THE OUTER HEBRIDES.
“The beautiful Isles of Greece
Full many a bard has sung:
The Isles I love best lie far in the West,
Where men speak the Gaelic tongue.
“Let them sing of the sunny South,
Where the blue Ægean smiles,
But give to me the Scottish sea,
That breaks round the Western Isles!
“Lovest thou mountains great,
Peaks to the clouds that soar,
Corrie and fell where eagles dwell,
And cataracts dash evermore?
“Lovest thou green grassy glades,
By the sunshine sweetly kist,
Murmuring waves, and echoing caves?
Then go to the Isle of Mist!”
Having as yet had but a distant view of the Outer Hebrides, we
determined that the next cruise of the _Gannet_ should be in their
direction. The principal islands included under this head are the two,
which, together, constitute the Long Island; namely Lewis and Harris,
while North and South Uist, and Benbecula, are all three so connected by
fords, as to be in fact one. The Long Island claims the dignity of being
the third in size of the British Isles, and has a population of
somewhere about 20,000 souls. Sixty miles beyond Harris, and 140 from
the mainland, lies St. Kilda. Fain would we have explored those remote
shores—the rocky island round which a never-ceasing snow-shower seems to
fall—a shower whose quivering snow-flakes are each beautiful living
creatures; birds of dazzling whiteness that float in tremulous clouds
around their chosen home—the isle of which Scott said that—
“Here the lone sea-bird makes its wildest cry.”
But the extreme danger of the coast, which has not one safe harbour,
makes it terribly difficult of access, and it is not pleasant to land,
with the knowledge that your yacht may have to run at any moment.
The little island is about three miles long and two broad; and, except
at two points, where there is a landing place, whence you can scramble
up the rocks by a steep path, its sea-face is a series of precipitous
cliffs, rising perpendicularly to a very great height, in some places
nearly 1,400 feet, being the highest in Britain. These in the distance
seem positively white by reason of the myriads of gulls, gannets,
guillemots, and every species of sea-bird, whose nests are closely
packed on every ledge of rock.
The solan goose, the great northern diver, the fulmar or northern
petrel, which the sailors declare is named alter St. Peter, in memory of
his walking on the sea, great solemn black cormorants standing sentinel,
thousands of puffins; in short, every sea-bird you ever heard of, are
here, living busy domestic lives; talking hard about the prospects of
the year, and of the millions of blue and green eggs which they have
laid among grass or rushes, on bare rock, or among the large stones.
Each tribe has its own encampment, though wayward individuals will
sometimes sit apart in some solitary niche.
The puffins especially, live in colonies; burrowing in the earth with
their strong beak or “neb” as the country folk say. Hence their name of
coulterneb; from the coulter of a plough. The idler puffins, profit by
the labour of others, and make their nests in old rabbit-holes.
Then there are the foolish guillemots, which earn their name by sitting
still on the rocks, and allowing themselves to be caught by the hand.
They are said to carry their young on their backs, from their high nests
on the rocks, down to the water, when it is time to give them swimming
lessons. Each bird lays one large egg, which is considered excellent
food. That of the solan goose is also a delicacy, being translucent and
oval, much resembling that of the plover. She also only lays one egg,
and sits with her foot on it—the male bird very properly taking his
turn. The great auk altogether declines to sit on her eggs, but nestles
close beside them, and the warmth of her body or of her maternal love,
hatches them in due time.
There are eider ducks too, whose precious down the islanders carefully
collect, going the round of the nests several times in a season, and
thence stealing all the soft fine lining which the mother duck has
plucked from her own-breast, and with which moreover she covers her four
eggs, that her tender nestlings may find a warmer welcome when they come
out of their shell. So patient and longsuffering is this good mother,
that when ruthless hands have despoiled her nest and taken one or two of
her eggs, she will lay more eggs and pull more down, repeating the
process till she has no down left, and has to appeal to the drake, who
then gives all he can spare. It is said, that one duck will thus yield
about half a pound in a season, an immense quantity considering its
amazing lightness. Besides these eggs, vast numbers are taken of other
sorts, and of the young birds, which the people use as food. It is
reckoned that upwards of 20,000 gannets are annually destroyed in the
Hebrides, yet their number shows no perceptible decrease.
The life of a rock fowler is perilous indeed; sometimes he must make his
difficult way along scarcely perceptible ledges, where one false step
would involve certain death. But the most inaccessible cliffs are always
the most thickly crowded with nests, so these are the goals to be won;
the lower cliffs to which his companions can let him down by strong
ropes, are comparatively safe quarters, though dangerous enough. As to
the ropes, they are precious property; a good rope is a maiden’s dowry,
and is the most precious legacy which friend can bequeath to friend. The
rope must be about thirty fathoms long, and the best are those made of
strong raw cowhide, in threefold twist; this is wrapped round with
sheepskin to prevent the sharp rocks from cutting it. Such a rope is a
treasure indeed, and with fair usage it ought to last at least two
generations. The man who possesses such a one may reap his never-failing
harvest on the most awful crags, while his poorer neighbour must be
content with smaller gains on less dizzy ledges.
There is one very simple method of catching old birds, known as the gull
fishery. An old woman will set long strings with nooses, and then sits
watching them, ready to draw them in at the right moment. She carries a
small pouch, ready to catch the oil which the bird throws up in the
anguish of being captured. The oil of the fulmar is coarse and yellow,
having a strong rancid smell; the people say it cures rheumatism, and
they burn it in their lamps in the long winter nights. The bird is so
full of oil that some slovenly householders do not even extract it, but
passing a wick through the body of the dead bird and drawing it out by
the beak, actually light the wick thus oiled, and it goes on burning for
a considerable time. Thus they have a ready-made bird-lamp.
This oil and the feathers are very important articles of export. Not the
only ones, however, as the island and the islets round it give pasturage
to 2,000 sheep and a fair proportion of black cattle, so that the
inhabitants not only clothe themselves in good homespun, but export both
cloth and wool; also much salt fish. Nevertheless, it is said that their
own chief diet consists almost entirely of the flesh of sea-birds, which
is as unwholesome as to our taste it is repulsive, and its constant use
produces divers diseases. A small portion of the island is arable, and
the people grow oats, and (thanks to the warm Gulf Stream) raise very
fair crops in their ocean-cradled farms. The said kindly current
befriends them in many ways, sometimes bringing them fine logs of
mahogany and other timber, which, on an island where even a bush is a
thing unknown, are precious indeed. Sometimes an opportune wreck brings
good store of driftwood within reach, and though the precipitous coast
offers no tempting shore where old ocean may cast its treasures of
flotsam and jetsam, still many floating trophies are brought home by the
fishers, which find good welcome in the little cottages, which are now
for the most part neat and comfortable homes, having been rebuilt by the
late proprietor, who found there a miserable village like a Hottentot
kraal—flat-roofed-huts, half buried in an accumulation of filth, both
outside and in. Here about eighty inhabitants lived, and it was said
that not one in ten of their children survived the ninth day of their
unhappy little lives, owing to the foul air they breathed. Now the
village is as tidy as can be expected of a fisher-town, and the children
being no longer poisoned in infancy, grow up strong lads and lassies,
who do credit to the grand sea-breezes which come sweeping right across
the broad Atlantic, as it rolls in one unbroken sweep from Newfoundland
or Labrador.
Just imagine the force with which the great waves must dash against
these desolate cliffs in the wild wintry storms, chafing and frothing
over all the low breastwork of sunken rocks, till the island is
encircled for miles by range beyond range of raging breakers, the whole
ocean boiling and seething like yeast, while blinding spray drifts right
over the little island, and even the wild sea-birds dare not face the
storm, but take refuge in the caves and hollows of the rock, where they
sit half stupefied and in danger of starvation. Terrible thunder-storms
add awe to these wild winter months, and darken the brief hours of day.
Those long summer months, which know no real night, are succeeded by
wintry nights of sixteen hours’ duration, when the poor folk must huddle
together in their filthy cabins, and pass the time cleaning and
preparing their feathers for the market.
Dr. Macculloch’s account of the island reads like that of a feather-bed
gone mad. He says: “The air is full of feathered animals, the sea is
covered with them, the houses are ornamented by them, and the
inhabitants look as if they had been all tarred and feathered, for their
hair is full of feathers and their clothes are covered with feathers.
The women look like feathered Mercuries, for their shoes are made of
gannet’s skin. Everything smells of feathers.” When the feathers are
ready for exportation they are stowed away in low stone cells and
covered with turf, to await the coming of the next boat, laden with such
simple goods as may suit the needs of these children of the waves and of
the mist. For in their own primitive fashion they are self-supporting,
and care little for the changes and chances of the outer world, with
which they have no regular connection. Once or twice a year a boat goes
over from Harris laden with useful merchandise to exchange for the
produce of the isle; but there is no post, no doctor, and, as I before
said, no harbour where any boat can find refuge in a storm.
It is said that after the death of King William the good old minister
continued to pray for him for three years, at the end of which he
accidentally heard of the occurrence!
The inhabitants of Portree take great delight in telling how some old
men once came there from St. Kilda, and were so much alarmed by the size
and height of the houses that they could hardly venture to walk along
the street; and of all eccentricities of civilization that which amused
them most was an umbrella, which they borrowed and hoisted in the
sunshine. They were especially amazed at the sight of a few small trees,
their only notion of vegetation being stunted grass or oats; but when
they beheld a coach and pair their amazement at the house on wheels knew
no bounds, more especially when they observed that the horseshoes were
fastened to the horses’ hoofs with iron nails—a most marvellous novelty.
What would they say, could they now return to Portree, to see the
marvellous telegraphic needle, bringing ceaseless messages from all
parts of the earth, more especially in the tourist season, when Skye now
attracts such multitudes of busy men for a brief holiday? Surely they
would accuse the clerks of dabbling in the black art. Still more would
they marvel if, passing on to the opposite shore, they could see the
swift iron horses, with fiery breath, rushing to and fro with
interminable strings of wheeled houses crowded with Sassenachs!
The pottery of St. Kilda is curious, being the simplest clay, rudely
shaped by hand and baked in the sun, having previously been glazed with
milk. Jars, bowls, and all manner of culinary dishes are thus made and
answer all purposes, a metal cooking-pot being still a rare treasure.
Even in some parts of the Isle of Lewis it is said that metal pots were
almost unknown a dozen years ago, and I have seen various specimens of
the home-made crockery of Barvas that you would certainly attribute to
the ancient Britons! Indeed the manufacturers have clung very closely to
the customs of their ancestors; as I before remarked, until the present
generation were supplied with better homes by a careful landlord, they
and their cattle and their poultry all lived together in huts with
neither chimney nor window, and without furniture of any sort, merely
turf mounds thatched and filled with a perpetual cloud of thick peat
smoke. The houses rarely exceeded four feet in apparent height, being
sunk in the earth so as to be less exposed to the wild raging winds
which sweep the island.
It would be difficult to find poorer people in all Scotland. They “have
no English,” and perhaps are ignorant enough; yet as regards statistics
of morality it is said that few districts stand so high, and that these
poor islanders may well shame some of our highly-educated country
villages and towns. Strange as it may sound to such as know anything of
the state of many of these, it is said that here illegitimacy is
actually considered disreputable, in fact is a thing almost unknown!
Certainly the parishes of the mainland must admit that these are a
remarkable people.[48] Moreover, so careful are they in the upbringing
of their little ones, that I am told by one well acquainted with these
kindly islanders, that there is scarcely a child of six years old among
them who cannot read at least some part of the Bible in the native
Gaelic. The same friend gave me a most touching description of the
kindness shown him by the people when a terrible storm threatened his
ship with destruction, and it seemed as if nothing could save her from
drifting right on to the cruel rocks, where no assistance could be
rendered and all hands must perish. In the bitter storm the islanders,
one and all, left their fire-sides and repaired to the lowly little
church, where they remained for hours in a ceaseless agony of prayer,
till at last, just when all hope seemed past, the wind changed as if by
a miracle, and the ship was saved. Thus their prayer was turned to
thanksgiving; and before many hours were passed the storm abated and
they were able once more to welcome the crew and her captain to their
little rocky isle.
In Martin’s Visit to St. Kilda (A.D. 1690) he says that the ancient
measures of omer and cubits still continued to be used in this isle.
MacLeod’s steward was entitled to receive one omer of barley from every
family. He was much struck by the simplicity of a young woman’s marriage
dower, which often consisted only of one pound of horsehair, wherewith
to make snares for her husband’s fowling. There was at that time only
one boat belonging to the isle, and it so happened that on one occasion
this boat, containing six or eight men, was wrecked on a neighbouring
islet. These men contrived to swim ashore, and collecting heaps of dry
sea-weed they made one fire to represent each man. So the wives,
understanding the sign, were comforted, and set to work diligently to
carry on the men’s work till such time (after some months had elapsed)
as the steward should visit the isle, and could sail across and rescue
the men, who had kept themselves alive with fish and dulse. He observed
that the people divided the fishing and fowling rocks as exactly as they
did their corn and grass land, and no poaching would have been
tolerated. The produce of these was something enormous. He says that in
one day he saw the people bring home 2,000 sea-fowl and twenty-nine
large basketsfull of eggs; some containing 400 large eggs, others about
800 of lesser sorts. The only miracle is how the vast amount of
bird-life is kept up without diminution, but year by year fresh myriads
are there; countless millions floating about in feathery crowds and
darkening the air with most substantial cloud-shadows, or else packed
together in serried rows along every niche and ledge of the cliffs, each
bird knowing its own nest and egg by some marvellous instinct, and
rearing its curious brood of soft, downy nestlings in that strangely
public family life. And so the race of beautiful snowy, white-winged
spirits, with the wild eyes and the eerie cry, still holds its ground,
rejoicing in the calm sunshine, or battling with wind and wave, and
showing no decrease in its numbers in spite of all its human foes.
It is said that these outer isles retain many traces of the old Norse,
though in a much less degree than Orkney and Shetland, which were
entirely colonised by Norwegians, and where Gaelic is unknown. The
language there spoken is ordinary Scotch, with a Quaker-like use of
“thou” instead of “you.”
I suppose you know that in olden days the isles were quite independent
of the mainland, and ruled by such piratical chiefs, that at length
Harold Haarfager determined to annex them all, as far south as the Isle
of Man, and they continued nominally subject to Norway till 1266, when
they were transferred to Scotland (not, however, as a very peaceful
possession, as it is somewhere about this time that we hear of the King
of Man making over the Sudereys to Somerled). About eighty years later,
the whole were seized by one chief, whose private property they
continued for 200 years, when James V. finally reconquered them.
In very early days, these islanders were thought worthy of more
spiritual care than falls to their lot nowadays. There is hardly one
island on which some devoted Christian did not make his cell and build
his chapel. The more remote the island, the better it was cared for. St.
Kilda owns several such sites. St. Ronan’s oratory still remains on Isle
Rona; but for the most part the ruins have disappeared, and only the
name of some saint, perhaps with the prefix of Kil, to mark his cell,
tells that here once was holy ground, the place where prayer was wont to
be made. Here and there we find some little islet bearing only the name
of Pabba, which is a corruption of Papar, or Father, the title whereby
these anchorite fathers were addressed in the Norse tongue. One such
isle lies off Skye, another off Harris, a third off Barra. We find
Pappadil in Rum, and divers isles off Orkney and Shetland are known as
Papa, the Father’s Isle, telling their own history of those early
servants of the Cross. Some, indeed, say that these Culdees were merely
hermits (Cuildich, men of seclusion), who sought these desolate
“clippings of the earth” as the loneliest spots in which they could hide
from their species. Be that as it may, there can be no doubt that they
did devote themselves to teaching the people, and in some measure
succeeded in instilling a very grey, clouded sort of light.
For the result of their labours was much like what has been recorded of
that of the priest of Samaria, who was brought to Bethel to teach the
nations how they should fear the Lord.[49] Their pupils took so kindly
to both faiths that we are told “they feared the Lord _and served their
own gods_, their graven images, their children, and their children’s
children.”
The extent to which these Pagan rites were tolerated, even in later
days, seems strange indeed. But the conciliatory policy of the mediæval
Christians made room for every species of heathen observance, provided
the people would submit to baptism. It was the same policy which in Rome
itself suggested christening the idol-image of Jupiter, and so
converting it into that adorable statue of St. Peter, which the people
might thenceforward worship to their hearts’ content, and whose sacred
toes have ever since continued to receive such enthusiastic kisses from
the Christians of all successive generations. Thus it is that we find
such edicts as that of Pope Gregory in A.D. 601, declaring that “as it
is impossible to efface old customs from the obdurate mind of the
Britons, they may, on great festivals, continue to build themselves
booths and huts with boughs of trees round about such old Pagan temples
as have been sanctified by the sprinkling of holy water, and may there
continue to sacrifice and feast on the flesh of cattle.” The local
affections of the people were thus enlisted on behalf of the new faith,
and the old rites being retained, in course of ages true Christian
churches were built on the identical spots where the heathen idolatries
had so long prevailed. Such was the origin of our glorious cathedrals of
Canterbury and Westminster; of St. Paul’s, St. Martin’s, St. Pancras’s,
and many another time-honoured places of worship. The tradition
concerning Westminster is that it was built on the site of the Temple of
Apollo.
It has been suggested that in all probability our church spires (those
“fingers pointing Heavenwards”) were but the development of the tall
monoliths reverenced by earlier generations. And perhaps the minarets,
or minars, of the Mohammedans may have sprung from the same origin.
Fergusson believes the word _minar_ to be the same as our _menhir_,[50]
or tall stone. It is a word which cannot be traced to any root in any
Eastern language. So possibly for once the east may have borrowed from
the west!
Sometimes when Christian sanctuaries were built on Pagan sites, the very
stones dear to the heathen were retained within the new church. A
curious instance of this may be seen to this day in Spain, where at the
hermitage of St. Michael at Arrichinaga, in the province of Biscay, a
church has been built, actually enclosing the huge stones of a great
dolmen, between which is placed the shrine of the saint. Thus the
original veneration for the sacred stones was sanctified by the saintly
combination. This Christian church is so modern as to prove that the
reverence for the great stones must have continued till a very recent
period.
I cannot but think that a similar policy accounts for a peculiarity of
several ancient Christian stone altars (one of which you may see in a
side chapel of Norwich Cathedral), where a square grey stone, measuring,
perhaps, eighteen inches across, is inserted into a large stone slab of
quite different formation and colour. It serves to cover the hidden
relic which gave sanctity to the altar, and was itself Christianized by
being marked with five small crosses (symbolizing the five wounds of
Christ). Nevertheless, it seems probable that these blue-grey stones
which were exalted to such honour were themselves originally objects of
heathen veneration.
Thus, too, it was that in the early glimmering of that grey dawn there
existed such strange anomalies as that Christian Rewald, King of the
East Saxons, who erected in his churches two altars, at one of which he
offered sacrifices to Christ, and at the other to devils; a species of
hedging not peculiar to the dark ages, for a recent writer on India
tells us of a Hindu convert who, while firmly believing the Christian
creed, and worshipping the Saviour, would nevertheless never pass an
image of any of the Hindu gods, or even a sacred stone daubed with red
paint, without kneeling down to worship it; for she used to say, “Maybe
there’s something in it!”
In like manner the Roman Catholic priests of Southern India find it no
easy matter to prevent their converts from secretly sacrificing cocks to
the demons, whenever any special danger arises, so as to make sure of
some favour on the winning side. A similarly obstinate adherence to old
custom, in defiance of all prohibitions, civil or ecclesiastical, has
recently been pointed out, as still retained in Southern Sweden, where,
at any spot where a man has been killed, each passer by must either lay
a stone or a dry bough (juniper being preferred), as an offering to the
spirit of the dead. The cairn thus raised is called _bal_, (_i.e._, pile
for burning) and is set on fire from time to time, as a protection for
the living against the unquiet ghost, which is supposed to haunt the
spot. Obviously this custom may be traced back to the days when their
Pagan forefathers were wont to burn their dead and offer sacrifices at
their places of burial.
In glancing eastward and westward, nothing is more striking than the
strong grip which this tendency to ancestor and devil-worship seems ever
to have had over the human mind. Whatever waves of faith may have passed
over a land—whether Christian, Mohammedan, Buddhist, or Brahmin—and
however each may have striven, by gentle means, or by the sword, to put
it down, the crushed faith has still been treasured in secret, and
though its own votaries are generally ashamed to confess it, still
nothing will induce them to give it up. Thus it still exists all over
the earth, independent of the reigning faith, whatever that may be, and
actually in opposition to its teaching. Hence even in India, where
Brahminism has so largely borrowed from that, which in olden days it
strove to subdue, we still find the demon-worshippers assembling near
the Brahmin temples to celebrate unauthorised rites. And in Ceylon the
devil-dancers build their own halls close to the Buddhist temples, not
satisfied with the fact that multitudes of their demon rites have
already been incorporated with Buddhism.
Perhaps one of the most curious instances of an amalgamated creed at the
present day is that of the Circassians, who, while retaining marked
traces of the successive waves of Mohammedanism and Christianity, have
nevertheless well-nigh relapsed to the Paganism of their forefathers. We
are told that they still reverence the Blessed Virgin, and keep holy the
first day of the week. Also that they adore One Supreme God.
Nevertheless they erect altars in the open air in the shade of ancient
groves, and there offer sacrifice to the gods of the air, of fire and
thunder, of wind and water. On ordinary occasions the patriarch of the
family assumes the priestly office, kindling the sacred torch; but six
times a year great public sacrifices are offered in the sacred groves,
in some of which still stand ancient Christian crosses, some of stone,
and some of iron. One is mentioned as standing on the summit of a hill,
another as being suspended by an iron chain from the branches of a great
oak tree. To these old crosses all the people pay devout homage, though
apparently without any tradition of their meaning, nor will even those
who call themselves Mohammedans pass them by without bowing down and
making the sign of the cross. They especially venerate the moon, and
hold their principal meetings by her light. At one of their festivals,
called the “Feast of Presentation,” they solemnly present to God all
lads of a given age, and, having erected an altar at the foot of one the
old crosses, they adore the Most High God, and sacrifice to Him a goat
or calf for each of the lads; at the same time presenting bowls of mead
and cakes of unleavened bread before the cross, and imploring a blessing
thereon. Then they spend the day in athletic sports, leaping and racing,
and afterwards feast on the meat of the sacrifices, washed down by
flowing bowls of mead.
There was just as strange a blending of faith (as well as of race), when
these old Norsemen and Celts first began to amalgamate. The new
Christian faith, retained so many of the practices of old Paganism, that
at times it was hard to tell which claimed the upper hand; and the
people are described as having generally been “Christians, in time of
peace, but always certain to invoke the aid of Thor, when sailing on any
dangerous expedition.” At a later date they used to induce the priests
to sprinkle the sea with holy water, as an infallible means of procuring
plenty of herring! and until the year 1660 the custom prevailed on
Hallow-e’en of wading into the sea, with a cup of ale, which was poured
out as a libation to Shony, a sea-god, who was implored to send abundant
sea-ware for the good of the land. After this the people adjourned to
the church, and from the church to the fields—to spend the night in
feasting and dancing.
Of course the sea-going folk were sure to retain their old superstitions
to the last, and it reads curiously in an account of the launch of Clan
Ronald’s galley, as sung by an old Celtic bard to find, first a most
beautiful prayer to the Holy Trinity for the safety of the ship; and
that “He Who knows every harbour under the sun may render the breath of
the sky propitious, and urge the vessel over the waters, uninjured, to a
safe haven;” and then to find, that to make assurance doubly sure a
he-goat had been suspended from the mast, to secure a favourable wind!
This double precaution seems to have failed in its object, for soon
after leaving South Uist, a terrible storm arose, and the bard tells how
“the awful world of waters drew on its rough mantle of thick darkness,
swelling into mountains, and sinking into glens,” and how the tall masts
of good red pine, were shivered by the tempest. Not till they reached
the Strait of Isla did Ocean make peace with these mariners, “and
dismissed this host of winds to the upper regions of the air, leaving
the waters smooth as a polished mirror.”
The unhappy goat which thus adorned Clan Ronald’s mast, reminds us how,
when the first crusade set forth from France and Britain, the Christian
hosts carried with them a goose and a goat, to which they rendered
homage, believing the Holy Spirit to be present within them![51]
Speaking of the quaint way in which those early Christians adopted the
symbols revered by the people, and gave them new meanings; we find
allusion to one, which is quite as puzzling in its Pagan as in its
Christian diameter, namely the common comb, which we know was used in
divination, which is referred to in so many old legends, and sculptured
on divers pagan stones;[52] but which in Christian days acquired some
such strange sanctity that we find it mentioned among the appliances
once needed at solemn high mass, more especially when sung by a bishop,
in which case a comb was always essential. Sometimes it was made of
ivory; sometimes quite plain; others were adorned with elaborate
carving, and even gemmed with precious stones. Both in English and
foreign cathedrals they were reckoned as ecclesiastical furniture, and
numbered among the costly possessions of the Church. A list of many such
ritual combs is given by Dr. Rock, as having belonged to St. Cuthbert,
St. Neot, St. Dunstan, Malachias, and other saints. Various other combs
were long preserved at Durham, Canterbury, Glastonbury, and other holy
minsters. At Thetford, in the church of St. Sepulchre, you may still see
the comb of St. Thomas, the martyr of Canterbury. Certainly if history
speaks truly concerning these holy men, their combs were in no danger of
wearing out from overmuch use! We find, however, that combing the hair
of the priest or bishop was one of the offices performed by the inferior
clergy not once only, in the vestry—but several times during Divine
Service!
The only other instance I know of in which a comb figures in connection
with worship, is that of the Moslems, who constantly carry one, for the
purpose of dressing their beards, which is commonly done immediately
after prayers, the devotee remaining on his knees during the operation.
He carefully collects any hairs that may fall, and preserves them that
they may eventually be buried with him; frequently he deposits them
beforehand in his destined tomb! But surely the custom of hairdressing
at the Christian altar could never have been of indigenous growth, but
must rather have sprung from some old pagan rite of unknown import.
But to return to customs, more especially belonging to these remote
shores. A number of quaint old superstitions were noted by Mr. Martin,
when he visited these isles in 1690. He observed that most of the people
wore a sea-bean or sea-nut hanging round the neck, as an amulet against
the evil eye, and witchcraft of which they stood horribly in dread.
After noticing the usual procession sunwise, round the chapel on the
Isle of Oronsay, he was much astonished at a request for the loan of his
Bible, as he knew the borrower could not read. This was repeated every
morning and evening, and he found its leaves were used to fan the face
of one sick with fever, who declared himself greatly benefited in
consequence. Mr. Martin found chapels (some indeed half ruined), on
almost every isle, and he tells us in the same breath, how the people
passed from their actual worship in these, to their old religious
processions round the Druidical stones.
On Borera, a small island in North Uist, he noticed a burial-ground
called Monk’s Field, where all the monks who died in the Isles north of
Eigg were buried. He also tells how in the island of Benbecula he came
on a ruined chapel called Bael-nin-Killach, or the Nun’s town. Here he
was greatly scandalized at finding a vault, full of very small bones,
which he believed to be those of infants. He was also struck by the
frequent recurrence of the name Mac-Varnich, “son of a monk.” He might
also have included the names of Mac-Vicar, Mac-Vriar, “son of a friar;”
Mac-Taggart, “son of the Priest;” and Mac-Nab (Mac-na-Ab), “son of the
Abbot,” as all being equally suggestive of dubious antecedents in the
days of priestly celibacy, unless indeed it be true, as stated by
Mac-Lanchlan, that in those remote ages, the Church in the Highlands did
allow her priests to marry. It is said, however, that the early Celtic
Church (as distinct from that of Rome), never did hold celibacy to be
imperative, and that hence the clannish feelings of the Celts very soon
showed themselves, in the matter of ecclesiastical patronage and family
livings—such a hint we may gather from the name of _Dunchad Mac Mic
Maonach_, “the son of the monk’s son,” who in A.D. 1099 was Abbot of
Iona. In any case, the Mac-Phersons, “sons of the parson,” claim
sanction of the Church for their existence, the parson of Kinguissie
having received a special dispensation, allowing him to marry, when by
the death of his elder brother he succeeded to broad lands. Buchanan is
also said to be of ecclesiastical origin, the Gaelic name from which it
is derived being Mac-a-Chanonaich, “the son of the canon.”
After the Reformation, multitudes of these small churches were allowed
to fall into ruin, and a very irregular system of church services was
substituted. Thus in the more distant isles, the minister on his
occasional visits, would celebrate the marriages and baptisms of perhaps
two or three years. On these occasions it was very important to have the
lads baptized before the lassies, for should this order be accidentally
inverted, the lassie, who was christened out of her turn, was certain to
grow a beard! A superstition, which till very recent years, was firmly
believed in, so far south as Stirlingshire, where within my own memory
it was alleged by the church officer, as a reason why the laird’s infant
daughter must on no account be baptized till after several collier
laddies. So strongly was this separation of the sexes insisted on, that
we know of one old font belonging to the church at Birnie near Elgin
which was actually divided in two by a plate of iron let into the stone,
that the water for the baptism of males, might not be mixed with that
for females. This old font having been discarded in favour of the modern
bason, was for many years left lying neglected in the kirkyard.
The minister’s greetings from these heathen infants were sometimes
striking. One child on being sprinkled with cold water exclaimed
passionately, “De’il be in your fingers!” which, you will allow, was a
stronger form of remonstrance, than the stick of barley sugar, which we
occasionally see employed in infantile resistance to the means of grace!
Well in keeping, however, with the character given to a West Highland
village by its new pastor. “Eh! it’s a pitiful thing to see children
that can neither _waalk_ nor _taalk_, running about the streets, cursing
and swearing!” It sounds as if he must have had a dash of the Emerald
Isle, but he was described as being “just as Highland as a peat.”
In these remote corners of the earth, Church ceremonies are sometimes
considerably affected by wind and weather. There are many cases when one
minister has charge of several small flocks, and has to divide his care
of them as best he can; sometimes he has to row across a dangerous ferry
or a sea-loch, against wind and tide, to reach the congregation awaiting
him on the other side. Sometimes all the efforts of the strong arms that
row him are unavailing, and after battling for hours without being able
to effect a landing, they have to make the best of their way back to the
island whence they started, leaving the little flock to disperse at
their leisure. Even where no arm of the sea intervenes between the
minister and his parochial work, a swollen river will prove quite as
effectual a barrier, and we have heard stories that reminded us forcibly
of the form of baptism practised by St. Francis Xavier, when, sailing up
the Indian river, he sprinkled holy water with a long pole on the
astonished people, who assembled on either bank to see him pass. Dr.
Chalmers told a story of a Highland minister having been summoned to
baptise an infant, whose parents lived on the other side of a small
stream. When he reached the burn, he found it was in spate, and there
were no means of getting across. He therefore shouted to the father to
come down to the burn-side, and hold the infant (as the custom is, in
Scotland). He, himself, procured a wooden scoop, which he dipped in the
burn, and flung the water across, aiming at the bairn’s face. But the
stream was so wide that he repeatedly fell short of the mark; and the
shout of “Weel! has it gotten any yet?” was reiterated again and again
before a satisfactory answer enabled him to conclude the service! This I
believe to be a fact of the present century. To return from
ecclesiastical eccentricities, to the modern life nautical, we had a
glorious sail to Rodel in Harris, where we at once made for the old
church, St. Clement’s Cathedral, which has a few bits of quaint carving.
The tower is the oldest building in Scotland, except part of St. Mungo’s
Cathedral at Glasgow, and those who doubt the antiquity of the kilt as
now worn, may here see a most unmistakable sculpture of the garb of old
Gaul. I suppose the use of tartan in remote ages was well proven, even
before the appearance of that quaint old metrical version of the
Scriptures, still preserved at Glasgow, which told how
“Jacob made for his son Josey,
A tartan coat to keep him cosy!”
We had heard much of the beautiful stones in the old churchyard, but
sought for them in vain amid such a crop of nettles as I never saw
elsewhere. It is a picturesque spot notwithstanding; and when, among the
golden brackens and brambly tangles, we found a rich harvest of ripe,
delicious, blackberries, we were content to feast like children, and
were comforted for the disappearance of the old gravestones beneath so
pleasant a wilderness. This was the burial-place of certain old MacLeods
of Dunvegan, whose monuments are inside the church. One, a knight in
armour with two-handed broadsword. Another sleeps in his shirt of mail
and high-peaked helmet, his feet resting on his dogs. We could not get
the key of the church, so failed to see the tombs of the isle and ocean
lords. The tombs of the Vikings are distinguished from those of the
mighty hunters, by their having a galley engraven near the hilt of the
sword, whereas the latter almost invariably have deer and hounds in full
cry, careering round them. One old gravestone here, tells of a Sir
Donald MacLeod of Berneray, who married his fourth wife, when he was
past eighty, and left a numerous family by her!
We had also wished to see certain old Picts’ forts, or duns, which we
knew existed on various hill-tops in the neighbourhood. They are simply
circles of large stones piled up without cement, and always placed
within sight of one another, to act as alarm-posts. The people say that
a curious building of this form lies under deep water, within a few
yards of the shore—and on a clear day they can see it distinctly near
the village of Rodel. However as the wind was favourable, we went on to
Tarbert, a name which applies to a strip of land between two waters.[53]
It was nearly dark when we anchored; but at daybreak we went ashore.
Five minutes’ walk took us across the narrow neck of land to the other
side of the coast, and we were duly edified by the primitive modes of
agriculture.
Here and there, in the middle of morass or peat-moss some little scraps
of arable land are carefully cultivated; the funniest little fields you
ever saw, something in the style of the “lazy beds” of Ireland, and the
“plantic cruive” of the Orkneys.
We talk of the cruelty of a Hindu’s reverence, which forbids him to put
a wounded bullock to death—but here we saw a poor beast left to suffer
the same torture from a very different motive. During the night it had
fallen over a low wall and dislocated its shoulder, and was moaning in
agony. Its owner refused to kill it till a fair bid was made for its
flesh, and the wretched beast was left to linger in torture till either
late at night or next morning. By that time the would-be purchasers
declined having anything to do with the meat, which was accordingly sent
over to Skye!
Our original intention was to have sailed immediately after breakfast;
but with the easy fashion of yacht life, we decided at the last moment
to go ashore again, and took “the dog-cart” from the inn. Such a
wonderful trap, you never even dreamt of!
We drove twelve miles through the wildest and most beautiful scenery;
past Bonaveneta Loch, and the lower end of Glen Mevig, where one grand
dark hill stands up almost precipitously from the valley—a fine subject
for an artist. The road lay between wild moorland and mountain on the
one hand, and the sea on the other; while at no great distance lay the
yellow sands of Laskantyra, extending for several miles along the coast.
In the wildest spot of all stands Fincastle,[54] a grand new building,
placed in such a valley of rocks that a level spot had to be blasted
before the foundations could be laid. A rocky mountain rises immediately
behind the house—a rocky salmon river on one side, and a rocky burn on
the other, always rushing and tumbling with ceaseless noise; while the
terrace in front of the windows is a great sea-wall, against which the
waves dash; and the “snorting sea-horses” and the river-kelpies together
make such a turmoil as would become wearisome to any ear but that of a
keen fisher.
We thought it a graceful compliment to Morayshire that the yellow
freestone with which the house is faced had all been brought from our
dear old Covesea quarries. Not that there is any lack of good building
material in Harris. The grey whinstone is what masons describe as “a
good binding rock;” and there is fine granite, and every variety of
mineral substances.
This is the only place in the isles where I have ever been unable to
procure one drop of milk. Not for lack of rich and abundant pasturage,
but because the grass was so wholly devoted to deer, that there was none
to spare for cows. Even at Tarbert we found a most insufficient
allowance; a very sore privation to a people whose chief diet consists
of porridge and oat-cake. Both Harris and Skye seem to depend almost
entirely on the Glasgow steamer for their supply of what sailors call
“soft bread;” and as it costs one shilling a loaf, the consumption
thereof is not very great.
We were fortunate in having seen the country in sunshine; for our
homeward drive was through such torrents of rain as left the beautiful
scenery round us entirely to the imagination. A genuine Highlander will
tell you that a thoroughly wet plaid is the warmest thing in the world,
as the swollen wool can keep out the cold, and keep in the heat twice as
well as when dry; and if he has the luck of an extra wrap to throw on
outside of all, he asks no warmer bedding. The good folk of Harris had
on this occasion a fair chance of proving the comfort of this
arrangement, for it poured even on till midnight, and the poor little
_Gannet_ had her plumage sorely draggled.
The accounts we heard of the Druidical remains at Callernish, near Loch
Bernera, in Lewis, sorely tempted us to extend our wanderings in their
direction. Two concentric circles of huge monoliths, and one
semi-circular group, still remain, as also various solitary stones.
But the most remarkable thing is a circle, sixty-three feet in diameter,
formed by twelve great stones, with a large central obelisk. The circle
was supposed to represent the sun, and the twelve stones were the twelve
signs of the Zodiac. From this circle four lines of great upright stones
extend towards the four points of the compass. One of these lines is
double, and, moreover, twice the length of the other three; thus
producing the form of the Christian cross. Within the circle are two
small chambers built of stone. There are also various tumuli and menhirs
in all that district; one of the latter being twenty feet high, and
broad in proportion. Certainly of all the wide-spread links which bind
together the shadowy past of the Eastern and Western worlds, none are
more striking than the stubborn facts of these mysterious stone circles
and other rude stone monuments. On the remotest of the Orcadian Isles,
as in the Hebrides, here on the green shores of the Isle of Lewis, and
beneath the mountain peaks of Arran, and on many another isle, we find
the same uncouth temples and tombs that meet us again in the heart of
the Indian jungle. Perhaps the most noteworthy monument of the sort in
Scotland is the serpentine double avenue at Kames, on the Kyles of Bute,
discovered so recently as January 1875, by Mr. Phené, to whom we are
also indebted for first calling attention to the dragon mound near
Oban,[55] of which I have already told you. To what race these
widely-scattered monuments must be ascribed, and for what purpose they
were erected, are questions that will probably continue to puzzle wise
heads in all ages. All the speculations concerning them leave us pretty
much where we began, and we come back to the old unsolved mystery,
namely, that here
“In the glimmer of the dawn
They stand;—the solemn silent witnesses
Of ancient days,—altars or graves.”
Whatever truth or falsehood there may be in the theories which connect
these cyclopean remains with the worship of olden days, certain it is
that, as we travel eastward, we again and again find the same forms
repeated so exactly, that it seems hardly possible to doubt their having
been the work of kindred races. Thus, on certain stones near Carthage,
the circle and crescent are found carved, as emblems of sun and moon,
just as on the British monuments. As to Algeria, it has recently been
discovered to abound in every known form of rude stone monument; even
including that mysterious combination of a square with two circles,
which has so puzzled antiquaries in the American States. At one spot,
Roknia, three thousand monoliths are grouped together as if in a vast
city of the dead; and a second cluster, nearly as large, has since been
discovered near Constantine. In the district around Setif, the number of
menhirs has been calculated at ten thousand, including some stones so
gigantic, that one is described as fifty-two feet high and twenty-six in
diameter at the base; while we hear of a dolmen near Tiaret, the
cap-stone of which is sixty-five feet long by twenty-six feet broad, and
upwards of nine feet thick—a rock-mass, which is poised on boulders of
thirty to forty feet high.[56]
Tripoli likewise possesses many of these mysterious remains; more
especially certain groups of three great stones, so placed as to form
high, narrow doorways; so narrow, however, is the space between the
upright stones, that a man of average size can hardly squeeze his way
through between them;—“strait and narrow gateways,” full of symbolic
meaning. The discovery of these African monuments is the more curious,
as suggesting some foundation of truth for old Geoffrey of Monmouth’s
assertion, that “giants in old days brought from Africa the stones which
the magic art of Merlin afterwards removed from Kildare, and set up at
Stonehenge.” The latter, you will remember, is the only place in Britain
where these trilithons exist. We next hear of their being discovered by
Palgrave in Central Arabia, where he finds them placed, as at
Stonehenge, facing the north-east, and in connection with circles of
great monoliths.
To pass onward to Hindustan. We find dolmens in Malabar, consisting of
one huge stone poised on three upright ones like a giant fungus,
precisely the same as those found in Britain. There is not one form of
cyclopean monument known in the British Isles, or in France, which does
not also exist in the Dekkan, either for worship or for sepulture;
oblongs, circles, parallel lines, and many little circles within one
large circle.
In various parts of Southern India there have been found a great
multitude of circular sepulchral tumuli, precisely like those which our
antiquaries take such pleasure in exploring. They contain the same class
of relics, coarse pottery, arms, arrow-heads, &c., buried sometimes with
bodies, sometimes with urns containing human ashes, collected from
funeral pyres after cremation. They exist in thousands to the south of a
line drawn from Nagpore to Belgaum. In parts of Mysore, and the
Neilgherries, in Arcot, and other places, they are met with in large
numbers, occasionally accompanied by kistvaens; sometimes by dolmens and
cromlechs; in fact, just what we call Druidical stones. In some of these
kistvaens are found bodies carefully laid; while above them are heaped
human bones, male and female, in indiscriminate confusion, as though
they had been offered in sacrifice to the dead. The same tumuli are
found by thousands near the Krishna and Moosy rivers. It is rather a
singular and hideously-suggestive fact that in some of the corresponding
barrows of ancient Britain these bodies that seem to have been
sacrificed to the dead, are found in such a condition, with bones split
and skulls cracked, and all tossed about in wildest confusion, that it
is generally supposed the flesh had been eaten at some cannibal feast
after the sacrifice! a custom which some of the Indian hill tribes are
suspected of having kept up till a very recent date.
The funereal ashes contained in so many of these monuments, both ancient
and modern, may perhaps afford another hint of the brotherhood of east
and west, as there seems no doubt that the earliest Celts, like the mass
of Hindus, constantly burned their dead. We are told that the Irish
preserved “that cleanly custom” long after the introduction of
Christianity. Colonel Forbes-Leslie tells us that it was till recently
customary in Ceylon for the lower ranks to bury, while the higher
classes burnt their dead. Possibly this may also have been the rule in
Britain, and would account for our finding human remains sometimes
buried, sometimes preserved as ashes collected from the pyre. Among the
most noteworthy cromlechs of Northern India may be mentioned that of
Byjnath in Bengal, where three huge monoliths of gneiss rock, each
weighing upwards of seven tons, stand alone. Two of them are vertical,
and the third lies horizontally across the uprights; just the usual form
of the British cromlech. This has from time immemorial been the
favourite place of worship of the Santhals, the noblest of the primitive
races of India. But these monuments are not all the work of bygone ages.
Even at the present day we find at least one of the wild aboriginal
tribes, who still retain their separate existence on the confines of
Upper India, continuing year by year to erect somewhat similar
cromlechs; one large stone being supported by four lesser ones,
something like our own old fashioned tombs. Behind these, however, are
erected gigantic monoliths; sometimes singly, sometimes in rows. These
are mentioned by Dr. Hooker in his Himalayan Journal. The tribe he
alludes to dwell in the Kassia hills near Assam. These stones are
sometimes erected as tombs, covering the ashes of the dead. More
frequently, however, these precious ashes are collected from the funeral
pyres, and preserved in small urns, which are duly deposited in circular
wooden boxes. These act as seats for the village politicians, who thus
receive inspiration from their forefathers, and the aid of their
ancestral wisdom. The spirits of these dead are invoked in all cases of
sickness or trouble; and should the prayers be granted, these huge
monoliths are erected to their honour. Other sufferers invoking the same
spirit will vow more stones, and so after awhile a favourite intercessor
will be honoured by quite a cluster of these strange thank-offerings.
Sometimes, however, they commemorate divers other events. In no case are
they considered sacred, or treated with veneration. Dr. Hooker says the
country for many square miles is dotted with them. Some of those he saw
were only half finished and the people were working at them; they had no
manner of tools except levers, and the whole work was done by sheer
brute force. He omits to mention how, in the absence of all mechanical
appliances, these huge monoliths were raised to the perpendicular—a
difficulty which invariably suggests itself in presence of similar works
of olden days.
It is the close analogy between these modern dolmens and circles of the
east, with the ancient remains elsewhere, that has led to the (surely
somewhat rash) conclusion that all our so-called Druidic temples were,
like the tumuli, either places of sepulture, or commemorative of the
dead, or of some great event. Why a similar analogy in favour of the
temple theory may not be drawn from the circles of Bombay, _which are
undoubtedly places of worship_, it is hard to say. Moreover, considering
the well-known tendency to ancestor-worship, which from all ages has
pervaded all nations, no inference can be more natural than that the
places of sepulture should become places of worship. Of this tendency in
its utmost refinement, no more singular proof can be adduced than the
fact that even in the Christian Church no Roman Catholic altar can be
consecrated which does not contain some relic of a departed saint. So it
is probable that in many instances both theories are tenable.
One singular fact to be noted with regard to these tribes who build new
cromlechs, and venerate old ones, is that they are all descendants from
the primitive inhabitants of India, who held the land long before the
Aryan conquerors had found their way either to Britain or to Hindustan.
Hence we must infer that in this our own land they were also the work of
some aboriginal race, whose descendants may have lingered on for
centuries in the wilds after the Aryans had become rulers of the
country. So perhaps our cousinship to the east may yet be traced back to
some still more remote connection than any yet proven.
At the villages round Poona, near Bombay, the people continue to erect
great stone circles near the Brahmin temples, and in defiance of the
Hindu priests, who vainly strive to put down a form of superstition in
which each man sacrifices for himself without priestly intervention.
Here goats and red cocks are offered to the demon Vetal, or Betal, whose
worship has for centuries been condemned by the Brahmins, but which has
still been kept up _sub rosa_, and now that religious toleration has
been secured, the people are returning to their first love, and
demon-worship is regaining the ascendency. The worship of Betal is
wide-spread, extending to Guzerat and Cutch. His name is suggestive of
that temple of Botallick in Cornwall, where a stone circle still exists
precisely like these at Poona, having three principal stones placed
facing the east and one placed quite outside the circle. Those at Poona
are painted white, having a great daub of red paint, with a darker spot
in the middle, dashed on the upper end of each stone, to represent the
blood of the sacrifices. This red spot invariably faces the rising sun.
The number of stones differs in each circle, and is supposed to
represent the number of families who sacrifice at each temple, just as
the twelve stones which Moses and Joshua set up on Mount Sinai and at
Gilgal represented the twelve tribes.[57]
Whether the identical stones set up by the old Israelites remain to this
day is probably unproven, but we know that various kindred forms of
monument are found in Judea. We hear of cromlechs and dolmens near the
banks of the Jordan and the Dead Sea, and Porter speaks of a circular
temple of Baal on Mount Hermon. Both in Media and in Persia similar
circles of great stones are found, having in some cases been brought
from afar. Tall monoliths are also reverenced by the people, as the
stones of the ancient fire temples. Near to these circles there are
often artificial hillocks, where the old Persians resorted to hold their
solemn councils, just as our forefathers held their mods, or moats—that
is, their courts of justice—on hillocks near the Druid circles, as at
Silbury Hill, in Wiltshire. We are told that the old Greeks likewise
repaired to circles of stones to hold grave council.
It has been remarked that wherever these old temples are found there are
invariably remains of gnarled old trees in the immediate neighbourhood,
telling of the groves that once overshadowed them—such groves as those
wherein our fathers worshipped, obedient to their Druid teachers. In
truth, if other proof of eastern origin were lacking, the mere existence
on these cold, grey shores of a white-robed priesthood, crowned with
oak-leaves and adorned with neck-ornaments and armlets of brass, who
ministered barefooted in unroofed temples open to every storm of heaven,
would speak of a race who surely had wandered here from warmer climes.
A singular coincidence concerning the groups of great monoliths common
to so many lands, is that they are invariably ascribed by the people to
some magical power, which has thus transformed human beings to pillars
of stone. Whether in Brittany, Cornwall, Somerset, Northern Africa, or
Central India, some variety of the same story is told of these groups of
menhirs. Sometimes they were maidens, sometimes young men, sometimes
serpents, sometimes soldiers, who for divers misdeeds have thus been
petrified.
Many most interesting coincidences of this sort have been pointed out by
Colonel Forbes-Leslie; none more striking than the existence in India of
various rock-crevices through which the people resolutely squeeze
themselves, just as our forefathers did in all parts of this country,
from Cornwall to Orkney, hoping thereby to scrape off all their sins, in
the same manner as the wise serpent by twisting and writhing over stony
ground contrives to cast off its old skin, a skin, by the way, which was
esteemed so great a treasure that in some parts of England it was long
believed that if worn by a woman in child-birth it would insure her
safety.
These sacred rocks are found in the Isles of Scilly, Cornwall,
Waterford, and many other places. At St. Declan’s Stone, in Waterford,
we are told that “on the 24th of July, 1826, upwards of eleven hundred
people, men and women, having removed the greater part of their clothes
and laid themselves flat on their faces, struggled through the opening
beneath St. Declan’s Rock.” At Craig-Madden also, in Stirlingshire,
there is, beneath the Druidic stones, a triangular hole, through which
persons may crawl, and so avert the danger of dying childless.
This double notion—namely, the cleansing from sin and the insuring of
progeny—is precisely that which brings Hindu pilgrims from all parts of
the empire to the temple of Walkeswar, or Malabar Point, at Bombay,
where the priests assure them that by squeezing through a narrow opening
between two great rocks they will leave their sins behind them, and will
also insure having descendants to perform their funeral rites. So the
people have sometimes come even at the risk of their lives to this rock
of regeneration; kings and princes have travelled here from distant
districts, and the founder of the Mahratta empire disguised himself in
mean apparel, and came here to the very midst of his enemies, to perform
this rite. The Peishwa of Poona, not content with this, strove to attain
more sure forgiveness of his sins, and a higher grade in the next life,
by making a golden cow, through which the priests drew him! Many of the
native Rajahs, such as Tanjore and Travancore, adopt precisely the same
curious method of purification from their sins, firmly believing that
just as the poor vile worm emerges from the narrow mouth of its dark
chrysalis as a radiant butterfly, in stainless freshness and purity, and
endowed with new and wonderful energies, so they, however sin-defiled
and vile they may be before entering this dark and narrow passage, will
surely come forth thence in newness of life, having scraped off all
their sins in their transit through that strange grave.
The same idea caused our forefathers to make little underground tunnels
at places where four roads met, and through these they drew their
children—a practice denounced by Holy Church as an outward and visible
sign that a mother had given herself and her child to the devil. The
crying cheese, which we have so often been made to taste in Scotch and
English cottages on the birth of an infant, was formerly cut from the
centre till only the rind remained, forming a ring through which the
baby was passed on its christening day. Even in the last generation it
was a common custom in the north of Scotland to gather long withes of
woodbine which had overspread the oak-trees, and twisting these into the
form of a hoop, to cause sick people to pass through them—a remedy which
was chiefly used on May Day and at Midsummer’s Eve. We hear of the same
strange custom in the Canary Isles, where, on Midsummer’s Eve, parents
gather long rushes, and having split them pass their sick children
through the loop thus formed. What may be the mysterious virtue of the
rush I cannot say, but Campbell of Islay has noticed its frequent
mention in the old Celtic fairy lore.
To the same cause was due the value of all manner of perforated stones,
some so large that people could pass through them, some so small that
they were worn as amulets, or tied to the key of the stable-doors to
prevent the witches riding the horses at night. Of the former sort is
one on the domains of Malruba the saint, or Mourie the demon, at
Applecross, in Ross-shire, where it occupies the centre of a circle of
stones. There is a similarly perforated stone in the Druidic circle at
Mauchrie Moor, in Arran. Perhaps Mauchrie and Mourie may have been
identical. As to the celebrated perforated stone of Odin at Stennis,[58]
in Orkney, it is known to have existed there long before the Northmen
came and called it after Odin, and the people continued to hold it in
reverence till the beginning of this century, when it was destroyed.
As it was not possible for us to explore Loch Bernera’s lone temple, we
solaced ourselves by conjuring up most uninviting visions of those
desolate flat shores, which in truth have little beauty to recommend
them. We also regretted being so near Stornoway without seeing how art
has triumphed over bleak nature in producing such wonderful gardens
round the modern castle—gardens where every bit of rock is turned to
picturesque account; where roses are made to blossom in long glass
passages, and where figs and bananas and grapes ripen in profusion in
stoves and hot-houses. But when we thought of having to land and walk
through the fishy abominations of the town—women gutting herrings, and
all the horrors of that odorous dissection—we felt almost glad to be
obliged to return to Uig for letters.
Stornoway is one of the chief stations in the Outer Hebrides where boats
congregate for the early herring fishery. They come over from the
mainland, or the Inner Isles, to where they know the fish will first
appear, and all along the Lews, Loch Boisdale, and Barra are regular
stations, where the treasures of the deep are landed to be cured and
packed for market.