sacrifices from their pagan neighbours. We know that the Levitical law
makes no provision for any such thing. Yet the Rabbis are not only as
strict as modern Hindus, or ancient Celts, in excluding all poultry from
the holy city, but like them command that on the eve of the Great Day of
Atonement the head of each house shall take a cock, and, having tied its
legs together, shall swing it thrice sunwise round his own head,
uttering a certain formula of words. The women of the household are not
present, but they may in like manner deal with a hen, which they
afterwards eat together. The Jews, however, are said to object to the
use of a red cock, and, if possible, procure one that is pure white.
It seems that in old times the custom of sacrificing a cock by night at
places where four roads meet was quite as common in India as in Britain,
where this is one of the dark deeds most frequently laid to the charge
of witches. Thus in 1324 we find a lady of high estate, Dame Alice
Kyteler, accused by the Bishop of Ossory of having sacrificed nine red
cocks and nine peacocks’ eyes to an evil spirit, at a place near
Kilkenny where four roads meet, and having then boiled part of the flesh
and other villanous compounds in the skull of a felon. About the same
time we hear how the Cardinal of Gaæta, afterwards Pope Boniface VIII.,
was accused of similar communication with demons by drawing round him a
circle, and therein sacrificing a cock. We know that drawing the circle
was another ceremony common to sun-worshippers. Thus in Ceylon, where,
as we before observed, the old worship of the planets has been
incorporated with the purer faith of Buddha, the most solemn festival of
the year is that of the midsummer full moon, when priests and people
march in procession to the great river near Kandy, and, at the moment of
sunrise, draw a magic circle on its waters with a golden sword, and,
filling their water vessels within this mystic line, carry this sacred
water to the temple of Buddha, where it is religiously treasured till
the following year. Thus too the Arabs draw a mystic circle round any
property which they are obliged to leave unprotected; and they, as we
know, sacrificed cocks to the sun, long before the days of Mahomet. We
also obviously trace sun-worship in such a sacrifice as one described at
Llandegla in Denbighshire, where an epileptic patient was directed to go
three times sunwise round the Holy Well, where he was to wash himself,
and cast in an offering. He was then to carry a cock thrice sunwise
round the well, and thrice round the church, and was himself to lie all
night beneath the Communion Table, with his head resting on the Bible,—a
curious blending of “the Table of the Lord” with the service of devils.
A very common ceremony in the Highlands was for a man who believed
himself to be in danger from fairies to draw a circle round himself with
a branch of oak, a certain charm.
Speaking of the kindred superstitions of divers races, have you ever
noticed how curiously those having reference to salt appear in many
lands? For instance, the common Scotch belief that spilling salt at
table will be the sure precursor of a quarrel finds a strange
illustration in some of the oldest Italian pictures of the Last Supper,
in which Judas is represented as having just overturned the salt. We all
know how, among the Old Scotch and Irish, the place of the salt at table
divided the honoured guests from those of lower rank, so that to sit
below it involved a very humble position. Here, as in the East, eating
salt together seems always to have symbolized a certain sacredness in
hospitality, akin to the Arabic respect thereto—something of the
obligation to fidelity implied in such scriptural expressions as “being
salted with the salt of the palace,” or “having made a covenant of
salt.” Hence, too, the Persian description of a traitor as one faithless
to salt.
We know that not only the Jews, but also the Greeks, Romans, and other
heathen nations, offered salt with every sacrifice. Whether this was
done in Britain I do not know; but of the Jewish belief that a
sprinkling of salt was “good for the land,” we find a trace in the old
Scotch and Irish custom, that when the sowers went forth to sow the
fields, the wife of the farmer first of all sprinkled a handful of salt,
to ensure a good crop. Also when a man was appointed to any new
position, women threw handfuls of salt after him to bring him luck.
As to our common custom of throwing salt over the left shoulder, to
avert the quarrel which is sure to follow the upsetting thereof, it is
said to be simply an offering to some devil, who was supposed to be the
master of salt, and angered by its waste; unless, therefore, this
atonement were made to him, he would stir up strife among the guests. On
the other hand, the Egyptian women sprinkle salt on their floor in the
name of God, in order to prevent evil spirits from entering their
dwelling.
Another custom which seems equally wide-spread is that of saying “God
bless you!” to a person who sneezes, a custom which we generally trace
back to the days of the plague, when this was held to to one of its
first symptoms. But it seems that even the Siamese always wish long life
to one who sneezes, because they believe that an angel holds the book
wherein is written the life of every mortal, and as he turns to the page
which contains the history of any particular person, that person
infallibly sneezes, and so his friends wish him good luck in the reading
of his fate. And likewise one of the old Greek poets speaks of an
evil-minded person who refuses to say “Jupiter save him” when one of the
company sneezes. Thus, too, in the “Odyssey,” when Penelope has just
heard a rumour that gives her hope of the return of Ulysses, Telemachus
sneezes violently, which she at once hails as a happy omen.
The old Jewish Rabbins, too, have curious traditions on this matter.
They say that before the days of the patriarchs all men died of
sneezing. They never sneezed but once, and straightway gave up the
ghost. Jacob was the first man who died from sheer old age. So after his
day, it was found that to utter words of blessing during the act of
sneezing would avert all danger. And so it came to pass that every ruler
ordained this custom in his land; and this, says the Talmud, is the
reason why the same practice is found in all nations, even among the
savage tribes of Africa. Thus when the King of Sennaar sneezes, all his
courtiers turn aside and slap their thighs. But a sneeze from the King
of Monomotapa is a very serious matter indeed, for all his courtiers
must salute him in so loud a voice, that all who wait in the
ante-chamber may hear and join in the acclamation, while those in the
further rooms join chorus, till the very guards and sentinels take it
up, and all passers-by in the streets, hearing the well-known
salutation, must utter it aloud, so that the wave of benediction runs
along every street of the city—and a pretty hubbub it creates.
But we have no need to go to savages for examples. The graceful “Eviva”
or “Felicita,” of the Italians, and the sacred invocation of the
Spaniards “Jesus!” will at once suggest themselves as implying some
kindred notion—a greeting that shall avert some real evil from the
person addressed. Hence the exclamation of a Spanish girl, when an
English lady remarked that she had just had a violent sneezing fit, “Ah!
Pobrecita!” poor little thing, “and I was not there to say Jesus! for
you.”
In Egypt when a person sneezes, he exclaims, “Praise be to God!” and all
who are present say, “God have mercy on you!” to which the sneezer
replies, “God guide us all!” But should he yawn, he must cover his mouth
with his hand, and say, “I seek refuge with God from Satan the
accursed.” But no one wishes him luck, for they believe that the devil
is ever watching to leap into a gaping mouth!
But all these curious coincidences between the customs as well as the
traditions of the Eastern and Western world have tempted us to wander on
and on from fairy tales to mythology, till we have drifted off into a
vague world of superstitions that have carried us far away from the old
Gaelic songs and legends, with which our sailors whiled away the lovely
summer evening.
It was late before the little yacht was ready for the night, and her
crew turned into their tiny cabin “for’ard.” The evening lights were so
beautiful that we lingered on deck, hour after hour, scarcely knowing
how to turn away from so much loveliness. There had been a golden sunset
behind the Quiraing, which still stood out in rich purple against a
lemon-coloured sky—while the calm sea reflected both. Each changing tint
of the opal had rested by turns on all the islands and the hills of
Torridon. Now the clear moonlight gleamed on the water, and silvered the
soft white mists that half shrouded Ben Etra, even lending poetry to the
little inn, with its group of thatched byres and offices.
But the other side of the bay lay in its own deep shadow, and it was not
till we saw it in the early morning that we realized how beautiful it
was. Green banks sloped gently down to the water’s edge, crowned with
perpendicular stacks of basalt, in three distinct masses. It is from
these basaltic columns that Loch Staffin, like Staffa, takes its name.
Nearer us, a great headland of rock and greenest grass rose abruptly,
half enclosing a shore of the smoothest yellow sand; while every mark
and cleft in the rock lay clearly mirrored below. The scene was
irresistibly suggestive of bathing; so, being by this time fully
competent to pass as “able-bodied sea-women,” we rowed ourselves ashore,
and vowed that no bathing-ground had ever been so charming; and that
here must be our head-quarters fur the present.
[Illustration: KILT ROCK.]
Later in the day we had a lovely row all along the coast to a wonderful
headland known as the Kilt Rock, by reason of the many-coloured strata
of which it is composed. From the green sea upwards, layers of oolitic
limestone, oolitic freestone and shale, alternating with lines of grass,
lie horizontally; while rising vertically from these is a great mass of
red, brown, and yellow columnar basalt: so huge are these pillars, that
they quite dwarf those of Staffa; indeed Macculloch, whose sea-side
geology was generally accurate, calculates them at five or six times the
magnitude of those in the wonderful little Isle. On the top of this
cliff[31] lies an extensive loch (Loch Mialt is the sound, though as to
Gaelic spelling, he is rash who ventures to attempt it!) a loch with
reedy shores, haunted by innumerable water-fowl. Hence the waters fall
into the sea below, in flashing spray—a clear fall of 300 feet.
As we rowed slowly along, in the warm bright sun, so warm indeed that
the men’s faces and arms, tough sailors though they were, were all
blistered with the heat, and looked up to the cliffs above, and down
into the waters beneath, with such an intensity of delight, as became
almost oppressive, there was something overwhelming in the feeling of
the amazing strength and immutability of those dry, scorching rock
walls, contrasted with the perfect stillness of the exquisite green
water, through the clear depths of which we peered down into the marine
forest, whence trees and shrubs of every variety of form and colour
stretched their branches upward to the light. There were giant brown
sea-wares of many forms, some waving like graceful palms; others tossing
great arms aloft, like the patriarchs of this untrodden jungle. Some
have thick stems, and broad fleshy leaves of the richest golden brown,
every leaf ten or twelve feet long. Some are smooth and leathery, and
others all plaited, and fringed, and folded, and twisted, and crimped,
as if the laundry-maids of the sea had no other work to do but just to
get them up. Then we passed over others with large fan-like leaves; some
that look like bunches of long pink or green ribbon; and countless
varieties of delicate pink, and lilac, and olive sea-flowers and
sea-weeds, like floating lace-work, woven in some fairy loom—more
brilliant in this temperate sea, than either in tropics, or colder
regions.
And in all this beautiful, luxuriant vegetation, myriads of dainty sea
creatures make their home. Every lace-like weed seems beaded with black
pearls, which are the smallest mussels you ever saw. You cannot lift up
the tiniest plant but you will find on it a score of living things,
whose delicacy of structure arrests your eye, even without the help of
that best of companions, a small magnifying-glass.
As to the wonders of the invisible life of the sea, as shown by a good
microscope—the almost invisible weeds, which give food and beautiful
homes to millions of our fellow-creatures, and the endless varieties
which float in every drop of water—_that_ is a field of enjoyment quite
by itself. Only, be sure that next time you get the chance you look at
some common oyster-spat through a good glass, for I think that (except
perhaps the purple bunches of grapes, which are only dust from the
blossoms of the marsh mallow), no lifeless thing can be more beautiful.
But the most careless eye can scarcely look down into a sea whose depths
teem with such exuberance of life, animal and vegetable, without
noticing something of the beauty that nestles under every leaf, lodges
under each root, hides in every crevice: thousands of creatures, each of
wonderful organism, building their curious nests of sand and glutinous
matter, floating on the warm surface of the water, or drifting lazily
hither and hither in the gentle current.
After passing the Kilt Rock, we came on what seemed to me still more
curious geological freaks. There were patches of many-coloured rock; but
in particular, just above the sea-level was a long layer of pale grey
oolite, wherein at regular intervals were imbedded great round boulders,
like huge black cannon-balls. We landed at Lon Fern, a region of black
volcanic-looking rocks, some standing apart like quaint figures. One
statue of John Knox in a black gown was so unmistakeable, that we
pointed to it simultaneously.
This bay is like one vast aquarium. I never before saw so many living
creatures in so small a space. Such multitudes of sea-anemones of every
colour, and tiny star-fish, and little silvery eels, and shoals of fish
no bigger than minnows. And then the countless varieties of crabs! Poor
little half-naked hermits; dwellers in other folk’s houses; and braver
little creatures who are ready to fight life’s battle for themselves,
though they are so delicate as to be almost transparent, and their
tender claws could scarcely nip the tiniest sea-anemone. Sometimes a
great big fellow (a parten, as we northerners call him), would swim up
from his rock home under the sea-weeds, and peer at us with his curious
eyes, and then sink down again, faster than he rose, to his hiding-place
in the fairy garden, among corallines and sea-weeds of every hue,
crimson and gold and bronze—and lustrous metallic greens and purples.
Besides these, there were innumerable jelly-fish, from the tiniest atoms
of orange, or red-currant jelly, to the great giants who would overflow
the largest jelly mould that ever was made. And such beauties as they
are, with their delicate rings and stars of lilac, and the fringe of
long sensitive fingers floating in graceful festoons.
The longer we looked, the more convinced we were, that, in spite of
Kingsley, we had really discovered St. Brandan’s Fairy Isle for
ourselves. There it lay before us, just as he describes it, “reflected
double in the still, broad, silver sea.” That wonderful water world,
where the water-babies, and all other little water-creatures, play hide
and seek in the great water-forests. There, just as he tells us, was the
Isle, “full of pillars, and its roots full of caves; and its pillars of
black basalt, with ribbons of many-coloured sandstone, all curtained and
draped with sea-weeds, the rocks covered with ten thousand sea-anemones
of all beautiful colours and patterns, just like the gayest flower-bed.
And here and there the soft white sand where the water-babies sleep
every night, taking no heed of the little flounders which wriggle about
in the sand, or of the crabs which lie buried under it, and only peep
out with the tips of their eyes.”
Vainly we hunted and peered into every bright shallow pool for one
glimpse of those most enchanting fairies who rule in this watery
world—Mrs. Doasyouwouldbedoneby, and Mrs. Bedonebyasyoudid. For the sun
overhead was scorchingly hot; and the glare from the water much the
same; and the thought of sea ices, made of seacow’s cream, positively
made our mouths water. But alas! our blind eyes had not been opened to
discern their presence, so we were forced to turn inland, to a shady,
quiet, happy nook among the silent grey rocks, with their beautiful
ferns and grasses, and wild thyme and blue bells—and here we enjoyed
ourselves and our luncheon as we could only do on such a day and in such
a scene.
After awhile, my companions went off to call at a large farm, near which
are some remains of the old Fort of Dun Deirg, so-called in memory of
Dargo, the Druid, so the people say. I first inspected the rough
sheiling—half natural boulders of rock, half loose stones—where the
salmon fishers live; then idly, for lack of better occupation, wandered
up a long grassy slope called Rhuna Brathrain, the Brother’s Hill, or as
some say, Rhu-na-Bratan, the salmon’s headland, from the fact that the
beautiful silvery fish love to lie in the clear green water below, which
accordingly yields the best fishing off the island. Suddenly, as I
reached the summit, such a scene burst on my astonished sight as left me
fairly breathless with delight. The grassy slope, as I might have
guessed, ended in an abrupt precipice, and right at my feet, far below,
lay the clear calm sea, while from the shore one huge basalt needle
stood up level with the hill whereon I stood. All along the coast lay
sunny bays, each inclosed by great masses of columnar basalt, always
crowned with rich green pasture. Bight before me towered the Storr, a
mountain of the same character as the Quiraing, rising almost
perpendicularly from the sea to a height of two thousand feet. Its
smooth surface is clothed with rich green grass, while the rocky face
which lies towards the sea is one mighty mass of broken crag. In every
direction are heaped confused piles of rock, tossed about in forms
gigantic and terrible, like the colossal ruins of some stupendous city,
or the burial-place of some race of giants; a place utterly desolate and
silent, where the spirits of the past may dwell undisturbed in unbroken
solitude, and where the floating vapour-wreaths that cling to the weird
rock figures, seem like the ghostly winding-sheets of an army of mighty
dead.
The autumn of 1872 added a new element of eerieness to this unearthly
scene, for here was found the body of a poor young Englishman, who,
wearying all too quickly of the cares and sorrows of earth, selected
this lonely spot as the most fitting to put an end to the young life
that weighed on him so heavily. His body was carried to Portree for
burial, for you know, in Scotland, even the rash dead, who has fallen by
his own hand, is not excluded from a resting-place in the kirkyard, but
is laid, with unbaptized infants, in the cold shade on the north side of
the church. It seems, however, that such burials are liable to meet with
opposition from the fishers, not from any special fear of the kirkyard
being haunted but from a belief that for seven years to come the
herrings will forsake the coast! In the present instance, whatever demur
may have arisen, the funeral was suffered to proceed, and I have not
heard whether the harvest of the sea has suffered in consequence.
High above this wilderness of grand pinnacles and tumbled crags, towers
one gigantic rock-needle, poised as if in mid-air, on the summit of a
great grass-covered crag. This is _par excellence_, the Storr. Its
height is 165 feet, its circumference at the base 240 feet, and as it
cuts clear against the sky, like some vast minaret pointing heavenward,
it becomes a landmark whereby the fishers may guide their course for
many a mile; the only wonder is that it should not ere this have been in
some way utilized as a vast natural light-house, a guide for the night
as well as the day.
Beyond this magnificently wild scene lie the blue Cuchullin and Sconser
Hills, and the little Isle of Raasay, with the wild coast of Applecross,
Torridon, and Gairloch, as a background, and as I looked down on the
calm waters, a few brown sails of far-away herring boats were all that
recalled human life and toil.
Along the horizon lay soft, silvery grey clouds, all reflected in the
water, while from the clear blue overhead came such a chorus of
laverocks as seemed to bring floating back pleasant memories of sweet
home-voices singing joyous songs, to the blythesome “bird of the
wilderness,” soaring on dewy wing through downy clouds. “Hail to thee,
blythe spirit!” When the larks had vanished sunward, there followed a
hush and stillness of unutterable delight—a “silence more musical than
any song,” while the hot sunshine, pouring its flood of light on earth
and sea, enfolded all nature in a dreamy, sleepy haze.
Looking forward to a delightful row homeward, I at last came down from
my beautiful crag, losing sight of the sea for half an hour. To my
dismay, on reaching the shore, and looking back in the direction whence
we had come, I found that a sharp breeze had sprung up, and long heavy
waves were beating violently on the rocks. It was clearly impossible for
the boat to carry us in such a sea. The sailors, however, said that they
could get her back to the yacht if we could go round by land.
It was a weary six miles walk, and we were pretty well tired already,
but as there was no alternative, we just “set a stout heart to a stey
brae,” and clambering once more to the top of the cliffs, found there a
tolerably level road, and faced the dull grey mist as cheerily as we
could. We could see nothing else on every side of us; and every sheep we
met was so magnified by the fog as to be suggestive of some ghostly
monster. At last we reached the desolate loch sacred to all manner of
wild fowl, which looked up wonderingly as we passed. Still, on and on,
we trudged through the soaking mist, with an ever-changing escort of
curlews and plovers, circling round us with shrill angry whistle till we
were well past the homes of their little ones. Then a fresh colony would
be equally distressed by our approach, and took up the chorus of alarm.
At last we reached the little Inn at Stencholl, and here my companions
determined to spend the night; but as we were not expected, and neither
rooms nor supper were ready, I preferred going on board to my own little
cabin, after getting good milk and scones, and a thorough good drying at
Sandy M‘Leod’s blazing peat fire.
Have you ever, when thoroughly drenched, and in prospect of a long cold
drive home, tried the experiment of pouring whisky into your boots? I
cannot say I have ever tried it myself, but those who have, maintain
that even if their supply is insufficient for both internal and external
use, they consider the latter more important as a preventive against
dangerous chills. Happily I had no need to try either on the present
occasion as a very few minutes’ rowing saw me safe on board the
_Gannet_.
Next morning broke calm and beautiful. I went ashore, and found my
companions none the worse for our expedition, but not inclined to repeat
it. So I returned to our favourite sandy bay, where a group of
many-coloured rough Highland cattle were cooling themselves in the sea,
and nibbling sea-weed which I believe in winter time, when other pasture
is buried in snow, affords a livelihood to cattle and sheep, and
sometimes even to deer. The sailors were filling our barrels at a spring
of deliciously cool water, gurgling up from a cleft in the rock.
Beyond the blue sea lay the beautiful Ross-shire coast, every peak of
the grand Torridon Hills standing out in clear relief. One in
particular, a great cone of pure white crystalline quartz, glittered in
the sunlight as though covered with fresh snow. From Gairloch to beyond
Applecross that magnificent mountain range lay unclouded—a perfect sea
of peaks and cones and great shoulders—a grand tract of treeless deer
forest, in whose jealously guarded precincts lie hidden deep rocky
corries, as wildly beautiful as, and practically far more inaccessible
than, any Himalayan pass. Verily the cup of Tantalus was a perfect joke
to the woes of an artist dwelling in a land of deer-stalkers, daily
looking with ever-increasing longing at the barrier of great brown hills
which inclose the paradise, one rapid glance at which still haunts his
dreams, but where he may not again dare to set foot, under penalty of
instant expulsion by a whole army of vigilant foresters, backed by grim
laws of trespass.
To the southern ear this use of the word forest always sounds a strange
misnomer; and the raw Saxon who ventures to wonder at the absence of
trees is apt to be rather startled at first by such a posing reply as
“Trees! wha ever heard of trees in a forest?” Nevertheless, when for the
satisfaction of our Sassenach friends, we refer them to their beloved
Dr. Johnson, we find he defines forest as a word descriptive of “any
untilled tract of ground.” You see he had been in the north country
himself, and knew all about it. If lack of tillage be all that is
required to constitute a forest, there is not much fear of those wild
hills ever losing their rank as such.
In those deep corries lie unnumbered treasures for fern-lovers. The
delicate parsley fern grows there in rich abundance; and there are
sheltered nooks by the sea where the tall Osmunda Regalis flourishes
undisturbed.
“Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall fern
So stately of the Queen Osmunda named.”
That wild coast still keeps legends of its early Christian days, and
tells how just twelve hundred years ago, St. Maelruhba, who like Columba
was descended from Niel of the Nine Hostages, King of Ireland, and like
him, too, was a most zealous convert to the new faith, sailed over the
sea from Bangor, and landing at Aber-crosen (the mouth of the Crosen),
now known as Applecross, founded a church and monastery there, which
received the name of Comaraich, the Sanctuary, and was acknowledged as a
haven of refuge for criminals and debtors, a privilege which I believe
it could claim to this day. On the little isle of Croulin, near
Applecross, was Maelruhba’s oratory—and other memorials of his
missionary wanderings remain in various parts of the country, where he
is remembered as Malruba, Malrue, Mourie, or Maree. He was patron saint
of the south-eastern half of Skye, the remainder of the isle being under
the care of St. Columba. To him were dedicated the churches of Kilmoray
in Brackadale, Kilmaree in Strath, and Aski-Malruby, commonly called
Killashig. The parish of Kilarrow in Islay was also his, and though its
church has wholly disappeared, a few carved slabs still mark the old
kirkyard. In his honour beautiful Loch Maree is said to have changed its
ancient name as an arm of Loch Ewe. The farm of Kinloch Ewe, at the head
of the fresh-water Loch Maree, still retains the original name, though
now some miles distant from its salt-water godmother; a fact which,
taken in connection with the different levels of these lakes, seems to
point to some very curious topographical change. One of the many islands
on Loch Maree, commonly called Eilean Mowrie, or Malruba’s Isle, became
a favourite retreat of the saint; and his chapel, burial-ground, and
well, are still held by the people in such veneration that they resort
thither to bathe, and drink, and hang up rags and other offerings on the
bushes. It was formerly considered especially efficacious in curing
insanity, and patients were taken there to bathe, and then rowed sunwise
round the island, getting an occasional dip in the Loch as they went on.
Malruba is said to have been slain near Conan Bridge, and his body was
carried to his monastery at Aber-crosen, beside the sea, where a grey
stone in a thicket of brambles marks his tomb.
Zealous as he was in teaching the people, he does not seem to have been
altogether successful, for so late as the year 1656 we find the
ecclesiastical authorities endeavouring to stop the annual sacrifice of
bulls on the 25th of August to St. Mourie, “whoever he might be, saint
or demon.” This recipient of dubious honour was, in fact, poor Malruba
himself. The people also carried milk to the tops of the high mountains,
and there poured it out upon the rocks as an oblation. The Presbytery
was much troubled at the impossibility of checking these heathenish
offerings, and found that not only at Applecross, but also at Loch
Carron, Loch Broom, Kintail, and other places in this district, but more
especially at Gairloch and Loch Mourie this demon had “his monuments and
his remembrances.” The “sacrificeing of beests in ane heathenish manner”
on the Eilean Mourie in Kinlochewe again troubled the Church in 1678,
and “Mourie his poore ones, and Mourie his deviles” continued
obstinately to hold their ground in these remote valleys. From these
dreamy legends of the distant hills I was roused by the sound of
footsteps, which in that silent spot was somewhat of a rarity. Looking
up, I perceived that there was a gathering of the fisher folk, for from
every side of the hills I could see groups of people approach, all
making for this very spot, till two or three hundred had assembled; and
I found that all the fisher lads were to start in the afternoon for the
herring fishery on the east coast, and their sweethearts and wives, and
old fathers and mothers, and little brothers and sisters, had all come
down to see them off.
At first it was a scene of very cheery greetings, for many of them live
far apart, and rarely “foregather.” But as the hour for parting drew
near, it became sadder and sadder, and the amount of kissing and crying
told pretty plainly how well they knew the dangers and perils that might
arise within the two or three months that the fishing would last. For
many a sad fireside has its own sore history of the Caller Herrin’, and
can tell too sad a tale of why “wives and mithers, ‘maist despairin’,
ca’ them lives o’ men.”
And though the sea to-day was literally without a ripple, we were
reminded of its angrier moods by the great masts and ribs of an unhappy
ship with which the whole bay was strewed, she having been dashed to
pieces on these rocks some time previously. For old ocean has not
forgotten what merry games it played in olden days, when the Norwegian
galleys that had swept down so proudly on the Scottish shore were dashed
to pieces by the wild storms on these Western Isles, and when
“On Lorn and Mull and Skye
The hundred ships of Haco
In a thousand fragments lie.”
And his own royal galley, shorn and shattered, could hardly reach that
bleak Orcadian coast where the brave Norseman only purposed to spend the
winter, but where it had been decreed that he should sleep his last
sleep amid stern warriors and drowned fishers. Such of his fleet as had
weathered the storm stood right away for Norway, so the king had but a
little band around him when his last sickness overtook him. When he knew
that he was nigh unto death he arose, and being taken to St. Magnus’
Kirk, he made a sunwise turn round the shrine of the sainted Earl
Magnus. A few nights later he died. His body, richly apparelled, and
crowned with flowers, was laid in a hall lighted with great tapers, and
thence borne to St Magnus’ Kirk, and buried near the shrine of the great
yarl. But Haco’s dying command had been that he should be carried back
to Norway and laid beside his fathers. So in the spring his body was
taken on board that great ship of oak, with the twenty banks of oars,
and all the dragons’ heads carved and gilt; the same ship in which he
had sailed so gallantly from his own land. After many days the great
ship reached Bergen, and all the royal family came forth to meet the
funeral train, and with them all Haco’s warriors and a vast concourse of
people who came to witness his burial in Christ Kirk. So there the brave
sea-king was laid in the year of grace 1263. But the men of the Isles,
while they mourned the death of their valiant foe, rejoiced in the
mighty bulwark of hidden reefs and breakers that had proved so sure a
defence against the invader.
This day, however, the clear sunshine and calm sea gave no hint of any
danger being in store. One by one the heavily laden boats started; some
with as many as thirty-six lads on board; half of whom would help to man
the Ross-shire boats, and then fish the coast wherever the shoals might
lead them, as far as Aberdeen. Fine strapping young fellows they were,
for the most part, lads of whom the sobbing lassies on the shore might
well be proud. They reminded me of an islander’s comment on a certain
scriptural biography. “Ou! she was a stout lad, Samson; sure she cam’
frae Skye!” Away they sailed over the smooth waters; and though their
rich brown sails were hoisted, it needed all their rowing power as well
to make a fair start. So we wished them luck with all our hearts, and
that
“Weel might the keel row, that earns the bairnie’s bread.”
One of the many distinctions by which you may at a glance tell the boats
from the east or west coast is that the former invariably have one woman
on board, probably the sister of some of the men. Her duty it is to
cook, and keep house for the party, and whether on board the boat-home,
or some temporary encampment on land, always have as cheery a fireside
as may be for these toilers of the sea. The men from the west coast and
the isles dispense with even one fair ministering spirit; but each boat
carries a lad who is bound to look after such limited creature comforts
as are positively indispensable, their standard of such necessities
being on a hardier scale than even that of their east-coast brethren.
Among the men who still lingered on the shore were several who in old
days had accompanied one of my brothers in dangerous bird’s-nesting
expeditions, when their strong arms had helped to lower him by ropes
over cliffs and rocky ledges where the osprey and golden eagle had made
their nests. These men one by one came up, in their kind rough way, each
with some loving word to tell of “him that’s awa’” (as they say)—and for
whose sake I found such genuine kindness wherever I wandered on these
wild coasts. Kind hearts they are in truth. Leal to those whom they deem
worthy of honour. And, as we have well proven, in times of trouble and
in the hour of death, they can be gentle and tender, watching by a
sick-bed with a patient unwearied love passing the love of woman. All
honour be to such true metal, in however rough a mould it may be cast.
Among the many islands in the immediate neighbourhood, the group called
the Shiant Isles is worthy of note. They are about 500 feet high, faced
with columnar basalt, much less regular than that of Staffa. In some
places, where the pillars have fallen, the rock to which they were
attached has a smooth surface, as if the columnar form were merely
superficial. The puffin and the guillemot, and myriads of sea-fowl of
every description here make their homes, and hold undisputed possession
of the site of a ruined chapel, where some ascetics of olden days had
made their lonely cells. One of the islands has good pasturage, and I
believe a shepherd generally lives on the spot.
Very similar is the Isle of Flodigarry, also called Eilan Alteveg, whose
pillars are unusually large, but the lower part is generally divided
into sections like a heap of gigantic millstones. Here formerly stood a
chapel sacred to St. Turos, but of its ruins we saw no trace. All these
islands and headlands have the same very striking form—namely, a long
sloping face of smooth grass to the west and a precipitous face
eastward. The placing with regard to the points of the compass varies,
however, at different parts of the coast.
Sometimes, as you row silently along, you may catch a glimpse of a quiet
seal basking on his favourite rock. He is so shy, that he will probably
have vanished before you have well made him out; but if wounded, and
compelled to meet a foe at close quarters, a grip from his powerful jaws
proves him not altogether a helpless victim. I believe it is a common
error to suppose that it is to this seal that we are indebted for our
beautiful soft brown seal-skin coats. The fur seal[32] (Genus Otary;
so-called from possessing an external ear) is found only in the Pacific
and Southern Oceans, chiefly in the neighbourhood of the Falkland and
South Shetland Isles; its silky brown fur underlies a compact coat of
soft brownish-grey hair. Some of our coats are also made from the fur of
the sea-otter,[33] which is a native of Behring’s Straits, twice the
size of the common otter; its fur is a rich black tinged with brown.
Nevertheless our own seal possesses a silvery coat, hidden beneath his
rough grey hair, which is in great demand; this, together with his warm
inner coating of blubber, has proved fatal to his peace, and he is now
comparatively rare, greatly to the satisfaction of the salmon fishers,
whose nets he often destroys in pursuit of the fish, to say nothing of
his actually frightening the latter away from the coast.
The cormorants, too, are keen fishers; you will see them pounce on their
silvery prey, and gluttonously struggle to swallow it alive, though it
may be twice too big a mouthful, and wriggles most piteously during the
process. Vast numbers of these weird black birds (scarts, we call them,)
live in every cave along this rocky shore. They choose some quiet nook
where they heap up a mass of sea-weed for their nest, and, with the
unerring instinct of all sea-birds, select a spot where the highest
spring-tide cannot touch them. Here they sit, guarding their homes, or
else stand solemn and immovable on the rock ledges, and never stir as we
enter the cavern, till, as we come close to them, a sudden flap from
their dusky wings startles us, as though some spirit of darkness would
resent our invasion. Then they dart to and fro with wild piercing cries,
just as they do before stormy weather, when they come forth from their
caves, as birds of ill omen to all seafarers. There is something so
demoniacal about the bird, that the sight of it always recalls Milton’s
legend of its form being the first selected by the Arch Fiend when,
perched on the Tree of Life, he overlooked with envious eye that fair
garden, and plotted how to wreak his malice on the blissful pair. They
are, however, capable of being trained as useful servants, and I often
wonder why their fishing propensities are not turned to account in this
country, as well as in the Celestial Empire. There are certain Chinese
lakes where vast numbers of boats are employed solely for this fishery.
Each boat carries about a dozen birds, which, at the word of command,
dart with marvellous speed down through the waters, and return with fish
of good size in their bills. So thoroughly well are they trained, that
they never swallow the fish, but deliver it up to their master, who
gives them such portions as he sees fit. In olden days, when
cormorant-fishing was an English sport, and at the present time in
Holland, a ring or leathern strap is fastened round the lower part of
the throat, and the bird swallows as many fish as it can catch, and, on
returning to its keeper, disgorges them. On some parts of our own coast
the cormorant is considered rather good eating; a happy combination of
fish and fowl. Its fishy taste, however, is reduced by burying the bird
in sand for four-and-twenty hours, and then skinning him, when he makes
a very tolerable soup.
The deep-sea fishing here is excellent. White fish of all sorts is
abundant. There is one poacher, however, who proves sorely annoying to
the toiling fishers. This is the little star-fish, which at once makes
for the lines, and eats the bait, and though he pretty often gets hooked
himself as the penalty of his indiscretion, his useless death gives
small satisfaction to the men whose night’s labour has been wasted. Not
content with this, he destroys vast quantities of bait by attacking the
mussel scalps, of which he makes sore havoc, destroying thousands of
young mussels.
The best bait of all is the razor-fish or solen, the inhabitant of the
long brown razor shells that strew our shores. He lies safely hidden
beneath the sands, and so soon as he hears a step approaching, he digs a
deeper hiding-place, and burrows his way lower and lower. But in the
first anguish of terror he spouts a jet of water in the air, like a tiny
whale, and thus betrays his presence to the watchful bait-gatherer, who
from this custom, calls his hidden treasure the spout-fish. Plunging a
barbed iron rod into the moist sand, he fishes up his victim; should he
fail to strike him, he knows he need not try a second time, as the
creature will have burrowed far beyond his reach; but, if bait is
scarce, he will perhaps sprinkle salt on the hole, and then wait
patiently till the solen rises to the surface, and is captured, to prove
an irresistible dainty to all manner of fish.
Very fine turbot are sometimes caught, but the fishers have some curious
prejudice against them, as they have against all fish without scales,
and will, I believe, on no account eat them themselves. Possibly this
may be from some insensible obedience to that old Levitical law which
commanded, that “whatsoever hath no fins nor scales, in the seas and in
the rivers, of all that moveth in the waters, that shall be an
abomination unto you,” Certainly the abhorrence of the prohibited
swine’s flesh is by no means forgotten in Scotland; and though, as I
before said, the cormorant is occasionally used for food, it is a very
rare exception, being the only unclean bird prohibited by the Levitical
law ever eaten. Hares, too, are looked upon with repugnance by a large
number of the people, as I have heard sundry Scottish housekeepers
testify when their servants objected to eat the forbidden meat. To
whatever cause this prejudice may be due, the same feeling exists in a
much stronger degree amongst the Laplanders, between whom and the little
Picts we have noticed various points of resemblance. With regard to the
scaleless fish, it is curious to find that the ancient Romans were
forbidden by Numa Pompilius to sacrifice such to the gods, while the
Egyptians prohibited their use as being unwholesome.
As to tasting an eel, a very small minority of the Scotch have ever been
induced to do such a thing, partly from its resemblance to a
water-serpent, partly from a belief that, like the turbot, it has no
scales. I believe that a good microscope might dispel the latter
prejudice by revealing the scaly armour of most varieties of the eel.
But as to the turbot, it is unmistakably smooth, and until very late
years all the turbot taken even on the coast of Fife and Aberdeen were
thrown away, as there was no sale for them, and only the most degraded
and miserable of the poor would condescend to take these despised
dainties to their homes. They are called roden fluke all along the east
coast, and by this name the would be-purchaser must ask for them, or he
will be served with halibut, a very coarse fish of the same species. I
do not know whether the objection to scaleless fish extends to
flounders. Probably it does, the more so as some of the fishers on the
west coast believe the flounder (or, as they call it, fluke,) to be a
young turbot. The inhabitants of the various islands have each their
peculiar notions as to what fish are good for food. Some will eat skate,
some eat dog-fish. Some eat limpets and razor-fish, and, as a matter of
course, those who do not, despise those who do. In olden times the
Highlanders used to cure hams of the seal, and I believe that in the
Orkney Isles young seals are still esteemed a great delicacy. Whale used
also to be eaten in these isles with certain herbs, tolerably coarse
food, but useful in the victualling of ships. That which was sent to
bring over the Maid of Norway is especially stated to have had fifty
pounds of whale among her provisions. Porpoises were also in much repute
at that time; and one most dainty bill of fare is recorded, of swans,
cranes and sea-gulls, eaten with bread sweetened with honey, and
flavoured with spices. Also at the coronation of Queen Catherine of
France, wife of Henry V., the bill of fare included porpoise garnished
with minnows!
The southern market profits by the Scotch antipathy to eels, large
quantities of great conger-eels being caught on the Argyllshire coast,
which are at once despatched to London; for the fishers who capture
these unclean monsters would rather starve than eat one themselves,
regarding them as lineal descendants of the original serpent of Eden. If
they _are_ such, we might suspect their wily ancestor of having pursued
his researches in the garden farther than we wot of, inasmuch as nothing
short of having tasted the life-giving tree could account for the
horrible vitality of the whole race; a race which utterly defies all
common modes of death, as you may see any day, by turning out a
basketful of eels—hours after you believe them to have been thoroughly
killed, still the thrill of life shoots with wavelike undulation along
each fold of the writhing mass. Nay, you think you have secured death by
severing the head from the body; yet woe betide the incautious finger
that dares to examine that head too closely, for the sharp white teeth
have lost none of their power, and can still inflict a vicious bite on
the rash intruder.
Speaking of eels, I cannot resist telling you of the latest combination
of the forms serpentine and satanic. On the occasion of a fancy ball, a
gentleman, who shall be nameless, determined to appear in the form
popularly ascribed to the Prince of Evil. A well-known Jew supplied the
desired dress, but it was found that, as in the case of little Bo-Peep’s
celebrated sheep, the tail had been left behind. How to supply a new one
was the question. Some one vulgarly suggested a visit to a gin palace,
where bad spirits are retailed, but his observation was treated with
well-merited contempt. Suddenly a brilliant idea occurred to the poor
tail-less demon. He repaired to the nearest umbrella shop, where he
invested in the strongest shiny umbrella skin. Thence passing on to the
fishmonger’s, he selected a fine healthy eel, in most active condition,
just large enough to slip into the umbrella case, the ring at the
further end allowing him breathing room. The said case being then
attached to the dress, presented the appearance of a most lively tail in
perpetual motion, wriggling and writhing;—now twined round the wearer’s
neck, now round his waist, his arm, his leg—now moving aimlessly in
mid-air, or darting suddenly towards some startled passer by. In short
it was a complete success and matter of amazement to all beholders, but
to none more so than to the Jewish owner of the costume, who stood
gazing in wrapt admiration, offering free bribes if only this wonderful
secret might be revealed to him!
Drawing the salmon nets in the early morning was always a point of
attraction to me. I was generally astir by 4 A.M.—the loveliest hour of
a summer morning—and the sailor who had been on watch all night was glad
enough to give me my lesson in rowing till it was time to return and
awaken the crew at 6 A.M. So to the salmon nets I generally made my way,
and a very exciting moment it is when the nets are hauled in—sometimes
with a prize of bonnie silvery fish—which of course means salmon
exclusively, for to apply that sacred word to any less noble species
would mark you ignorant indeed. I’d like to see old Lauchlan’s face if
you used it with reference to the lean dark long-nosed article he has
just thrown back into the river. “Fish! indeed! Ou! it wasna a fish! It
was no but a kelt!”
But fish or no fish, the nets are safe to draw up some curious treasures
of the deep. Creatures such as you will see nowhere else, for they are
so useless, that they are at once thrown back to mother ocean. Sea
hedgehogs, and sea-urchins, and sea-hens, and queer beasts all head and
fins, and young sea-serpents, and all manner of odd monsters. The gulls
well know their chance of securing these prizes, and always follow the
drawing of the nets; black-headed gulls, and kittiwakes, and graceful
sea-swallows with their sharp wings and forked tails, hover expectantly
around, with wild, musical cries, and gradually the line of floating
corks narrows, and as the net is drawn in, great agitation prevails
among the captives, who flop about, and tumble over and over in dire
dismay. Now a great fin appears, now a tail, now a nose, and quick
flashes of silver tell what treasures will reward the fisher’s toil.
Then as the meshy prison is hauled in an eager discussion goes on in
Gaelic, and the bonnie silver fish are laid aside with honour due. After
that their fellow-prisoners are sorted. White fish of all
sorts—flounders, scythe, lythe, rock-codlings, skate, cuddies, and many
another are judged worthy of human consumption, and the fishers teach us
to call them by names unknown to ichthyologists, sometimes, perhaps,
with a sly laugh at our ignorance. We point out something that we
mistake for a haddock, and the skipper gravely says, “Na, it isna a
haddock. I’m thinking it will be”——a pause reflective, so long that we
wonder what is coming next.... “Weel, _likely_ it will be—the son of a
cod—or it may be the daughter!!”
But it is by no means all fish that comes to the net, for, as I before
said, all the quaintest, and, to you or me, the most interesting sea
creatures are thrown away with infinite contempt, when they give a shake
and a wriggle, and dive into their beloved depths with all speed,
provided they can escape the rapid swoop of rapacious, hungry-eyed
gulls, who watch vigilantly over the nets hoping for their share of the
spoil.
Their reflections on the tenderness of the lords of the creation are
probably highly subversive of discipline in our sea realms; for the
fishers are not tender in their handling, and generally administer such
a parting blow on the head as ought to kill them, but unfortunately does
not do so; so they sink down “through their dim water world” with eyes
battered and bruised heads—perhaps, if they are big enough, with a gash
from a clip in their side—and all this because they are just what Heaven
made them; and enjoy dining off their lesser fellow-creatures just as
much as we do ourselves.
One of the foes most hated by the fisher folk, is the dog-fish, with its
sharp shark-like teeth and rough skin like coarse sandpaper. It
generally gets an extra blow, and wriggles away very sorely and sadly to
its rock home. In some of the outermost isles, even this little shark is
made available for human food, as it also is in West Cornwall, where the
species known as toughhound is made into morghi soup; morghi being an
ancient British word meaning sea-dog. (To an old Indian it might be
suggestive of chicken-broth!)
Another creature which receives small pity from the fishers is known as
the sea-pig. He is armed with sharp prickles down the back, which make
him rather an unpleasant customer. Crabs too of all sorts and kinds come
in, clinging to their dinner of fine large half-eaten fish, of which
they make very short work; and once in the boat, how they do run from
side to side, giving each of their companions in misery, a vicious nip
as they pass. Then there was a very odd fish, with a huge head and
gaping jaws, in wonderful disproportion to his small, lean body. He was
like a Brobdingnagian species of the little miller’s thumb of our
fresh-water streams; or still more like the sting-fish, which, however,
is said only to grow four or five inches long, whereas this creature was
fully eighteen.
One queer animal that we occasionally caught was the lumpfish, a
hideous, fatty creature, singularly grotesque in form. It is covered all
over with rows of hard, rough lumps; and on its under-side is a hard,
lumpy mass, whence it derives its name. Its flesh is soft and oily;
hence it is esteemed one of the dainties of Greenland, and such cold,
oil-loving regions. In this country we resign the delicious morsel to
the seals, who are said to be marvellously expert in flaying their
rough-skinned prize, just as you would do a fine ripe peach, and swallow
it with equal enjoyment. It seems that this fish, in the course of his
little life, passes through changes more numerous and quite as
remarkable as the development of frog’s spawn into tadpoles and
full-grown frogs. When first he escapes from his tiny egg he strongly
resembles the said tadpole, with large head and slim body. The next
transformation shows him still large-headed and smooth-skinned, and duly
provided with fins. In his last stage he becomes the bloated creature I
described, with head and fins alike buried in fat, and his whole body
covered with coarse, rough tubercles. The fishers call this ludicrous
fish a sea-hen; and they firmly believe it to be either the parent or
child of the common jelly-fish—a statement which I was not in a position
to disprove, so listened with reverence.
I did not then know through what strange and beautiful transformations
these exquisite _medusæ_ (sea-butterflies we might call them) pass in
the course of their short summer life. How, when the autumn days draw
on, and the mother jelly-fish knows that the time has come when she must
melt away, and lose herself in ocean-foam, she lays thousands of tiny
eggs, each covered with invisible hairs—movable hairs like the spines of
the sea-urchin—whereby the little living eggs paddle their way to some
safe hiding-places in the crannies of the rock, and there fasten
themselves, and wait to see what will happen next. Soon from each egg
there grows a tiny stem, and from it spring delicate branches, and every
branch is covered with minute cups, edged with little dainty arms—living
arms, that float on every side. And when spring changes to summer, each
graceful flower-like cup develops a new life, and buds and blossoms, and
each fairy blossom proves to be a living rose, a little tiny jelly-fish,
with thousands of fringe-like fingers; and the little creature frees
itself from the stem, and floats away in the warm summer sea to commence
its own life of gladness and independence.
The fishers will tell you of many a strange transformation, if you care
to listen. Many of them still believe that the barnacles which cluster
on old ships, or any old wood, are really the young of the barnacle
goose—a faith by no means confined to the Isles. Even in France this
legend of a marine birth has led to this goose being eaten on fast days,
though so _foul_ a fish has met with some opposition from ecclesiastical
authorities. So late as the twelfth century, we find a great Welsh
divine[34] warning the priests of Ireland against such Lenten fare. For
though he himself evidently fully believes the fable, he declares that
fowl born of fish is no more fit food for fast days, than might be “a
leg of Adam,” who was not born of flesh either.
A trace of this curious discovery in natural history is retained in the
scientific name which describes the ship barnacle as the _Anatifera_ or
goose-bearer. The account of its transformation into a great winged fowl
is given most circumstantially by divers old writers, together with
minute illustrations of the creature in its various stages. Thus Gerard
writes, in 1636: “What our eyes have seen and hands have touched we
shall declare.” And he goes on to tell how, on various old timbers cast
up by the sea, is found “a certaine froth, which in time breedeth into
certaine shells, whence commeth the shape and form of a bird. When it is
perfectly formed, the shell gapeth open, and the first thing that
appeareth is the aforesaid lace or string; next come the legs of the
bird hanging out, and as it groweth greater, it openeth the shell by
degrees, till at length it is all come forth, and hangeth only by the
bill. In short space after, it cometh to full maturitie, and falleth
into the sea, where it gathereth feathers and groweth to a fowle.”
Various other learned ornithologists have left us the most minute
description of the gradual development of this long-legged shell-fish,
and the growth of its feathers, till it becometh a fowl bigger than a
mallard. Even Southey speaks of “The barnacle, a bird breeding upon old
ships.” Not content with this simple transition from fish to fowl,
divers of our most learned forefathers taught (and the vulgar, of
course, believed), that the barnacles themselves were indeed the
blossoms of the old wood on which they were found clustering so
abundantly. One renowned scholar[35] says: “We find trees in Scotland
which produce a fruit enveloped in leaves, and when it drops into the
water at a suitable time, it takes life, and is turned into a live bird,
which they call a _tree-bird_!” Of this curious tree he gives a faithful
picture, with leaves and blossoms, and half-ripe fruit, whence issues
forth the head of the young duck, while fully-developed birds swim in
the pool below. Another celebrated ornithologist[36] favours us with a
yet more elaborate picture of the duck-bearing tree, whereon each fruit
is a carefully drawn barnacle, whence newly-hatched ducks fall into the
water, and there joyously disport themselves. When such strange fables
were gravely discussed by the naturalists of the day, we need scarcely
wonder to find traces of the same folly among the ignorant fishers. As
to the loose reasoning which admitted this goose to the rank of Lenten
fare, it became weaker still in the case of the otter, which was also
eaten on the lesser fast days, its flesh being so fishy as to allow room
for the quibble.
A quaint trace of the old Celtic belief in some forms of transmigration
long lingered in some of these isles, where it was fully believed that
those who were drowned, assumed the form of seals, and disported
themselves joyously in ocean depths, or else passed onward to “the realm
beneath the waves”—a world with an atmosphere like our own, where
Vikings, and all brave pirates, sailors, and fisher folk, dwelt in a
beautiful world, in pearl and coral caves—a world over which the blue
sea arched, as the blue heaven does above this earth; and it was only
when a craving for old ocean, or for mother earth, came over these
denizens of that mysterious land, that they needed to wear their
seal-skin coats to enable them to return to the upper world. Once a
month they were allowed to lay aside their seal-skin raiment and,
resuming mortal form, might dance and sing all night upon the shore;
but, ere the sun rose, they must resume their amphibious character, and
plunge once more into the green waves. Strange legends were told of how
venturesome mortals had found and stolen the seal-skins as they lay on
the rocks, and had thus won back fair wives and friends from their
marine bondage. It is thus that the MacPhees of Isle Colonsay are
descended from a drowned maiden, whose seal-skin the chief found one day
upon a rock. When the weeping damsel came to search for her lost
raiment, he shrouded her in his plaid, and rowed her ashore to his
castle, when she became his wife. Sometimes, however, the brides thus
captured found their seal-skins again among their lords’ treasures, and,
having tried them on, could not resist plunging once more into the sea,
whence they never returned.
The existence of mermen and mermaids is equally a matter of implicit
credence. There are men and women now living on our coasts who believe
in these curious compounds as truly as did the Syrians in their mermaid
goddess, Derceto, for whose sake they would eat no manner of fishes, but
rendered them all homage. We know too in what honour the Phœnician and
Assyrian mermen, Dagon and Oannes, were held, both being marvellous
combinations of fishes and human beings, and possessing human voices.
The Babylonians believed that Oannes came every morning from the sea to
the city, where he spent the day teaching men arts sciences, returning
every evening to his ocean home. One of his statues was discovered by
Layard at Nineveh—a genuine merman deity; not that we need go to such
remote ages for well-authenticated mermaid stories. The Dutch chronicles
give a minute account of a woman-fish, who, after a fearful storm, in
the year 1430, was caught and tamed. She wore a woman’s dress, and was
taught to spin. Moreover, she would never pass a crucifix without bowing
lowly. It is especially recorded that she received Christian burial.
Hence it is inferred that the magistrates of Haarlem had probably had
her christened!
The story goes that these maidens and men of the sea possess a magic
belt, without which they cease to be amphibious. Any one finding this
treasure could keep the owner captive on the dry land for so long as he
should please. There is a family now living at Hilton of Cadboll, in the
parish of Fern, Easter Ross, who claim descent from a merman, whose belt
a human girl had stolen. At Tarbert, in Easter Ross, lives another
family, who believe that wind and tempest can never harm their boat; for
their father, James Môr (who is still living to tell the tale), once
found a mermaid’s belt, and would on no account restore it to her till
she promised that none of his family should ever be drowned—a promise
which she has faithfully kept.
So the fishers gave me Hebridean views on transmigration; and gave me
too bonnie syth and flounders, and fine large crabs, so that “The
Gannet”[37] might have a due share of the spoil; though, like a
dignified old bird, she had lain still in her place, and refused a
scramble for breakfast with all her white-winged fellows.