bevercoates, Beverstone, and Beverley, which are all said to mark the

beaver’s haunts. So, we are told, do sundry Welsh names, such as Nant

Francon, Llyn-y-Afrange, and Sarn-yr-Afrande, that is, the broad-tailed,

which being interpreted, are the beaver’s dale, the beaver’s pool, and

the beaver’s dam. Curious, is it not, to think that these shy, strange

creatures should once have been so abundant in Scotland, that their fur

was a considerable article of trade, the duty to be levied thereon being

among the items recorded in the Acts of Parliament of David I., King of

Scotland? As to the wolves, it is said that the last of that grisly race

was slain in 1680 by the spear of Sir Ewen Cameron.

Still we sail onwards, startling the sea-birds, which float in busy,

noisy crowds, wherever the herring lead them, and scarcely deign to rise

from the water at our approach. From the very bows of the ship they

float upwards in white and grey clouds, and hover around us for a few

seconds with angry cries, then once more returning to the herring

shoals, they recommence fishing in good earnest.

Behind the green shores of Muick (the Eilan na-Muchel as its people call

it) rise the fine rocky cones of Rum or Ronin; shapely hills, bearing

such names as Haskeval, Halival, Scuir-na-Gillian. Green pasture lands,

and purplish heather, clothe those steep mountain sides, where bleating

flocks pick their dangerous way among the grey crags. But to-day all is

bathed in a soft lilac haze, veiling such small detail; and the

beautiful hills stand out in grand simple form, all reflected

faultlessly in the glassy sea, which, except in the wake of our vessel,

is literally without a ripple. A few fishing-boats, with rich brown

sails, vainly crave one little breeze to speed them on their way. Sorely

must their patience be tried with such long waiting, and we need not

wonder if they watch us speeding onward with something of the feeling of

the old boatman, who for the first time saw a steamer working against

wind and tide, and as he watched her red chimney pouring forth its

volume of black smoke, cried out, “Get awa’ wi’ your deil’s reek; I’m

just sailing as it pleases the breath o’ God!”

If it had not been for the “Deil’s reek” we should have made but little

progress on this calm glorious day. As it was, new beauties opened

before us at every turn. On the one hand lay Loch Moidart, opening into

the mainland. Here stand the ruins of Castle Tyrim, burnt by Clanranald,

its own laird, when starting to fight at Sheriff-muir, to prevent the

Campbells from gaining possession of it. Then comes the Scuir of Eigg, a

huge rocky mass of porphyry lowering like some stupendous Tower of

Babel, from a mighty rampart of Æark trap rock and columnar basalt, the

latter inclining to slender columns, few exceeding one foot in diameter.

Some of these have fallen; others are broken across and form a curious

pavement of honeycomb pattern. Hugh Miller tells us that this whole mass

overlies a vast forest of petrified trees, an extinct species of pine,

now lying below the encroaching waves, but still telling its own

mysterious story of the broad greenwood that flourished here before that

strange columnar cliff had been upheaved, and cooled and split into

those tall pillars. Now, not one twig exists to whisper of the old

forest, and the great fort of the giants towers in naked majesty above

the low grassy island. Its height is, I believe, 1,340 feet.

Here a terrible deed of vengeance was once enacted. Some of the Macleods

having landed on this island of the Macdonalds, and being too marked in

their attentions to the daughters of the clan, were seized, bound hand

and foot, and then turned adrift in a boat, which a kindly wind wafted

safely to Skye. Their version of the story roused the wrath of Macleod,

who collected a very strong body of men, and sailed to the island to

take summary vengeance.

The terrified inhabitants, knowing themselves powerless to meet such a

force, concealed themselves so effectually, that Macleod returned to his

galleys, thinking that his victims had taken refuge in the Long Island.

One unhappy man, however, ventured from his hiding-place, and was

immediately espied, and tracked through the snow to a cave, the entrance

to which was partly concealed by a stream of water falling over it.

This, the Macleods now turned into a new channel, and gathering a vast

heap of turf and fern at the mouth of the cave, made such a bonfire as

suffocated all the luckless islanders—200 in number—and their bleached

bones lay here for many a long day, though whether this civilised

century has utilised them as bone manure deponent sayeth not. The bones

were there in the days of Sir Walter Scott. He was barbarous enough to

carry off a skull, to the great annoyance of his sailors, who vowed that

the wearisome calms which kept the vessel stationary for so long, were

all in consequence of this sacrilege.

These old Highlanders were swift in their revenge, and I don’t fancy the

hot blood is altogether quenched yet. It is not so very long since the

duty of forgiveness being urged on a dying man, he was reminded in whose

hands vengeance must lie. “Aye,” said the would-be penitent, “it is too

sweet a morsel for mortal man.” “Weel, weel,” he added, “I’ll forgie

him.” But (turning to his son) “De’il take ye, Donald, gin ye forgie

him.” And it is a story of yesterday, how one of another race being

asked on his deathbed whether he could forgive all his foes, Sank back

with a grim smile of satisfaction, murmuring, “Je n’en ai plus. Je les

ai tous écrasés!”

There is another great cave in this neighbourhood, where in the days of

persecution after 1745, a large body of Roman Catholics used to meet for

public worship, a huge ledge of rock acting as pulpit and altar—a wild

temple indeed, with the ceaseless voice of the restless wind and waves

murmuring solemn litanies on every side.

We neared Skye in the beautiful evening light, first coasting along the

peninsula of Sleat, which seemed fertile and well wooded, the latter

being by no means a common feature in these islands. We caught a glimpse

of Armadale, the home of the Macdonalds, Lords of the Isles, whose

people still bear them in their hearts, as truly as in the olden days

when the proud chiefs carried the sense of their sovereignty with them,

wherever their wanderings might lead them. One chief, best known as

Donald Gorm, having found his way to Ireland, was bidden to the lord

lieutenant’s table, and entering late, took a vacant seat near the door.

His host sent to ask him to come to the head of the table; but the

chieftain’s reply, more proud than courteous, was, to “tell the earle,

that wherever Macdonald sits, that is the head of the table.” Macdonald

made the same speech to Macleod of Dunvegan on whose shores he was

driven by stress of weather, during one of the interminable feuds of

these two houses. He claimed hospitality from his foe, and was welcomed.

But seeing on the table a boar’s head, which he held to be an evil omen,

he seated himself before the salt, in the midst of his own men, and when

Macleod bade him come up beside him, made this same reply. This passed

off well enough, but later, a quarrel arose as to the merits of their

respective dirks and the strong right hand which wielded them; then a

whispered caution from a Macleod lass to a Macdonald sweetheart, made

the chief decide not to sleep in the castle, but remain with his men in

the barn prepared for them, whence at midnight, they silently sallied

forth and took refuge under a great rock; soon they beheld a broad sheet

of flame from the old Barn lighting up sea and sky, the dry heather

prepared for their couch having done its work well as fuel to kindle

that treacherous tower. And while the Macleods rejoiced over their own

vile misdeeds, the Macdonalds marched calmly back to their galley, with

their pipes playing, and with a shout of defiance, the blazing and

crackling of that inhospitable roof lighting them on their way. We were

now passing through the Sound of Sleat, and the warm flush of sunset

lighted up the wild beauty of Knoydart and Glenelg, “the glen of

beauty;” and gleamed on the waters of Loch Nevis, and dark Loch Hourn,

the lakes of heaven and of hell. Now we are in the channel of Kyle Rhea,

“Straits of the king,” which separates Skye from the mainland; it is but

half a mile across, and lies under the shadow of Bein na Caillach, “the

old wife’s hill,” which looms dark and huge above us.

Then comes another narrow channel, Kyle Akin, Straits of Haco, and we

pass the islands of Scalpa and Raasay, and all this time we are drawing

nearer and nearer to the great shadowy Cuchullins, the most beautiful

mountain mass in all Scotland, and never seen to greater advantage than

on such a night as this, when the broad moonlight gleams upon the water,

making midnight clear as noon. Indeed, in this sweet summer time it can

hardly be said that there is any night at all, for often I have seen the

last faint flush of the gloaming, still tinting the west, when the first

mysterious shimmer of the dawn began to tinge the eastern skies;

“And east and west, without a breath,

Mixt their dim lights, like Life and Death,

To broaden into boundless day.”

We were scarcely weary of watching this ever-changing loveliness, when

at four in the morning we reached Portree—or rather Portrigh—the King’s

Port, the harbour having been so named in honour of King Haco, or as

some say, only in recent times, in memory of James V., who landed here

while on one of his romantic tours of exploration. As to the island

itself, Pennant says its name comes from the Norwegian _Ski_ a mist, and

that it was called Eilan Shianach, the cloudy island, by reason of the

floating mists and clouds that so constantly rest on its high peaks.

Others declare the name of Skye to be derived from “Skianach,” _i.e._,

“winged,” because the headlands of Waternish and Trotternish were

supposed to give something of the form of wings to the body of the

island. It certainly is curious that this, the largest island of

Scotland, should be so deeply indented by the sea that no point of it

exceeds four miles in distance from the ocean; very few places exceed

two miles. We found comfortable quarters at the Hotel and began our life

in Skye by such a sleep as I trust you may enjoy this night.

[Illustration: THE CUCHULINS. _To face p. 100._]