THE QUIRAING.
“Here by each stormy peak and desert shore,
The hardy Islesman tugs the daring oar.
Here rise no groves, and here no gardens blow,
Here e’en the hardy heath scarce dares to grow:
But rocks on rocks, in mist and storm arrayed,
Stretch far to sea, their giant colonnade,
With many a cavern sealed—the dreary haunt
Of the dun seal and swarthy cormorant.
Wild round their rifted brows with frequent cry,
As of lament the gulls and gannets fly;
And from their sable base, with sullen sound,
In sheets of whitening foam the waves rebound.”
· · · · ·
“There towers the wild Quiraing,
With its battlements grim and high;
And the mighty Storr, with its pinnacles hoar,
Standing against the sky.”
One thing I will say for Skye weather: whatever it does it does in
thorough earnest. I went there intending to remain a week, but it was
four months before I left its hospitable shores, and during all that
time we had either drenching rain or broiling heat in about equal parts.
On this, our first morning, we awoke late, with a happy consciousness
that a steady downpour had commenced, and hour after hour passed without
the faintest promise of a break. The laird of Kilmuir had sent his
carriage for us at daybreak, but wary old John suggested the hope of a
break in the clouds towards sunset, when sure enough it cleared, and we
found the road in such first-rate order that the fifteen miles to Uig
were accomplished with wonderful rapidity.
[Illustration: THE LODGE, UIG]
Uig is a deep bay, in the form of a horse-shoe, the points of which are
two rocky headlands rising abruptly from the sea. The Lodge stands at
the head of the bay, exactly in the centre, very few feet above the
water level, so that at high tide you may throw a pebble from the window
into the sea. Very pleasant on these sweet summer evenings, but I fancy
that when wild storms rage outside the bay, their wrath, albeit spent in
the outer world, must still sorely trouble these quiet waters, and lash
the angry surf till it overleaps the low sea-wall, and throws its foam
and tangle right up to the porch. On either side of the house a mountain
streamlet rushes to the sea with ceaseless babble. Likewise on either
side lie the two kirks, the Free Kirk, which is large and crowded, the
Established, which is small and half empty. The service at each is in
Gaelic, that combination of savage gutturals being the only language
“understanded of the people.” But in consideration of the ignorance of
about six inhabitants of the Lodge, each church allowed us a special
English service every third Sunday. So after the Gaelic service had
lasted about two hours we were expected to walk in, the rest of the
congregation remaining stationary, though a very small proportion of the
men and none of the women understood the English psalm, prayer, and
“discoorse,” which followed, after which it was our turn to wait
patiently while the Gaelic service came to a conclusion; and though to a
southern ear there might be little beauty in the wild tunes to which
those old Gaelic psalms are set, to me they seemed so thoroughly in
harmony with the voices of wind and waves around us, that they acquired
a charm often lacking in more perfect music. The tunes are nominally the
same as some of those common in the Lowlands, but from the lips of a
Gaelic-speaking race, they seem so entirely to assimilate with the
language that it would be hard for even a practised ear to recognise
their identity. This is partly owing to the fact that they are sung like
a kind of litany, each line being first chanted by the precentor alone,
and then taken up by the whole congregation. The verse generally begins
in a low subdued tone, which gradually swells as it rolls on, then again
the voices sink and die away in prolonged wild cadence. Thus each verse
is sung in turn, and as the congregation is in no hurry to disperse, and
the number of verses is unlimited, the singing seems to roll on
endlessly in a soothing monotony like the sighing of the night wind.
A favourite psalm was the 65th, and its words seem as though written for
some such sea-girt land; well watered, and with corn land, and rich
pastures, and little hills covered with flocks. Many a time it was
recalled to my mind when camping in the uttermost parts of the earth,
and from some hill temple in the Himalayas the wild song of the Paharis
(those genuine Highlanders) came floating up to my tent. What words they
sung I knew not, doubtless hymns to rivers, and pine forests, and snowy
mountains, but the voices and harmonies were identical, and they never
failed to carry my thoughts back to the Western Isles.
Altogether there is a wonderful charm in the simplicity of these
Highland churches, and even the custom which always strikes a stranger
as so singularly unpleasant and unnatural, namely that of standing
during public prayer, seems here to acquire a special interest,
reminding us of those early days of the primitive Church, when the
little band of Christians marked the first day of the week by standing
at worship in token that on this day they were justified and freed from
slavish dread by Christ’s resurrection; therefore, while they knelt on
the other six days, they “deemed it impious”[24] to bend the knee or to
fast on the Lord’s own day. The standing attitude was also adopted
during Pentecost, but not observed uniformly by all the Churches, for we
find the Council of Nice decreeing that “Because there are some who
kneel on the Lord’s day, and in the days of Pentecost, in order that all
things may be uniformly performed in every parish or diocese, it seems
good to the holy synod that prayers be made to God standing.” So you see
that in this matter, and perhaps also in some other respects, the simple
worship of the isles comes nearer to the practice of the primitive
Christians than does our own more attractive ceremonial.
One picturesque feature of these congregations is that a very large
proportion of the older women still continue faithful to their clean
white mutches and bright tartan shawls, and some bonnie lassies too, are
not ashamed to make a fold of their plaid act as head-gear as their
mothers did before them, instead of aiming at one invariable type of
dress. The poetic snood, which in olden days was the distinguishing mark
of every Highland maiden, has unfortunately quite disappeared, its place
being usurped by the commonest hair-net; too often by much beflowered
bonnets. This departure from the simple old head-gear was originally due
to an order of the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland for
awakening sleepers, whose powers of attention were exhausted by the
length of the sermons. The Kirk Sessions thereupon prohibited all women
from wearing plaids or hoods upon their heads in time of Divine service,
that they might not sleep unobserved! These law-givers you perceive were
_men_, who could not brook that the women-folk should have such an
advantage over them.
They were decidedly selfish, too, in the matter of seats, for until long
after the Reformation there were no pews in church save for the big
magistrates and landowners. All men of low degree brought their own
stools or benches to kirk with them; and the Kirk Sessions of 1597
forbade women to sit on the forms men would occupy. “All women must sit
together in the kirk, and sit laigh,” that is, on the ground! and lest
they should profit by this lowly posture, and sleep in peace, a church
officer was ordered to go through the kirk with a long pole, to remove
the plaids from the heads of all women, whether wives or maids. The same
enactment is recorded in the year 1649, and at later intervals.
So you see this was another means to that end, which Bishop Burnet
sought to ensure, when he found that “the gallants _would_ ogle the
ladies of the Court,” and that these likewise _would_ look about them,
instead of attending to what Queen Mary called “his thundering long
sermons.” He persuaded Queen Anne to allow him to have all the pews in
St. James’s Church raised so high that his captives could see nothing
lower than the pulpit, an example which was shortly after adopted by
many of his dry and longwinded brethren, to the lasting disfigurement of
our churches. As to the effects of this legislation on the dresses of
our lassies, of course once the plaids were put down by law, it was
natural enough that southern fashions should creep in; and the
inevitable bonnet with its “gum-flowers” now haunts you at every
remotest corner.
I think one of the worst points in spreading civilization is the
tendency to put away all distinctive national dress, and reduce all
raiment to a dull uniformity. And the people in every land, who formerly
wore their own accustomed dress with easy grace and dignity, now ape the
stiff fashions of England and France; and a very unbecoming change it
is, in almost every case.
The men of the isles are more faithful than the women, and retain their
suit of sonsy dark blue homespun and broad bluebonnet. The kilt never
seems to have found favour amongst them. Happily the number of black
coats and hats is very limited, and you see at a glance that you are
surrounded by a race of hardworking fishers and shepherds. The marvel is
to see such families of well brushed-up lads and lassies—so many, and so
well grown—and then to look at the tiny bothy whose roof is home, not to
these only, but probably to other sons and daughters as well, who have
gone to earn their bread on the mainland, or far over the seas, but
whose hearts are so warm to the old home, and to those that gather round
its single neuk, that no new ties will ever fill its place. A happy
people in truth, to whom the home in childhood, how homely soever, will
be the golden mile-stone from which to date each stage of life. And
nowhere are the little ones more deeply cared for, and more heartily
welcomed. Poor though the hearth may be, that house is reckoned poorest
where the quiver is empty, for the Highlanders say that a home without
the voices of children is dreary as a farm without sheep or kye.
The bothies are all much alike; there are generally two rooms: an outer
one for cattle, and an inner one for the family, the whole enclosed by a
double wall of rough unhewn stone, perhaps five or six feet thick, the
interstices being crammed with heather. On the inner side of this wall
rests a thatch of thick heather, probably encrusted with gold and brown
moss, and with a crop of grass that would keep a cow; a crop which the
thrifty housewife is careful to gather from time to time. The roof is
tied on with a perfect net-work of ropes, and weighted by large stones,
to resist the frightful gusts of wind, which would carry off any
ordinary cottage roof. A wealthy man, and one who cares about trifles,
may perhaps put up an old herring-barrel to act as a chimney, but as a
general rule, there is none, and the blue smoke finds its way out where
it can, or settles on the brown rafters, encrusting the hanging cobwebs
with thick peat-reek which is a much more romantic decoration than our
common domestic soot! When the roof has become so thoroughly saturated
with this rich brown grease that a new thatch becomes necessary, the old
one is broken up, and becomes very valuable as manure for the little
crofts.
Owing to the great difficulty in obtaining timber, the real value of the
house lies in its rafters; these are for the most part the gift of the
sea; sometimes the masts of some old ship, whose crew lie deep beneath
the waters; oftener some grand old tree torn up by the mighty tempests
that months before raged over the western forests; thence floated by
rushing torrents to the deep sea, to become the sport of the waves, and
the home of strange creatures, animate and inanimate—barnacles and
limpets and many-coloured weeds, which the builder has not thought it
worth while to scrape off, so that when after a few months they have
acquired the general rich brown hue of all within the house, they might
very well pass muster as fine old oak carving. As to the roots and
branches, you must not fancy that anything so precious is used for
firewood; each little chip is turned to some good account; and the man
who secures a good log of driftwood has found a prize indeed. Should he
change his home from one village to another, he either carries his roof
with him, or claims considerable compensation from his successor. Hence
when a young couple are courting, their wooing and cooing is accompanied
by a most serious search for wood, sticks, straw, and moss wherewith to
build and thatch their future nest.
This lack of timber is one of the great grievances of the lairds, some
of whom keep up a ceaseless struggle with nature, striving to make wood
grow where she has determined to have none. It is vain to suggest that
these bare moors are at least in this present era, the true character of
the country, and that they might as well try to change an aquiline nose
into a Roman one. The struggle still goes on, and good gold is sunk in
hopeless plantations and great stone walls to protect them from the
cutting sea blasts. By dint of these, the young trees are so far
protected that they do get a fair start, but alas for the proud day when
they attempt to overtop that kindly shelter! Very few days will pass
before they are scorched and burnt up, as if by a furnace; and it seems
pretty clear that except in a few sheltered nooks, such as Armadale,
Dunvegan, and Greshernish, trees will not grow. This is the more
remarkable, as there are traces in different parts of the Hebrides of
the comparative abundance of timber in olden days, a fact to which Dean
Munro alludes when, writing in A.D. 1594, he speaks of Pabba (now a low
grassy island lying off Broadford), as being “full of wodes, and a main
shelter for thieves and cut-throats.” With respect to more ancient
forests, very extensive tracts exist where trunks and other remains of
large trees are constantly dug up in the peat-moss, remains both of
hardwood and of pine, the latter being invaluable as a substitute for
candles, from the clear light of its resinous wood; and many a cosy home
group gathers round the ingle neuk, listening to stories of the old
days, while one, learned in legends of the past, tells how the
Norwegians swept these coasts, and burnt all the old forests, leaving
traces of their devastations even to this day, in the charred and
blackened timber.
In many instances fine large trunks have been found under the present
sea-level, covered with sea-weed and shells, a striking proof of the
gradual encroachments of the ocean in certain districts. It is said that
whole tracts of land, till recently under cultivation, have
disappeared—or are now so covered with sand, as to be utterly
worthless—very much in the same way as a great portion of the “Laich of
Moray” was submerged by those fearful inundations at the close of the
eleventh century, when, says Boethius, “the lands of Godowine, near the
mouth of the Thames, and likewise the land of Moray in Scotland,
together with many villages, castles, towns, and extensive woods both in
England and Scotland, were overwhelmed by the sea, and the labours of
men laid waste by the discharge of sand from the sea.”
The bonnie shores of Moray have, however, been shaken by many such
commotions of the deep. We know that prior to 1695, those desert Culbyn
Sand-hills, which are now the delight of naturalists and the haunt only
of strange wild birds, were fruitful fields and gardens, clustering
round an old manor-house, where dwelt a wealthy laird in the midst of
his farms and his people; the owner of land so fertile, that it was
called the granary of Moray. To this day, as the shifting sand-hills
change from place to place, they reveal traces of cultivated land;
sometimes of old fruit trees and dwelling houses, which, a few days
later, are again buried deep beneath the sand; and many a time, after a
strong wind has swept the land, I have myself walked on fields where
every furrow was still clearly defined, but which on the morrow lay
buried deep beneath twenty feet of desert sand.
Nor was this the latest freak of nature on that shore. Prior to the year
1701, the town of Findhorn stood upon a pleasant plain a mile north-west
from its present situation, but now the bottom of the sea. This change
was effected by a single tide, which burst through a great natural
sand-bar at the mouth of the river, and forced open its present course,
overwhelming the good fishing town. Happily, the inhabitants had so long
suspected danger, that they had gradually forsaken their homes, so that
few lives were endangered. Near the old town of Findhorn lay a level
peat-moss, where many roots and trunks of large trees marked the forest
that had once flourished there; and in the middle of this moor rose a
conical artificial mound, about forty fathoms high, called the
Douff-hillock. This now forms the bed of the ocean, which has encroached
so far into the land, that instead of the fisher folk having a five
miles’ walk direct to Burghead, they have to make a circuit of upwards
of ten miles round the bay.
The latest attempt of the mighty waters to pass their appointed limits
on our pleasant shores of Moray was in the year 1755, when the effects
of the fearful earthquake at Lisbon made themselves felt even here; and
it is recorded that in the parish of Dyke, a flock of sheep, though
folded in their usual cot, and far beyond the reach of any ordinary
tide, were one and all drowned. But to return to the peat-moss of the
isles.
One curious inference drawn from the class of timber which formerly
flourished in these islands is, that a very marvellous change in climate
must have taken place in comparatively recent ages. This seems to
corroborate certain statistical accounts of the temperature which have
been preserved at Kilwinning, in Ayrshire, where, it is affirmed, that
so great was the heat in the month of May, that farmers had to leave off
ploughing at 8 A.M., and could not resume work before 4 P.M. The same
account states that the harvest was finished in August—a very different
story from our average nowadays, when a harvest-home in September marks
a very satisfactory autumn; while, in too many instances, a very much
later date might be given.
In the Hebrides the cereal crops are always a matter of risk, owing to
the extreme probability of prolonged autumnal rains; and it is only too
common to see the crops at the end of the season cut green, and only fit
for fodder. In truth, the patience and perseverance of the poor cotters,
who continue year after year to toil in such unprofitable soil, are
qualities which continually call forth our wondering admiration. The
general climate is, however, mild, with the same freedom from frost that
we noticed in Cantyre; and this is said to be especially true of the
remote Isle of St. Kilda, which is more fully subject to the warm
currents of the Gulf Stream.
Nevertheless, strange things sometimes drift ashore, which tell rather
of having floated down from chilling northern latitudes. Sometimes large
fragments of ice, and once a great walrus found its way hither, having
probably sailed along unsuspiciously on some detached fragment of his
iceberg. His head is still preserved, as that of so rare a guest
deserved to be. Two summers ago a great whale, sixty feet long, swam
unsuspiciously right up Loch Scavaig, and there found himself so
entangled and perplexed by the great black rocks, that he ran right
ashore, and for two whole days wriggled and flopped about in the vain
struggle to escape, lashing the sea, and overturning huge stones in his
despair, and all the time roaring (so say the fishers) like an enraged
bull, awakening the ghostly echoes of dark Corruisk, and disturbing the
Sabbath calm of its misty mountains. Not till the third day did the poor
brute cease to battle with his rocky prison, when he was espied by an
amazed English tourist, who forthwith swam to the spot and climbed on to
the whale’s back, whence he was shaken off by its last dying struggle.
Then the natives assembled, and having finally despatched him, set to
work in a fever of excitement to carry off the blubber from this
heaven-sent prize. A small portion of this royal fish was left for Her
Majesty, but many a lowly home was gladdened through the winter nights
by the unwonted supply of oil, although so vast a quantity was suffered
to escape, that the troubled sea all round was smoothed and calmed for
many days. It was long enough after this dissection, before any one
gifted with a sense of smell could again venture near that beautiful
sea-loch!
Speaking of rare guests, you will not travel far in Skye before hearing
anecdotes of the pompous Dr. Johnson and his little toadying companion.
Almost the first thing that will be pointed out to you is Kingsburgh
House, as being the place where Flora Macdonald entertained them. To us
it had far more interest as being that in which, many years before, in
the days of her youth and beauty, she and her princely maid, Betty
Burke, had found shelter and safety. But we heard so many legends of
Prince Charlie’s hair-breadth escapes among these islands, that I will
tell you what we gathered on that subject in a more connected form. I do
not mean to say that we withheld our tribute of admiration from the
brave old man, the City-bred philosopher, who, at the age of sixty-four,
forsook the luxury of London clubs, and, though suffering from his
sight, and heavy alike from disease, and from his naturally unwieldy
size, yet determined to behold with his own eyes those barren Hebrides,
which had appeared to him in far-away visions, grey and dreamy, as he
sat by his comfortable board in Fleet Street. So, like a true pilgrim,
he started on that, then difficult, journey to Iona, and thence to Isles
further still, tossing about on stormy nights in an open sailing-boat;
riding rough Highland ponies, or even trudging wearily on tired feet
over moor and mountain, through scenery that to him seemed only grim and
savage. Nothing daunted by storms and discomforts, he pursued his way,
seeking for Ossian and for trees. Fancy a man with no Gaelic hoping to
find Ossian! He tested his drinking capacity against that of seasoned
whisky-loving lairds, and tried to deepen the impression he had made on
their women-folk by keepsakes of such light literature as odd volumes of
arithmetic! The poor man even tried to get up a due appreciation of the
pipes by standing with his ear close to the drone, enduring silent
martyrdom without wincing, thinking thereby to test his fine ear for
music!
Between Kingsburgh and Uig is an old ruin on a cliff overhanging the
sea, a pleasant spot in which to bask away the sunny hours—the blue
Cuchullins making a lovely background to the grey walls of Castle Ustian
(or Hugh’s Castle), built in the time of James VI. by Hugh Macdonald as
a place of refuge. It had no windows, or any means of access, except a
small door high in the wall, to which its master climbed by a ladder,
which he then pulled up after him; and could rest tolerably secure as
long as his provisions lasted. Being next of kin to Donald Gorm Mòr, the
chief, he seems to have been weary of waiting for dead men’s shoes; and,
having induced some of his neighbours to form a conspiracy against his
uncle, they formally drew up a bond, which they all signed.
This compact was left in the hands of one, Macleod. It seems that this
man had previously received a bond from a cattledealer, for monies due
to him, and on this being reclaimed, Macleod, who could neither write
nor read, gave the drover the wrong document, which quickly found its
way to the chief. He generously determined to meet this villainy with
chivalrous goodness, and giving a public feast, invited all these
traitors, who duly appeared. He then publicly produced the compact;
confronted them with their own signatures, and forgave them. Hugh was
solemnly sworn to fidelity along with the others, but being little
touched by his uncle’s forgiveness, he soon embarked in a new plot, and
the story runs that having written two letters, one to the chief in
terms of deepest penitence, and the other to a co-traitor, devising
fresh means for his assassination, he folded both letters, and addressed
each to the other correspondent. His villainy being thus a second time
detected, his uncle determined to secure his own safety, and before Hugh
was conscious of his blunder, he was invited to return to the house of
his chief, when he was seized and cast into a dark and noisome dungeon,
where he was left for many hours without tasting food. When ravenous
with hunger, an abundant meal of salt meat was lowered to him. And after
awhile, when half mad from raging thirst, a cup followed. But it was the
cup of Tantalus—empty, and only mocked his agony. After this no human
step drew near again. And he was left to perish miserably in solitude,
darkness, and unutterable anguish.
Returning to Uig, you pass the comfortable new Inn, just below which
lies the narrow glen of the Conan; a clear, cool, stream, laughing and
sparkling in the sunlight, or dreaming to quiet pools under the green
shade of ferns, which grow in every cleft of the black, mossy rock;
while the yellow broom throws its tremulous reflection on the fairy
mirror, or, shaken by the breeze, drops its golden blossoms on to the
brown water, startling the silvery trout, that lie on the white gravel
below, and making them dart up stream to hide among the pebbles, over
which the water frets and ripples, ere it speeds on its seaward way,
rushing, tossing, twisting, and flashing in the light, as it hurries
past.
“Making sweet music with the enamell’d stones,
Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge,
He overtaketh in his pilgrimage;
And so, by many winding nooks he strays,
With willing sport, to the wild ocean.”
If you watch quietly near this overhanging ledge of rock, you will see a
motherly old wild duck swim out with all her brood, darling little balls
of brown and yellow fluff, with eyes like black diamonds, rejoicing in
their young lives. Presently from among the sedges a water-ouzel will
dive right into the stream, in pursuit of some delectable beetle; or the
ring-ouzel may fly down from his home among the heathery cliffs, to that
flat granite rock, where he will drink and lift up his head to the sun
as if giving thanks, and then drink again; sometimes come the lovely
black and white Oyster Catchers, with scarlet bills and legs
(Sea-Peewits we call them, when they make their spring home on the
gravelly banks of the rushing Spey), and the air rings with their wild
cries.
As you wander up this bonnie burn-side, you will come upon rich masses
of honeysuckle, trailing up the rocks, and hanging down to the water’s
edge. And hidden in this sweet tangle of whispering leaves and blossoms,
are dainty homes in the woodbine, where young birds are chirping the
“Lays of the Commissariat” to their busy foraging mothers.
To all lovers of wild flowers, these islands must have an especial
charm, for their infinite variety and beauty. There are rare flowers for
collectors, but you and I care more for those we have known from our
childhood, and the sweet braeside is all covered with them. The delicate
purple rock geranium, and the white Stellaria (the Star of Bethlehem)
grow thickest among “the moist and reedy grass” in these shady nooks;
and Our Lady’s Mantle holds its large dewdrop in each leafy cup.
The fragrant Bog-Myrtle (or rather, Sweet Gale), lies in green patches,
scenting the air; while over every heather tuft, the gossamer spider has
spun its delicate web, and you wonder how so frail a tissue can support
the thousand diamond-like dew-drops, which glisten and sparkle all over
it. The Canna grass or Bog Cotton also waves its soft downy plumes,
seeming to sprinkle a shower of snow above the dark peat-moss, an emblem
dear to many an old Scotch ballad-writer.
The Grass of Parnassus is here in abundance, but you must go to drier
banks to find the loveliest flower of all, the pure white star which
crowns that delicate slender stem, from which grows a second star of
green leaves, two or three inches below the blossom. I only know it as
the “Trientalis Europæa.” Far too fine a name for so graceful and
delicate a blossom.
When we reach the Falls of the Conan, where the merry waters dash
noisily over the dark rock, we will turn aside into a quiet “dell
without a name,” where a multitude of conical fairy hillocks rise on
every side of us, like innumerable tumuli of some giant race of bygone
days. They are all exactly alike in shape, only differing in size; all
clothed with short grass, and worn into countless concentric rings,
which I fancy must be sheep walks, though they look like water marks, or
indeed like human handiwork, like the steps of the Pyramids on a small
scale. The only other place where I am aware of the existence of a
similar formation is near Loch Torridon, where, in a valley known in
Gaelic as that of the thousand hills, the same green knolls rise in
endless groups round a central loch.
The highest of these Skye hillocks is crowned by a precipitous rock,
called Castle Ewan, so marvellously resembling a fortified castle, that
it is difficult to believe some ghostly masons have not been at work.
The hillocks are essentially grassy, “with daisies powdered o’er” as old
Chaucer says, but in the little valleys between them, there is the same
wealth of wild flowers in endless variety. Here are carpets of purple
and white Orchis, and golden globe flowers, veiled by the lace-like
blossoms of wild parsley; while the honeyed fragrance of the pink
bog-heather attracts a humming swarm of bees. The delicate blue
butterflies hover like floating harebells over the large pearly-white
Gowan, with the golden heart—the wishing-flower the children call it,
when they test their little loves by its fortune-telling leaves.
You will hardly find a pleasanter resting-place than one of these grassy
knolls, where you can lie in peace and listen to nature’s stillness—“the
many-mingled sounds of earth, which men call silence,”—the sounds of the
moorlands, the shiver and rustle of grasses, ferns and tall iris-leaves
bending before the faint breeze; and the hum of insect life, with that
ceaseless undertone of murmuring sea and rivulet, alike invisible.
Presently, from their burrow under the fairy hillock, come a family of
young rabbits—little, soft, coaxy things—playing all manner of merry
antics; springing and leaping like merry kittens, and nibbling at the
rich grasses. One sits close to us,
“Fondling its poor harmless face,”
while the others scamper off to a feast of Dandelion, and, as they touch
the feathery tufts of silken down, the whole air is filled with fluffy
parachutes, wafted about with every breath; and thistle-down too is
floating in soft white clouds.
Do you know how the thistle came to be chosen as the emblem of Scotland?
The old tradition is, that when a Scottish garrison was in danger of
being surprised by a Danish foe, a barefooted Dane, creeping along in
the darkness of night, trod to the sharp prickles of a thistle, and,
yelling with the shock of sudden pain, aroused the drowsy sentinel; and
the garrison thus saved, adopted the emblem and motto which afterwards
became that of the nation.
As we turn homeward from this happy valley, a light curl of blue smoke
betrays a lonely sheiling, more picturesque than cosy, I fear. It is
built as a lean-to against a great boulder of rock, the honeysuckle has
clambered over the heather roof; outside it is a study for a painter,
but within, it is dark and dingy, and thick with the rich brown
peat-reek of ages. It does own a chimney, through which you will see
more of the blue sky than through the tiny window; and when your blinded
eyes can distinguish anything, a ray of light (from the chimney) will
show two nice old wives—“caillachs,” the Gaelic folk would say—who sit
spinning in the corner. They are very deaf, and “have no English,” so
your friendship will probably begin and end with a smile and a grip from
a kindly old hand that has done plenty of good work in its day. Probably
they will offer you a hot oat-cake, for the poorest hut would fain show
hospitality to a stranger.
The other stream which flows into Uig Bay is the Rah, whose chief
attraction is a very picturesque waterfall—no great thing on a dry day,
but after a good night’s rain, when there is something of a spate, and
it comes roaring, rushing, and tumbling, as if from the blue sky, down
between the black cliffs where the ravens build, into a deep basin,
whence it boils over and makes a second fall, and then swirls and
bubbles round the great boulders of grey rock, whose golden lichens and
brown mosses gleam through the spray—then, I think, it is a thing of
beauty, and worth pausing a few moments to see, from some spot nearer
than the high-road, along which the tourists hurry to Quiraing; _that_
being the thing to do; and to be done, like all sight-seeing, as quickly
as possible.
We narrowly escaped bequeathing to the spot such a legend as would have
drawn thither all future tourists. For one morning, while I was quietly
painting, and my brother scrambling about the rocks overhead, suddenly
_something_ flashed past me, and I looked up just in time to see him
disappear in the black water below. As we knew nothing of its depth, the
first terror was that he would probably strike his head upon a rock, and
it was with a sense of thankful relief that, long before I could clamber
down from my own somewhat dangerous perch, I saw a white face rise, and
in a few moments more, he managed to scramble out, with no worse hurt
than a bruised knee.
A few days later we found our way to the Quiraing, which afterwards
became a very favourite haunt. It is a stupendous mass of rock
(amygdaloidal trap, which is a black rock speckled with white), the
grassy hill ending abruptly in a precipitous rock face, whence green
banks slope down to the sea. Its general form, and that of its
neighbour, “The Storr Rock,” is much the same as Salisbury Crags, which
must be familiar to every one who has passed through Edinburgh. The
Storr has one gigantic detached needle about 160 feet in height, which
stands out clear against the sky like a huge horn, quite separate from
the cliff, and visible for many miles on either side.
The Quiraing, in addition to one giant needle, has a perfect wilderness
of huge detached masses of rock of every conceivable form. These are
striking enough, even when seen in the bright sunshine; but after a
rainy night, when fleecy white mists curl and wreathe themselves, like
spirit drapery, round each weird form, and vapours steam up from the
grass at your very feet till you hardly know where you stand, and every
object is magnified tenfold, the feeling of awe and mystery becomes
almost overpowering. Sometimes a fantastic white shroud suddenly hides
the whole scene, and you see nothing but the grass and rushes under
foot. Then a rift in the cloud shows you the blue sea, lying in calm
sunlight far below, dotted with islands, and perhaps the white sail of a
yacht. Suddenly a fairy hand draws back the curtain, and close to you is
a rock, like a huge lion couchant, and behind it a tall pillar, with a
kneeling figure, which reminds one of St. Simon Stylites. Another
moment, and these have disappeared; but in their place three giant
figures, with curled wigs and flowing robes, have slowly emerged from
the mist. They are unmistakably a king and queen, and the lord
chancellor; who, however, stands uncourteously _dos à dos_ to his
sovereign, but facing a solemn and shadowy old Druid priest, who sits
gravely guarding his rock sanctuary.
[Illustration: THE QUIRANG. _To face p. 116._]
These, and a hundred more, are among the quaint rock forms that jut up
from that wonderful confusion like figures in a dream, suggesting the
work of some antediluvian wizard, whose spell had suddenly petrified all
living things, and thus bequeathed to us these weird groups of fossil
giants. Geologists, however, give us a more commonplace reason for this
strange formation. They tell how, between these masses of black trap
rock, and the columnar trap which crests the sea-cliffs, there lie beds
of soft shale and crumbly limestone and oolite; and that as these slowly
wear away, the superincumbent mass of rock breaks up, and remains
standing in huge isolated blocks and pinnacles like gigantic castles and
figures. This process is slowly, but continually going on, and
therefore, year by year, these strange rock forms must multiply, as the
breaking up of each winter’s frost loosens fresh masses of crag.
To see the Quiraing from the upper road conveys a very poor notion of
it; and though the scramble to the foot of the rocks lies over slippery
grass and sharp-cutting stones, it well repays the fatigue. Behind the
great needle there is a cleft in the rock hardly seen from below. You
must scramble up here, over the same sharp fragments of disintegrated
rock—a most toilsome process, and one very trying to shoe-leather—and at
last you reach the summit; and, standing in the cleft of the mighty
cliff which towers above you on either side, you look down into a great
cup of greenest pasture, closed in on every hand by the great black
crag. In the middle of this amphitheatre lies one gigantic mass of rock,
a huge oblong about forty feet high. The top of this is perfectly flat,
and carpeted with the richest green grass, smooth as a lawn, and
measuring about three hundred feet in length, by half that width. This
rock is the Quiraing _par excellence_; and though the meaning of the
word is uncertain, it seems to imply that it was the sheep-fold of some
one once famous, who, driving his flocks thither at the approach of
danger found here rich pasture and a safe hiding-place from foray and
raid, at a height of upwards of a thousand feet above the sea, which
washes the base of the green hill. As you look down from this high post,
through some cleft between the great rock spires and towers, your eye
wanders first over a succession of grassy slopes and hillocks, till it
rests on that broad, gleaming surface—
“With its multitudinous sparkle,
And its countless laughing ripple.”
all dotted with islands—some near, some faintly visible in the far
horizon; while, looking towards the mainland, you discern the great
hills of Ross and Sutherland. That the islands are tolerably numerous,
we are well aware, having in our infancy been taught that the Hebrides
are 490 in number. This, of course, includes every rocky islet as far
south as Bute and Arran, whereon pasturage for even one sheep may be
found. Of these, 120 are inhabited.
I spent many delightful days alone in this rocky wilderness, enjoying
its beauty and its solitude beyond description; and, above all, its
intensity of silence, rarely broken, save by the crowing of some cheery
old grouse calling its mate, or by the quick whiz of their wings as they
shot past me—sounds which, to a child of the moorland, are about the
pleasantest that can be heard, associated, as they are, with many a
sunny day among the heathery hills. Moreover, there is such a charm in
the feeling of out-and-out patriotism of the one bird that is
essentially British, and that positively refuses to exist in any corner
of the earth save his native moors, where he and his family have from
time immemorial lived their jolly and independent lives.
As a general rule, tourists visiting the Quiraing only come by the
coach, and “do” the rocks in a couple of hours, during which a fair
amount of whisky is consumed, and the echoes are awakened by discordant
shouts and songs. It rarely occurs to them to stop a night at the Uig
Inn; so when the steamer lands them at Portree, they drive upwards of
twenty miles, returning the same day. The excellent roads make this easy
enough; and at the time of our visit, rival coaches had reduced one
another’s prices to such a pitch, that they were carrying passengers at
one penny per mile! Whether, like the Kilkenny cats, they succeeded in
devouring one another, or whether either survived, I cannot tell.
But this I know—that he who would learn the lesson of the hills, must go
forth from the multitude, and learn it in silence and solitude; that
nature’s voice may whisper to him in sweet low tones that cannot be
discerned, amid the jarring sounds of human mirth. Never more forcibly
than in this place does one realize the truth and beauty of such a
description as that given by Wordsworth of a solitary wanderer, with
soul absorbed in intensest sympathy with nature, looking down on such a
scene as this, and revelling in its utter loneliness:
“From the naked top
Of some bold headland, he beheld the sun
Rise up and bathe the world in light! He looked—
Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth
And ocean’s liquid mass, in gladness lay
Beneath him; far and wide the clouds were touched,
And in their silent faces could he read
Unutterable love. Sound needed none,
Nor any voice of joy; his spirit drank
The spectacle,—sensation, soul, and form,
All melted into him; they swallowed up
His animal being; in them did he live,
And by them did he live; they were his life.”
Sometimes while you sit here entranced, only conscious of
“What a strange delight is out,
When nothing human is about.”
a shadow will pass over, and as you look up you may see the great golden
eagle soar from its eyrie on the highest crag, cleaving the air with
strong steady wing (measuring perhaps six feet from tip to tip) and now
scanning Duntulm’s lambs, which would be tempting prizes to carry back
to the eaglets in their nest of rushes and heather. Sometimes the osprey
sails along, for it, too, breeds among these cliffs; but it makes for
the river, and would rather catch fish for itself, like an honest bird,
than molest the flocks. The kite is less scrupulous, and glides along,
marking where the weak and sickly lamb may become his prey. The
shepherds call him the _gled_, because of his smooth gliding flight. One
sight for which I vainly watched both here and in the Himalayas, is that
of the eagle teaching her eaglets to fly, ready, the moment the young
wings are weary, to fly below, and stay them from falling—a fact alluded
to with such force and beauty in that last song of Moses, sung in the
waste howling wilderness on the eve of his last ascent to the Arabian
mountains, where he was to die alone on Mount Nebo, and where the eagle
looking down from his lonely eyrie, would strengthen his own spirit with
the lesson of faith and trust he had just been teaching to his people.
There is no lack of variety in the drives about Kilmuir, and the same
good roads in every direction show the wish of the proprietor to open up
the country. The most beautiful is one along the sea-coast, passing
above the rock needle, known as “The old man of Scudaboro,” who rises
from the sea, and whether in tempest or in calm, keeps ceaseless watch,
though the human garrison have for many a long century forsaken their
vitrified fort, traces of which you may still note on the green
hill-top. Beyond rises the red headland of Idrigal, one of the points of
Uig Bay. A short distance further comes Monkstadt, so called from an old
monastery which once stood on an islet in the lake close by, on which
some ruins can still be traced. To the modern house various Jacobite
legends are attached.
Passing onward along the coast, with the sea on one hand, and on the
other a confused wall of broken-down cliff and great rocks, we come to
the ruins of old Duntulm Castle, the Castle of the Grassy Hillock, one
of the finest holdings of the old Lords of the Isles, and indeed their
original home, built on the site of an old Viking fort. Like all this
coast, it is now the property of the Laird of Kilmuir, and the modern
house is rented by one of those wealthy farmers, whose names are as
familiar at the cattle shows of the mainland as they are in the isles.
The old castle has been uninhabited since 1715, and is now quite a ruin,
and like all the ancient dwellings, it conveys a wonderful idea of
discomfort. Tiny rooms in the thickness of the wall, and little space
for luxury in such crowded quarters. Whether the ladies wrought tapestry
for their walls I know not; but servants, called rush-bearers, were kept
on purpose to strew the floors every morning with fresh rushes. This in
due time led to the invention of rush or grass matting, and so to the
use of other materials for carpeting. A curious trace of this old custom
still lingers among the English lakes, where at certain churches, such
as Ambleside and Grasmere, one Sunday in the year is still known as
Rush-bearing Sunday. Here, in the memory of old folk now living, it was
customary on this day to strew the churches with a thick layer of green
rushes, which were left undisturbed for a twelvemonth, by which time
they had accumulated a fair amount of mother earth! I believe the
strewing is now quite given up, but the day is marked by picturesque
processions, in which the children carry crosses and other
ecclesiastical emblems, made of rushes and flowers. The inhabitants of
the castle commanded a grand sea-view, overlooking the channel of the
Minch, the rocky Shiant Isles, and those of Uist, Harris, and Lewis;
while its site on perpendicular basalt cliffs, rising from the sea,
proved a very grand natural fortification.
If we continue our drive along the same wild and beautiful road, it will
take us round the foot of the Quiraing by the green hills of Flodigarry
to the inn at Loch Staffin; thence two miles of slow ascent and infinite
beauty will bring us to the brow of the hill, whence we first caught
sight of the wonderful rock wilderness. I have sometimes sat at this
spot throughout the beautiful long day without seeing a living creature
save a group of picturesque lassies, in the usual short petticoat and
white bed-gown, with bare feet and bright scarlet or white handkerchief
on their glossy hair, half hidden by the huge bundle of heather, which
they would have to carry six or eight miles, that the men might rethatch
their bothies. Though their usual habit is to dart off the road and hide
on the approach of any gentry, they would rest a while near me, to watch
the lady making maps, and laugh and chatter to me in Gaelic, of which I
knew about three words, one of which—i.e. _meanichulagan_, the small
flies, alias midges—was a sure bond of sympathy, for these little
miscreants are the very torture of life in Skye. You have only to brush
over the heather, and even if by any accident they were at rest, up they
start in ravenous armed myriads, making work utterly impossible, till at
last, with fevered blood, and face and hands literally swollen by their
attacks, you probably have to leave the spot to which you had attained
with such toil and trouble, and make for home or the sea-shore as fast
as ever you can. Never before had we been filled with so righteous a
personal detestation to Beelzebub, the god of flies! Never had we so
devoutly sympathised with those old Greeks, who considered the office of
Fly-disperser to be work enough and to spare for one of their gods, and
told him off accordingly![25] We tried every conceivable mixture to
drive them away, and even sent to a London physician for special
antidotes for our tormentors, but all prescriptions failed, and the only
thing approaching to relief is always to carry a small bottle of
essential oil of lavender, with which to rub your face and hands. It
dries so rapidly that there is no danger of greasing your paper, and the
scent which to human beings is rather pleasant seems unendurable to the
midges. After we made this discovery, every sportsman carried a tiny
phial, as the best defensive ammunition. Did it ever occur to you that
the merry mazy Reel of Tulloch owes its common name of Hoolaghan to
these lightsome airy little midge dancers?
One day while I was sitting as usual on the lonely hillside, I was
amazed to see first one group, then another and another, of tidy folk in
their Sunday best, coming in an almost continuous stream along the bleak
road from Portree. Then I found that there was to be a sacramental
preaching on the hillside many miles away. It was to last a week, and
this great multitude was gathering from every farm and village in the
district. Many of the people had walked thirty miles, and would stay two
or three days; though where a hundredth part of them could hope to find
cover I cannot imagine. Doubtless vast numbers must have slept in the
open air, and happily the weather was hot and dry. The multitude of
carts and curious vehicles of all sorts which passed this day and the
next was really amazing, and such primitive carts and harness! A bit of
rope or twisted bent from the nearest hillock, with a stick to act as
crupper! Sometimes a very good dog-cart would pass, full of well-dressed
people, the old mare trotting cheerily along, followed by her foal, and
every now and then stopping to give it a drink!
I was present at one of these great sacramental gatherings, when, about
three thousand people had assembled on the wild coast of Rosshire; and a
more picturesque scene I have rarely beheld. It recalled visions of the
old Covenanters. As your eye glanced over the bleak expanse of hills,
you marvelled whence that great concourse of human beings could have
assembled, till you heard that not only every shepherd’s hut in the
district, but almost every island and village within forty miles, had
sent its pilgrims to the preaching; some by boat, some on foot. Not the
able-bodied only, but some poor half paralysed creatures, who took days
of hard walking and crawling (sometimes literally crawling on all
fours), dragging their weary steps down those steep paths, that they
might sit at the feet of some favourite, trusted teacher, and, with
child-like intensity of interest, drink in the old, old story from his
lips. The preachings were as usual to extend over several days. But it
was on the great day of the feast that we found our way there, when on
the green sward was set the long table covered with fair white linen,
round which were gathered a great company of devout worshippers, passing
the sacred cup and bread from hand to hand. From time to time a Gaelic
psalm was raised, the precentor singing every alternate line alone, and
the mass of voices taking up the wild tune, low at first, then swelling
into full chorus, and again dying away, like the booming of waves in
some ocean cave. The people were all seated on the grass, or clustering
in groups up the side of the hill, which formed a natural amphitheatre
of grey rocks or fading russet brackens, whose “calm decay” was in
keeping with the great peace of all around. The majority of the old
wives wore the cleanest of white mutches; some with large white
handkerchiefs tied over them and great blue cotton umbrellas, for though
it was an October afternoon, the heat of the sun was sickening.
Nevertheless the men all sat bareheaded, looking up to the preacher with
earnest weather-beaten faces, the warm colours of their hair and beards
recalling the russet of the withering brackens around them. Whatever
their occupation, nearly all were dressed in the uniform dark blue cloth
peculiar to our sea-faring folk.
On the rocky hill above, groups of little rough Highland cattle were
feeding, wondering doubtless at such an invasion of their solitude.
Close by flowed a tiny streamlet of purest crystal, yielding precious
store to all the thirsty multitude. At our feet lay the great calm
ocean, on which the sun’s glittering reflection was changing from
quicksilver to molten gold. Beyond, faintly seen through the hot misty
haze lay the grand Skye hills, all mirrored as clearly as the near
cliffs or the countless islands. From the little _clachan_ of black
bothies on the shore the blue smoke rose in transparent columns, and
there was quiet on every side. Only the distant cry of myriad sea-birds,
or the nearer song of the laverock, broke that great stillness, and now
and then the crow of black cock or grouse, or the heavy flap of a heron
floating past on leaden wing, fell on the listening ear. There was
something in the scene that insensibly carried the mind back to the
multitudes who assembled on the mountains, or by the lakes of Judea, in
those early days before the name of “Christian” had been yet bestowed on
the new sect.
One marked change, however, there must be in this modern teaching from
that of those early days when the disciples, continuing steadfast in the
apostles’ doctrine, met _daily_ for the breaking of bread and prayer, a
custom which we know was adhered to by the early Church in Rome, Milan,
and Spain, and which was retained by the African Church at least until
the time of St. Augustine, that is to say, for the first four hundred
years after the feast was instituted. In all these churches it was
optional whether the Holy Communion should be celebrated daily or
weekly. The majority of Christians seemed to have received twice a week,
but in no case was less than one celebration in the week thought of.
These modern Christians have but one such meeting in the year, and out
of the three thousand assembled on the hillside, only eighty were
communicants, the youngest of whom was a shepherd upwards of forty years
of age. Painful as it always is to witness the crowds that pour out of
our great city churches whenever the “comfortable words” of invitation
are about to be spoken (recalling the sad reproach once uttered by their
Lord when of the ten whom He had cleansed one only would return to give
Him thanks), it seems more painful still to know that these who have
gathered from so far to hear His Word, are actually deterred from
approaching His table by the impracticable standard of “fitness” exacted
by their teachers, the awful warnings known as “Fencing the Tables,”
whereby the sick and sad-hearted are turned away sorrowing; while those
only whom a human standard declares to be whole, may approach the feast
of the Great Physician. This state of things seems to grow worse rather
than better, if it be true that not very many years ago these great
gatherings sometimes numbered ten thousand souls, of whom two thousand
were communicants. In this respect, at least, the Northern Highlands
would do well to take a lesson from the Lowlands.
Among the various reminders of simple old manners which still exist,
both on the Isles and on some parts of the mainland, is a curious form
of ordeal by oath, whereby any lad or lass whose character has been
aspersed, may go to the house of the minister, and in presence of one or
two of the principal inhabitants, swear that he or she is guiltless of
the misdemeanour laid to her charge. After this, any one repeating the
same, is held guilty of wilful calumny. Many of the common household
goods still in use, more especially in the Outer Hebrides, are also
suggestive of olden days. Such, for instance, is the old quern or
handmill consisting of two hard gritty grindstones, laid horizontally
one above the other; the grain is poured between them, through a hole in
the centre of the upper stone, which is made to revolve rapidly by a
wooden handle. I suppose this was somewhat akin to the old English
handmill or Thamis, the wood of which was wont to ignite in the hand of
a swift worker, thus giving rise to the saying, concerning an idler,
that “_he_ would never set the Thamis on fire,” a proverb often quoted
with small thoughts of its origin.
It is strange to think that these poor little handmills should ever have
been an object of jealousy to our legislators. Yet in old days various
laws were passed advising the lairds to compel their tenants to bring
their grain to the water-mills; and also, empowering the miller to
search out and break any querns he could find, as being machines that
defraud him of his toll. So far back as the thirteenth century, the laws
of Alexander III provide, that no man shall presume to grind _quheit_,
_maishloch_ or _rye_ with handmill, except he be compelled by storm; and
even in this case he is bound to pay a certain tax to the miller!
The modern miller who cares to behold his ancient rivals may see good
specimens in our antiquarian museums, without a voyage to those remote
corners of the earth, but it is only here, that he may still see them in
active work, and hear the wild plaintive songs with which “the two women
grinding at the mill” wile away the monotonous hours. Wilder still are
the songs sung by a whole troop of lassies when _waulking_ cloth; that
is, when a dozen women sit on the ground, in two rows, feet to feet,
with a ribbed wooden board between them, whereon is laid the newly woven
woollen web; then with their bare feet the women work the cloth to and
fro, till they have rolled it to a right consistency, their song growing
louder and louder as they warm to their work, so that a casual observer
is extremely apt to imagine that he has suddenly stumbled on the inmates
of some private lunatic asylum.
But more primitive than all, are the agricultural implements of the
Isles; especially the Caschrom or wooden plough, consisting of a bent
handle four or five feet long, to which is attached a piece of wood like
a long pointed foot shod with iron, and this is propelled by the
ploughman’s own foot. Sometimes it is made more like a spade, which digs
into the ground, instead of scratching it. And with this curious tool,
the curious little fields or small crofts are worked. The only marvel is
that it should act at all, but the soil is light and rich—so light that
after rains which would convert most places into morasses, half an
hour’s sun makes the dust fly, and in order to produce the rich soil we
see the people dig sea-weed into the earth as a manure. When the fields
are thus ploughed by hand, a couple of lassies will yoke themselves to
the harrow, and work cheerily for hours, then, perhaps, “travel” nine
miles across the hills carrying on their back some heavy box just
brought by the steamer, or else with a heavy sack of potatoes, or a
creel of peats. I really believe the people infinitely prefer the use of
their old tools, to any new-fangled improvements introduced by the
bigger farmers, for their heart’s delight is to take plenty of time over
their work. They are quite ready to plod away to any extent, and are
hard working and hard living—but oh! how slow. They have as little
notion of the value of time as a Hindoo. But if you let them take their
own way and don’t hurry them, they will willingly endure any amount of
hunger and cold and weariness without a murmur, as beseems thoroughbred
Islesmen and Highlanders; who would have fallen low indeed in their own
eyes, should they betray symptoms of any such weakness. And they are
real gentlemen in their way, with delicate inborn tact and all the
naturally courteous instincts of good breeding; and, moreover, with a
keen perception of all that marks true breeding in others; as well as
the pride born of self-respect.
This is the true secret which does so puzzle Englishmen of the perfectly
familiar intercourse existing between class and class, yet never
breeding contempt; every detail connected with the laird’s kith and kin,
being treated by all the people as a matter of personal interest. They
take pride in his well being, and if there be evil doings, they will
veil them rather than let a stranger suspect any cause for blame.
No one can go much among them, without being touched by their leal
allegiance to the old blood, the hereditary owners of the soil; even
when (as alas! is too often the case) the Sassenach and his gold have
the sway, and hold the broad lands, possibly to the great benefit of the
tenantry, and certainly to their enrichment, as the Saxon is considered
fair game, and may be fleeced to the utmost possible limit; whereas a
fellow Highlander is rarely overcharged, except along the regular
tourist’s routes, where the “morale” of the people is always rapidly
destroyed, and even the children are taught by travellers to run beside
the coaches and beg. Once get off the tourist beat, though it may be
only just to the other side of the loch, and the hospitable cottage wife
will still offer you the bowl of creamy milk, for which she expects no
return. But that the Egyptian should be spoiled, is considered all fair,
and I fear the old Highland pride is scarcely proof against the many
tempting opportunities for reaping a golden autumnal harvest.