averaging a crew of six men and perhaps a boy, making 10,000 souls; the
fish-curers, gutters, and labourers amount to fully 20,000 more. A vast
multitude are these “toilers of the sea,” and in a good season they are
well remunerated. For instance, in the spring of 1870, the May and June
fisheries realized 120,000_l._ After this the shoals move onward to the
east coast—and the boats must follow wherever they lead—as far probably
as Aberdeen, where, in general, they are at once hired by the
fish-curers, for whom they work. But, as a sample of the changes and
chances which affect the trade, I may mention that during the late
French and Prussian war they found, on reaching their destination, the
usual immense export of herrings to the Baltic was an impossibility, so
the majority of the boats could get no engagement at all; some of those
already working found no market for their silvery ware, and had to throw
them back into the sea. And so, in the height of the fishing season, the
boats returned home poorer than they started, many of those passing
through the Caledonian Canal on their return to the Isles being unable
even to pay the lock dues.
Having returned from Tarbert to Uig, we next sailed over to Loch Maddy
in North Uist, a curious bay, with innumerable long narrow creeks, which
intersect the land for miles in every direction. It takes its name from
two Maddies, or watch-dogs; in other words, two great masses of basalt
which jut up from the sea as though guarding the entrance to the loch,
and are remarkable as being the only basalt within many hours’ sail.
As a general rule, a more utterly lonely spot could scarcely be found
than this flat dull shore. On the present occasion, however, it was a
most picturesque scene, for it was the eve of a big cattle market, and
there were yachts and boats from all the neighbouring islands, boats
with rich brown sails, and living cargoes of Highland cattle, brown and
red, pale sandcolour, or rich sienna, silvery grey and black. Beasties
of every shade of warm rich colour, which found themselves
unceremoniously thrown overboard, to find their own way ashore.
So strangely do the creeks twist and turn in every direction, that if
you attempt to walk half a mile, you are certain to be stopped when you
least expect it, and it was on strangely broken ground that this market
was held. The cattle were well pleased at finding such cool bathing
places on every hand, and stood in the water in groups that would have
given Rosa Bonheur a thrill of pleasure. Such beautiful little beasts,
rough and shaggy, with wide spreading horns, and large soft eyes,
looking in calm surprise at the unwonted stir around them. The heat was
intense, and no shelter from the burning sun except a few white booths
where the lads and lassies might buy their fairings, or get their dram.
A vast number of the islanders had assembled, and sat about the ground
in groups that were pleasant to look upon.
One group in particular delighted me. Two nice old wives in dark blue
homespun, with scarlet plaids and white mutches, sat on the grass under
large, bright blue umbrellas; beside them grazed two or three
sand-coloured ponies. In the background were the white booths, and all
along the yellow shore faint wreaths of white smoke from the kelp fires,
seemed to blend the blues of sea and sky.
The people in North Uist still continue the kelp making, which their
neighbours in Skye have altogether given up; but these diligent folk
seem to leave no work untried, and are said to be by far the most
prosperous of the outer islesmen. However small their profits may be,
they contrive to gather that small surplus which a Scotchman describes
as “making such a great plenty i’ the hoose.” Certainly the majority
of the folk who had assembled for this market were a tidy
comfortable-looking race, and a more striking scene could hardly be
imagined.
Loch Maddy itself is as curious a place as any I know, with the endless
ramifications of its dreary salt-water lochs winding in and out in every
direction in countless little fiords, some of which run inland for nine
miles, so that although the loch only covers about ten square miles, its
coast line actually exceeds three hundred miles. It has been compared to
the pattern of fairy frost on a window pane, or to an outspread branch
of sea-weed, whose countless leaves and stems represent the number of
creeks and fiords that spread in every direction. On this occasion it
looked its very best, bathed in a flood of hot sunshine; but, on a dull
misty day, or after prolonged rains, it must be dreary beyond
description, when the sad-coloured land, and “the desolate rainy sea,”
seemed so blended as to have no clear boundaries, but are simply a sort
of amphibious creation, or, as it has been described, a labyrinth of
islands and channels; a hybrid sea and shore; the sea all islands, and
the land all lakes. It is a strangely wild eerie place, the haunt of all
manner of man-hating creatures. Even the shy seal ventures up these
silent creeks, and lies basking on the rocks which the tide has left
bare; and as to the sea-birds, they know every turn of the winding
waters, and the quiet nooks where they may rear their downy broods in
perfect safety. In addition to all these intricate arms of the sea,
these islands are intersected by innumerable shallow fresh-water lochs,
with sedgy shores; most of these are covered with white and yellow
water-lilies, amid whose fairy blossoms skim radiant dragon-flies of
every hue. The lilies are very precious to the islanders, who use their
roots for dyeing wool. Another rich brown dye is obtained from some of
the dark mosses and lichens that make such kindly coverings for the cold
rocks. Heather yields a yellow colour, and a warm red is extracted from
the common bramble.
But the most beautiful dye of all is procured from a kind of rue which
grows on the sandy shores, but which is so valuable for binding the said
sand that it is illegal to uproot it. The people, however, tell of one
vain woman who, in her longing to procure this rich red dye, went out by
night to gather it, in defiance of her husband’s prohibition. She was
never seen again, but soon afterwards the northern sky was red with such
flashing lights as had never been heard of, and all the islanders
believe assuredly that the spirit of the woman had good cause to rue
that red dye. They are by no means the only race who watch the
fluttering of those eerie spirit-fires with something of awe. The
Greenlanders believe the northern lights to be the spirits of their
forefathers going forth to battle. And to all dwellers on the west coast
the aurora brings a certain warning of much rain and storm approaching.
So surely as “the sable skirts of night” are fringed with that celestial
light, and the dark midnight wears her luminous crown of flashing rays,
so surely is foul weather in store, and the wise among the people make
provision accordingly.
On these fresh-water lochs are many small islets, on which are the
remains of Pictish duns. It is said there are about twenty of these in
North Uist alone. They are circular, and of the rudest construction,
being connected with the land by stone causeways, which are still
visible above the water level.
All the east coast of North Uist is the same sort of dreary, boggy,
mossy, peaty soil, with weary, uninteresting, low creeks and inlets. The
west coast, however, is far more smiling, and here all the inhabitants
are to be found. All along the shore are wide white sands, beautiful on
a calm day, but liable to drift over the cultivated lands. The aim of
the people is, therefore, to cultivate the wiry, bent grass, which
spreads its long clinging roots, and makes such a mat as binds the sand
and keeps it in its place. After awhile a thin crust of soil forms over
these roots, and eventually finer grasses find a livelihood on these
_machars_, as this sandy soil is called. The tussac grass is one which
is said to take kindly to the double task of feeding the flocks and
binding the sands. Nevertheless the _machars_ are dangerous neighbours,
and it needs but a little rent in the surface, to let the winds
recommence their old games, and one stormy night may produce such wild
drifts as will leave promising fields sown with more sand than the poor
farmer need ever hope to get rid of.
This is said to have been the cause of that overwhelming sand-drift
which converted the fertile lands of Culbyn, in Morayshire, into that
vast chain of sand-hills which now extends along the coast. Seven
disastrous years of famine had reduced the people to the extreme of
poverty, and they were driven to collect fuel where and how they could.
Thus the broom and bent grass which had hitherto bound the shore were
all torn up, and the wind catching the sand, blew it in thick clouds
upwards of twenty-five miles along the coast, burying thousands of acres
beneath this deep ever-shifting sand desert.
Happily for the islanders, a considerable portion of these white sands
consists of shells, ground to the finest powder by the pitiless action
of the waves. These, of course, are pure lime, and act as a very useful
manure, enriching all manner of crops. You can generally tell the little
islands where the shell-sand is most abundant by the richness of the
grass, and the sweet white clover which scents the air. On some islands
protected from the fury of the Atlantic, the shells lie unbroken in
countless myriads. On one such we landed, near the coast of Ross-shire
(the Saint’s Island, protected by the Isles of Raasay and Skye), where,
to the depth of many feet, the little shells lie heaped up, each quite
perfect, a quarry of shell-gravel. There are no pebbles, no sand,
nothing but shells closely packed together in inexhaustible store;
little shells which were once silvery, or bright yellow and brown, but
are now for the most part utterly bleached. Above them is a light crust
of earth, in which the greenest of green pasture shows how well the
shell-lime acts.
It has been suggested as just possible (though certainly not probable)
that in the case of such shell-heaps as these, where not one grain of
sand or gravel is found mixed with the shells, we may have stumbled on
something akin to the “shell middens” of Denmark, or “kitchen middens,”
as the same mountains of refuse are called along our Moray coast, where,
as at Burghead, Spynie, Lossiemouth, and among the Culbyn sand-hills,
similar heaps of shells are found; vast quantities of oyster-shells,
periwinkles, whelks, mussels, cockles, razor-fish, and many other sorts,
which have evidently been the food of whole tribes in bygone days.
Sometimes we come upon bones which have been split to extract their
marrow. Occasionally, too, old flint arrow-heads are found among the
shells, plainly suggesting their own tale. These middens are sometimes
of great extent and great depth. They are invariably covered with light
soil, and with the greenest of grass. As to these shell islands, though
they do not consist of what we generally consider edible molluscs, it is
within the bounds of possibility that they may have been the homes of
divers ascetics, whose frugal fare has left its mark even to this day—a
good deal of shell, and very little fish!
The cultivation of the _machars_ is not the sole means taken to prevent
the encroachments of the sea. In some places, more especially in the
Lews, tracts of land have actually been reclaimed, and the tide shut out
by flood gates, in Dutch fashion.
On the other hand, it is quite certain that the sea now covers various
shores where villages and even forests have stood. For instance, on the
green island of Vallay, lying north of Uist, there are traces of very
fine timber and mossy ground lying below high-water mark. Now there is
neither moor nor moss on the island, only rich green pasture lands, and
shallow fresh-water lochs, on whose gleaming surface float myriad white
and golden water-lilies; creamy blossoms, resting on their own glossy
leaves, with young buds nestling around; buds that even in the depths of
the “dim water world” have been all unconsciously seeking the glorious
light above them; mysteriously drawn upward to do it homage, and never
swerving to the right hand or the left till they have found it, and
their pure hearts silently expand toward the great calm heaven, which
broods on every side, and lies reflected in the clear surface of the
waters. Truly an image of peace unutterable.
On one of these quiet lochs there is a tiny green island which is the
favourite haunt of the deer; they swim across in the moonlight, to this,
their chosen sanctuary, where they are rarely molested.
One hospitable farmhouse represents human life on this isolated shore,
which is connected with North Uist by one of those strange fords, that
link together so many of these islands, affording a secure road on
_terra firma_ at certain hours of the day, while a little sooner or
later, a strong tide rushes along in foaming currents, covering the ford
to the depth of eight or ten feet with salt waves—and bringing with it a
vast store of all manner of shell-fish, which forms a very important
item in the harvest of the islanders. As soon as the tide recedes, a
great number of people betake themselves to the shore, with their
creels, and their rough little ponies—knowing that a good tide will
bring them far more than they can carry, of cockles and mussels,
periwinkles and limpets, razor-fish and clams, and all manner of odds
and ends besides.
The abundance of cockles and periwinkles is almost inconceivable Of the
latter from twenty to thirty tons are despatched to London every week,
by the steamers, _viâ_ Glasgow; and go to replenish the stalls of the
old wives at the street corners. Oysters from Scalpa and Loch Snizort
also find their way there—and vast numbers of lobsters, dragged from
their rocky homes on the wild coasts of Harris, are likewise carried off
alive. Poor prisoners, their claws are tied up to prevent their fighting
by the way—and they are packed together in one great black and blue mass
of twisting, struggling, wriggling life, and thus they are transported
to the boiling-houses near Billingsgate, where they meet with a vast
army of their Norwegian brethren, and all share the same sad fate.
Perhaps twenty thousand arrive from Norway in one night, while the
Western Isles furnish an average of fifteen thousand per week, and in
some instances, more than double that number.
Shades of lobster salads! what food for nightmares rises before us, at
the thought of so terrible an array of vengeful, cold-blooded monsters,
clad in panoply of blue-grey armour, standing over us with those awful
claws uplifted, ready at the bidding of Mrs. Bedonebyasyoudid, to plunge
us into those horrible boilers, and avenge their luckless parents and
kinsfolk.
The lobster fisheries are more profitable now than in the last century,
when about seventy thousand were annually sent from the coast of
Montrose, to London, and there sold at prices varying from three
halfpence to twopence halfpenny! Almost as cheap diet as salmon, which
varied from three halfpence to twopence a pound! Those were the days
when Scotch servants stipulated that they should not be obliged to dine
on salmon more than three days in the week!
Another large item in the contributions of the isles to the mainland, is
a vast supply of eggs—not for human food, but to be used in the Glasgow
callandering works, to produce the glaze on chintz. It seems that
freshness is no object, so every old wife lets her eggs accumulate till
she has enough to be worth carrying to the “merchant.” Do you remember
our old Skye henwife who said she always gave the nest-eggs to her own
bairns? When we suggested that they must be slightly objectionable she
replied, “Weel, maybe they’re just some snuffy!” I suppose that
nest-eggs, like some other dainties, require an educated taste. So we
also thought, when tasting the razor-fish or “spout-fish” which the
fisher folk consider so nutritious. Not all the art of a French cook
could make those leathery lumps palatable!
The fords on all sides give a very curious character to this coast. It
seems so strange to be for ever calculating tides—high tide and low
tide—spring-tide and neap; with the knowledge that sometimes the safe
ford shifts, and that you may find yourself in trouble before you dream
of it. Hence the state of the fords becomes the marked topic of
conversation; and every person you meet, instead of making the usual
comment on the weather, gives you the last news of the tide—or wishes
you a dry ford—and a good ford—or hopes you may get a ford at all—a very
serious matter, as to miss the ford, and have to stay all night on the
wrong side of it, would involve an amount of “roughing it” scarcely
desirable. The fords differ much one from another. That which connects
Vallay with South Uist is an unbroken beach of hard, white sand,
extending the whole two miles from isle to isle, a lonely level shore on
which generally no sign of life is visible, save a few white-winged
sea-birds, that float on the breeze like flecks of spray from the white
surges beyond. Sometimes, however, a strangely incongruous symptom of
civilization appears, in the form of a brougham, lately imported by a
wealthy inhabitant, an innovation which must greatly astonish the wild
sea-bulls and sea-horses, whom the islanders still believe to dwell in
the realms of the sea.
The next ford lies between North Uist and Benbecula, and is known as the
Big Ford, being about four miles across. Half of this lies over sand, by
no means sound—and the rest of the way is so intricate, that a stranger
must take a fisher-laddie for his guide, along a track twisting and
turning in and out between low reefs of black rocks, skirting
quicksands, and dangerous holes—splashing through water ankle-deep or
sometimes deeper still, through beds of sea-weed and tangle; altogether
a very labyrinth. The track is marked by black beacons, but many of
these have been washed away, and altogether a more dismal road to have
to travel on a stormy day, with a dubious ford perhaps, and dreary grey
rain, could hardly be imagined; you cannot help picturing the horrors of
sudden illness, or overpowering weariness, detaining some lonely woman
or child in that melancholy channel, till the waters return in their
might, whirling along in the strong swift current which here pours from
the Atlantic to the Minch.
Having passed this dismal ford, you find yourself in bleak Benbecula—a
dreary level of dark peat-moss and sodden morass—only broken by the same
shallow lakes—a very picture of desolation, and haunted by croaking
“hoodie-craws,” foul birds of ill omen. Only one great ruin relieves its
dreary monotony; the ruins of Borve Castle, a fine massive keep,
commanding the whole island, which after all is only five miles across.
There is small temptation to linger here, so you hurry on to try and
save the next ford, and so reach South Uist. This ford is only one mile
across; it may, however, happen that you reach it only in time to see
the waves pouring in, rapidly changing the ford to a sound, which no
boat will cross, so there is nothing for it but to wait in Benbecula
till the next day; and a very dreary wait it is, as two of my friends
proved to their cost. They were thankful to get a night’s rest in a
house at that time the only apology for an inn, leaving their carriage
on the moor; and found matter of interest in observing the woodwork of
their room, which was all built of worm-eaten driftwood, with here and
there rusty nails still marking its descent from some good ship which
had gone to pieces on the rocks. All the furniture in the room was of
the same sort.
It is curious to think of these treeless islands, where every atom of
wood for every household purpose must be imported from afar, where a
good wreck must necessarily be looked upon as a god-send, and where day
by day the tide line is eagerly scanned, to see what treasures may have
drifted in from far countries. For the wrecks are not the sole timber
supply. Good logs of mahogany and other felled trees, as well as chance
branches and spars, are washed ashore from West Indian and Mexican
forests, drifting along with the warm Gulf Stream. Bales of cotton, and
bags of coffee, Molucca beans, or fairy eggs as the people call them,
and all manner of quaint treasures are among the spoil which rewards the
patient seekers. Sometimes they find foreign shells; sometimes such
bamboos and fragments of carved wood as encouraged Columbus to seek for
an unknown world, far away to the west; and sometimes—most precious
prize—some drowned lady’s raiment, which will set the fashion, no matter
of what country, for many a long day. Live tortoises occasionally drift
ashore, not much the worse for their long voyage; and once there came
floating in, the mast of a man-o’-war, the _Tilbury_, which had been
burnt off Jamaica. Sometimes the wrecks yield stores, the use of which
sorely puzzles the simple islanders, as when a vessel laden with tea met
her doom off Dalebeg in Lewis, and the people could devise no better use
for the precious cargo than to use it as manure, and to this day a field
is there known as the tea field. The large seeds of western forest
trees, which are thus found, are esteemed great treasures, and are worn
as charms, especially by women whose progeny is not so numerous as they
might wish. One of these was recently presented to a friend of mine,
with the assurance, given quite in earnest, that a similar one having
been worn by another member of the family, had been the undoubted cause
of the safe arrival of a son and heir! The commoner seeds are of two
sorts, a large purple one, and a round grey one, both of which I have
found in great abundance on the shores of Ceylon, washed down by the
great rivers which flow through the forests, collecting contributions on
their seaward way. But precious to the islanders, as are these charms,
no gift of the sea can compare in value with the timber, whether it
comes in form of logs or of wrecks. It is only a little while since the
factor of one of the largest proprietors, wrote to acquaint his employer
with the joyful fact that, thanks to Providence, there had been three
wrecks in the early part of the winter, so that the island was well
supplied with wood!
It does sound curious to the unaccustomed ear to hear the quaint phrases
of piety with which these spoils of the deep are sometimes welcomed, and
the ill-concealed regret of some of the old folk at the building of
light-houses, which have tended to warn vessels from these shores. They
certainly have a practical belief in the proverb, “It’s an ill-wind that
blows no one good”—a creed which my great-grandfather must assuredly
have held when, in the middle of the last century, he wrote to an uncle
in Morayshire giving an account of his wife’s estate of Penrose, near
Helstone, in Cornwall. He says: “In my last, I sent you enclosed a
rent-roll of this estate, but I forgot to mention one thing, which is a
very considerable appurtenance belonging to it, viz., a royalty on the
sea-coast, which generally keeps my cellars well stock’t with wine,
brandy, and many other valuable comoditys. _These things are called
God’s blessings in this country!_ I had one of them last year that
brought me in eight hundred gallons of French brandy; another brought me
ten hogsheads of good claret and frontiniack, which your friend Bruce
seems to like very well; and this very winter I have had two of these
blessings, one of which brought me a noble stock of flour, wine, and
bale goods; the other brought me only a parcel of hides, log-wood, and
some other trifles that may be converted into cash. These things are
very convenient in a large family in these hard times, for corn of all
kinds is very dear in this country at present, and I suppose not much
cheaper in Moray. I would therefore advise you to come and partake of
our Cornish blessings!” The writer might have added that he himself was
among the “blessings” thus drifted to the Cornish shores. For having
sailed for India, his ship was compelled by stress of weather to run
into Falmouth, where he arrived in time for a grand ball, at which the
young heiress of Penrose was present. She expressed her willingness to
dance with any of the officers “except that ugly Scotchman!” who,
nevertheless, wooed and won her with amazing velocity; and we have good
reason to believe that she was well content with her share of “Cornish
blessings!”
Still more recently, the inhabitants of St. Agnes, one of the Scilly
Isles, were in the habit of praying to St. Waurna that she would be
pleased to send them a richly-freighted merchantman, or any good ship
that pleased her; and should such a vessel happily be wrecked, they were
not content with appropriating her spoils, but also murdered any unhappy
sailors who reached the shores alive!
The tradition concerning St. Waurna is that she crossed over from
Ireland in an open corragh, possibly with a view to instructing the
Scillonians in Christian principles! More probably, however, her worship
is a relic of early Celtic Paganism, which was “adapted” by the
Christian teachers who found it impossible to suppress her. Saint or
goddess, nothing certain is known concerning her, save her power over
the elements, which her worshippers sought to enlist in the cause of
wrecking. Her name bears a singular resemblance to Waruna or Varuna, the
title whereby the Supreme God is addressed in the early Hindu hymns; as
Varuna, Lord of the Ocean, Creator of the World and the Planets, Ruler
of the Winds. St. Waurna had a holy well into which her votaries used to
cast pins, and similar small offerings, but it has now fallen into
disuse.
Old ocean pays tribute of all sorts. Sometimes, together with rich
merchandise from the ships she has swallowed up, she brings the bodies
of drowned sailors, and lays them gently down on the white sands; and
the sea-faring folk give them such decent burial as they themselves hope
to receive, should they meet the like fate.
One of their oldest burial-grounds is in South Uist, on the grassy top
of a sand-hill overlooking the sea. The centre is marked by a cross of
worm-eaten driftwood, round which are clustered the dead of many
centuries. The people of the island are for the most part Roman
Catholics, and for them the central ground is reserved. Protestants are
buried in an outer circle; while in a third circle are laid all
strangers, and all the unknown dead who are cast up by the sea. Some of
these tombs are marked by memorial stones—one or two richly carved; but
for the most part only a grassy mound, with a few wild flowers, marks
where the sleepers lie waiting so quietly. And when the wind whispers
and rustles among the bent, or rushes with swift swirl over sea and
land, the islesmen listen reverently, for they have still a lingering
belief that that swift rushing sound is caused by the great army of the
dead passing hither and thither on their ghostly missions. So eerie and
awesome are the effects of mist, storm, and tempest, and of wild
meteoric lights, flashing blood-red, as they often do on these northern
skies, that it is small wonder if these people cling to their faith in
the legends of olden days, and still think that sometimes the strange
spirit-world which lies so near to them may mix itself with their daily
life, and the wan grey ghosts of their fathers become visible to their
mortal eyes.
Dreary and desolate as are the low shores of Benbecula, South Uist is
more dreary and more desolate still. As you cross the ford, you find
your path overshadowed by the dark mountain mass of Hecla. Then, as far
as the eye can reach, stretches the endless brown morass, with more and
more shallow lakes, only a few feet deep, dark and pitch-like. Of
course, in sunshine, all the rich colours of mosses and lichens and
skyey reflections lend beauty enough to any bit of uncultivated land and
water, but when the whole is saturated with continuous rains, and
reduced to one vast bog, the aspect of such a country must be depressing
indeed. Right across the island the road is built upon a narrow stone
causeway, which is carried in a straight line over moor and moss, bog
and loch, and which grows worse and worse year by year. Such miserable
human beings as have settled on this side of the island are said to be
poorer and more wretched—their hovels more squalid, their filth more
unavoidable than any others in the isles—the huts clustering together in
the middle of the sodden morass, “the damp peat walls all bulging, the
damp turf roofs filtering the rain through upon the damp floors, and
black quagmires crossed by stepping-stones on every side.”
Horrible as these human homes must be, to a sportsman the island must
indeed be a paradise—by reason of the vast tribes of wild duck, snipe,
teal, woodcocks, and all manner of aquatic birds which haunt the
fresh-water lochs. The grey geese breed here, and the poor farmers have
trouble enough to defend their little crops from these marauders, who
assemble in flocks of five or six hundred, and attack the fields. The
barnacle-geese winter here in almost incredible numbers. Tribes of wild
swans pay an annual visit to the coast. In short, all manner of
feathered fowl here find a favourite refuge.
Six miles of sea separate South Uist from Barra, an island which,
together with Bernera and Mingalay, is so rarely visited that I am
indebted to the friends[59] before alluded to for whatever ideas those
names convey to my mind. Barra is an island of green hills, girt with
dark rocks and caves, but with deep bays gleaming with the finest white
shell-sand—well-nigh as white as the sea foam which breaks upon the
shore—a land of rich pasturage, but wild and rugged notwithstanding. The
vessels found good anchorage in Kisimul Bay, close by the rocky islet on
which stand the massive ruins of Kisimul Castle—the old dwelling of the
MacNeils of Barra—and perhaps the most picturesque thing in the
Hebrides, having a strong likeness to Chillon, as it rises from the
waters with its fine hilly background. Drawing near to the stately old
keep, it seems to be thickly covered with the greenest ivy, which, on
closer inspection, proves to be a clinging drapery of the _Asplenium
marinum_. For those who love wild flowers, these islands offer various
treasures. For instance, in the Isle of Eriskay, in Barra Sound, a
lovely blue flower, something like a convolvulus, with waxy leaf, blooms
in July and August. As it is unknown elsewhere, the people account for
its presence by saying that Prince Charlie brought some seeds from
Normandy, and sowed them here in some idle moment.
The castle of Kisimul is about seven hundred years old. When Martin
visited it two hundred years ago, he found guards and sentries still
posted, on the watch for possible surprise. Over the gate, a “gockman”
spent the night thus pleasantly watching for the foe which never came,
repeating warlike rhymes to keep himself awake, and hurling stones at
possible invaders. In the rocks below, a dock was cut, wherein MacNeil’s
galley might lie in perfect safety, with the additional defence of a
strong sea-wall. Thence he was wont to sally forth, and carry terror
through the isles, as his Danish predecessors had done before him; for
old as is this wave-washed, weather-beaten fortress, it was built on the
site of one very much older, called by the Danes Tur Leoid, under the
walls of which lay a fleet of Danish galleys always ready for action.
The burial-place of the MacNeils was at Kilbar, now ruinous and
overgrown with nettles and rank weeds. Two small chapels remain,
dedicated to St. Barr—one of those dubious early Christians not
recognised by the Romish calendar, whose memory, however, is still
honoured by the people who come here annually to perform the _Deisul_,
and go thrice round the ruins, following the course of the sun. Barra,
like its neighbours, is rich in ruined forts and duns. Every loch has a
fortified island to remind this peaceful generation of their turbulent
ancestors. The people are generally a cheerful race—very different from
the dwellers in the bogs of South Uist, though their homes are much the
same, with only one hole in the thatch to admit light and emit smoke.
The fire burns in a hollow in the middle of the floor, and round it
gather all the picturesque details of such an interior—the cattle on one
side, the human beings on the other; the big black pot, the heaps of
fishing nets, or tarry wool, and the blue peat smoke veiling all.
There have, however, been certain curious statistics lately published,
which tend to show that however kindly these good folk may be among
themselves, some of them have curious laws of morality as regards the
strangers whom ocean casts on their hospitality; like the Ishmaelites of
old, their hand is said to be against every man; but unlike them, these
sea-arabs have small regard for the rights of their guests, in the
matter of wrecked property. The stories of grasping and dishonesty which
have been revealed in the securing of such heaven-sent cargoes sound
rather like legends of bygone ages, than like true narratives of the
present day. We hear how the survivors of such wrecks have been
pitilessly plundered of what little they had contrived to save; while
heavy bills for service rendered, were sent in to the authorities. Such
instances as that of the _Bermuda_, which was driven ashore some years
ago in a wild wintry gale, seem by no means rare. The captain related
how after long tossing in a fierce tempest his ship was cast upon the
sands of Barra. All lives were saved—but the scene of lawlessness at the
wreck was something indescribable. Everybody began to rifle, rob, and
plunder—and such was the effect on the crew of the vessel, that,
notwithstanding their recent escapes from peril, they joined in and
plundered too. Meanwhile the captain’s wife and little daughter were
left to shiver on the beach while the driving snow fell fast. Benumbed,
bewildered, half dead with fright and cold, they were surely fit objects
for mercy; but the tender mercies of the wreckers were cruel indeed, for
taking the boots and plaids of the helpless woman and child, they
departed leaving them half dead. The captain, who had been a powerless
spectator of the scene, had no redress, save the recounting of his woes
to the nominal authorities. Yet these harpies of the shore consider
themselves most zealous Christians, and will on no account put to sea
without the blessing of the priest and the safeguard of holy water.
Sixteen miles to the south of Barra lies South Bernera, about a mile
long by half a mile broad; the uttermost isle, whose grand rocky rampart
is crowned with such a light-house of iron and granite as may defy the
wildest tempest, and warn all mariners to keep well away from this
deadly coast. In clear weather this light is visible at a distance of
thirty-three miles, but it is said that the height of the tower itself,
fifty feet, and the fact of its being perched on a cliff nearly seven
hundred feet above the sea, actually diminishes its value, as its light
is often shrouded in mist, when all is clear below. It is a strange life
of exile which falls to the lot of the light-house men, living on so
remote an isle, with only one possible landing place; a shelving ledge
of rock, on to which, if you are expert, you may jump as your boat rises
on the crest of a wave, and thence scramble up a slippery rent in the
cliff. It is only in the summer months that even this is possible.
During the long winter with its nights of sixteen dark hours no vessel
ventures within miles of the island, and a distant glimpse of a sail,
the size of a butterfly, is a noteworthy event.
For two hours in April, and two hours in June, a steamboat devotes its
attention to the light-house stores; and once a year, a priest from
Barra visits his little flock; otherwise the forty islanders are happily
independent of all outer influences, and a fine, hardy, self-reliant
race they seem to be. They made much of the officers of the vessels and
their friends, more especially as they had only once before beheld a
lady, and now they had two at once. So they produced their richest bowls
of cream, and took good note of their guests, whose dress was a matter
of especial interest to the lassies; who themselves were dressed in
striped winceys of their own spinning, and who, having heard some rumour
of the use of crinoline, had manufactured an equivalent from the hoops
of the barrels which had floated ashore from a wreck! The amount of
furniture in the houses spoke volumes for the abundance of driftwood.
As soon as the _Shamrock_ anchored, one man dived like a South-sea
Islander, and came on board, but the sight of a black cook was a very
great shock to his nerves, as it subsequently was to those of his
fellows; being almost entirely in accordance with their satanic
theories. They had only two petitions to make to their visitors. The
first and most earnest, was that a teacher might be sent them for their
children, they would willingly do all in their power for his
maintenance, if only he were sent. The other request was for any extra
spars which they could use as bird poles. Bits of rope or sail would
also have been precious.
Of course, the people are dependent on the sea-fowl, whose flesh they
salt and eat, and whose feathers not only supply their bedding—but,
together with dried fish, enable them to buy tea and tobacco from the
outer world. Their most successful times and seasons for capturing these
wild beautiful birds, are the storms, when mad hurricanes are raging,
and tossing the sea spray over the land. Then the very birds are
bewildered, and instead of flying straight to their nests in the cliff,
are swept beyond their mark, and the islander (who is patiently lying on
his back on the very verge of the cliff, with his head to the sea, armed
with a long pole), strikes the bird with swift dexterous hand, and
rarely misses his aim. It is curious, in thinking how our luxuries come
from other men’s toils, to trace even our warm downy featherbeds to such
battling with bitter cold and tempest as falls to the lot of these
fowlers.
One mile from South Bernera lies the Isle of Mingalay, whose black crags
and precipices are even grander than those of its neighbours, rising a
thousand feet from the sea. These also, are in summer, literally white
with the myriads of sea-fowl of every species, while the whole air seems
to quiver with the soft fluttering cloud of white and grey wings. The
account of their proceedings is very curious. The orderly manner in
which each tribe keeps possession of its own allotted space; and the
regularity with which in the first week of February all the birds
arrive, devote some hours to house-cleaning, then vanish again, only
returning at intervals till May, when they lay their eggs. Then come the
cares of their vast nursery and the education of the young birds, and
when that is completed, the whole legion departs, no one knows whither,
but the islanders sadly watch the last quivering cloud vanish on the
horizon, while a melancholy silence reigns on the great cliffs, and for
seven months, the mad tossing waves have it all to themselves, and are
the only signs of life and motion as the snowy surges dash through every
cleft and fissure of the dark rocks.
One trace of olden days remains on South Bernera, to puzzle
antiquarians. It is a wall about thirty feet high and two feet in
thickness, stretching right across the precipitous end of the island
just beyond the light-house, for what purpose no one can imagine. The
stones of which it is built, are described as being ten inches long,
wedge-shaped at both ends, and fitting into each other with extreme
regularity and nicety.[60]
[Illustration: DUNVEGAN CASTLE. _To face p. 333._]
But it is time we should return from this flight to the uttermost isles,
to the cattle market at Loch Maddy, where we left the snowy _Gannet_
surrounded by sister-yachts and brown-winged fishing smacks, while
lesser craft plied to and fro, filling the lonely harbour with unwonted
stir and bustle. How pleasant it was to row away from this idly-busy
scene, and float dreamily along some winding fjord, never knowing how
far inland it would carry us; passing one moment through a channel as
narrow as it was shallow; then opening into a deep, wide, brackish
lagoon; an eerie place in rainy weather, but to-day all glorified by the
light that gilds each weed and broken bank! Overhead hovered a cloud of
restless birds, breaking the dreamy silence with the wild clamour of
their querulous cries; and along the reedy shore, a mother eider duck
was teaching her fluffy young ones the art of swimming. Sometimes shy
seals steal up these creeks, but the stir of the market had driven them
miles away, though no sound could reach these quiet havens. We paddled
idly along, drinking in the perfect stillness of the glad sunshine;
watching its glancing rays reflected from the water on the shadowy rock
face, in rippling trickles of light. Here and there long tendrils of
honeysuckle trailed almost to the water’s edge, and ever and anon the
quick motion of large white wings, stirred the breathless air, and
honeyed fragrance of the woodbine came wafted towards us, like some
whisper of Heaven—some
“Sweet thought in a dream.”
Then once more turning towards the more open sea, we watched the
sunlight playing on the opal waters, which, defying all vulgar theories
of colour, vary their tints according to some law of their own, changing
from deepest blue to clearest green, or richest purple, according as the
white sand, or the golden sea-weed, are the hidden treasures that lie
beneath their depths. The yellower the tangle, the deeper the purple;
and lest you should be tempted to doubt the secret of that strange rich
colouring, here and there some tall giant of that marine forest raises
its head to the upper world, and its glossy fronds float on the surface
in lines of quivering light.
Towards evening a light breeze sprang up, and, the market being over,
the many-coloured sails quickly dispersed, with their lowing cargoes;
and the beautiful little cattle were well tossed about ere they reached
their new homes on far-distant isles. The _Gannet_ likewise took
advantage of the favouring breeze, and once more sailed for Skye, coming
in for a very curious tidal current off Waternish Head. The sea on
either side was perfectly calm, when suddenly, the steersman found he
had work enough on hand, and for about two miles we passed through grand
three-sided waves, which came dashing right over the deck—very grand and
beautiful. Then we found ourselves once more in calm water.
The sunset was one of never-to-be-forgotten loveliness. Intensely
brilliant gold and yellow, with soft misty clouds, giving place to
brightest rose-colour, ere yet the blue groundwork of the sky had paled.
And the hills were flooded with softened crimson, and every tint was
reflected in the waters, till twilight crept on, and the whole surface
of ocean became like clear green liquid glass. Then in the beautiful
moonlight we rounded Dunvegan Point, and at midnight anchored in the
quiet harbour.
Long before the rosy flush of morning had faded into the wan grey day, I
was off in the wee boat, and got a sketch of the old castle, then,
landing, roamed about the woods and noted the usual wealth of wild
flowers, more especially the golden mimulus which was growing in rank
profusion.
I returned on board just as the morning pipes were tuning up with the
usual “Hi! Johnnie Cope,” to which in due time MacLeod’s piper gave
answer from the castle terrace. I must say that those who object to pipe
music as being discordant can never have heard it with the right
accompaniments of time and place; and if there be one corner of Scotland
more than another where its wailing pathos is thoroughly in keeping with
the wild beauty of nature, it is in these isles, where, I grieve to say,
it is much discouraged by some of the ecclesiastical authorities, who
imagine that “the mirth of tabrets, and the joy of harp” are in some
mysterious manner the parents of evil, and that the bagpipes are the
very incarnation of mischief. Evidently the tradition which tells how
the shepherds played their pipes at Bethlehem finds small favour with
them, and the Christmas piping of the Italian _pfifferari_ in memory
thereof would doubtless be held criminal indeed. I believe that in
Barra, and South Uist, where the majority of the people are Roman
Catholics, the merry-hearted still have a fair share of “music and
dancing.”
In Skye, Harris, and North Uist, however, these vanities are discouraged
to such an extent, that the mirth of the land is gone. No longer do we
hear of a piper following the reapers in the harvest field, and keeping
behind the slowest workers to cheer and animate them. The pipes are
being put down most effectually, or, at least, are being subjected to a
most unfair persecution. Would that it might work its usual result, and
that the persecuted pipes might sound once more on every hillside in
Scotland. Meanwhile I hear of one instance after another in which the
luckless musicians have refused to tune up as of old, in accordance with
promises extorted by their wives and other spiritual guides. Even the
public-houses have in divers cases ejected the piper (though perfectly
sober) the moment he volunteered a tune. Whisky, he and his companions
might have in abundance, but such ungodly mirth was not to be tolerated
in a Christian man’s house. The dismal history of the dancing elder of
North Knapdale, in Argyleshire, who in 1868 was formally excommunicated
from the Free Kirk for the sin of dancing a reel at his son’s wedding,
is an instance which happens to have become public, because the worthy
farmer, whose minister had declared “that dancing was a scandal; a sin
and bitter provocation to the Lord,” had the courage to appeal to a
higher court, and succeeded in getting the first sentence reversed.
I fear that excellent minister must have had a very low opinion of those
old Hebrew prophets who made use of such metaphors as to promise the
Virgin of Israel that she should again go forth adorned with her
timbrels in the dances of them that make merry, and that both old men
and young should rejoice together with her in the dance. Moreover he
must find a dire stumbling-block in those sounds of music and dancing
which followed the killing of a certain fatted calf. Probably, like that
elder brother, he would have turned away from the door.
But though the voice of song is silenced, the light wine of the country
is by no means at a discount; whether in the street or the bothy it
holds full sway, and whatever noise of rejoicing may greet your ear,
probably owes its origin to the barley bree.
There was formerly a piper’s college in Skye, which gave regular
diplomas to its best men.[61] It was under supervision of the
MacCrimmons, who from generation to generation held office as MacLeod’s
hereditary pipers. There was a certain cave where MacCrimmon’s disciples
were wont to study, alone and unheard. A rock overhanging the sea was
the piper’s seat, where he might practise unmolested to his heart’s
content, with such wild surroundings, waves, cliffs, and echoes as might
best teach him to interpret Nature’s own rare melodies. The college
endowment was a farm, which MacLeod gave rent-free. When the value of
land rose he ventured to reclaim a portion of the ground, an insult
which the minstrels could not brook, so they arose and went their ways,
leaving their rock music-hall to the seals and cormorants.
MacDonald’s pipers, the MacCarters, had a similar college at Peingowen.
Their practising-ground was a green hillock called Cnocphail. Various
other families were noted for their hereditary talent as pipers, but the
names of these two are well-nigh as historical as those of their
masters. That piper’s golden age is, now alas! a thing of the past. Not
past, however, is the inspiring power of the shrill notes which stir the
inmost heart of every true-born Highlander. So well did the English know
their influence that when, after the dispersion of Prince Charlie’s
troops, the unhappy pipers tried to plead that they had not carried arms
against the king, it was decided that their pipes were truly instruments
of war. And so, in truth, they may be called, for no Highland regiments
would advance to battle without the pipes to inspirit them, and often
the piper has fallen in the thickest of the fire while cheering his
comrades to victory with his most soul-inspiring music.
There have been instances (as in the case of the 78th Highlanders at
Argaum) when it has been necessary to silence the pipes as the only
means of restraining the men from breaking the line and rushing upon the
foe before the time. In various other cases, the sudden burst of “the
gathering” has been the signal for such a charge as has caused the foe
to fly utterly discomfited. Among the stories of old days are several
memories of the pipers at Waterloo; how the pipe major of the 92nd stood
on a hillock where the shot was flying like hail, without thought of
danger, only bent on cheering his comrades with the inspiriting notes.
One of his brother pipers received a shot in the drone at the beginning
of the battle, whereupon, half mad with rage, he drew his broadsword,
and rushed into the thickest of the fight to wreak vengeance on the
destroyers of his precious pipes, whose fate he soon shared. When the
piper of the 71st was advancing at the battle of Vimiera, he was wounded
in the leg by a musket-ball, and utterly disabled. Nevertheless he swore
his pipes should do their work, and sitting on the ground, he managed,
in spite of his pain, to keep up such warlike notes as might best
inspire his brethren, and well they fought that day.
At the storming of Ciudad Rodrigo it is recorded that McLauchlan, piper
to the 74th Highlanders, being foremost in the escalade, marched calmly
along the ramparts, playing “The Campbells are coming,” till a shot,
piercing his bagpipe, silenced its music. He quietly sat down on a
gun-carriage, and, amid a storm of shot and shell, repaired the damage,
and speedily tuned up again, to the entire discomfiture of the foe, for
as Scott has it—“When the pibroch bids the battle rave,” “Where lives
the desperate foe that for such onset staid?”
“... For with the breath which fills
Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers
With the fierce daring, which instils
The stirring memory of a thousand years,
And Evan’s,—Donald’s fame, rings in each clansman’s ears!”
You remember Napier’s high praise of the brave Highland regiments, who
rushed to the charge “with colours flying, and pipes playing, as if
going to a review.” Those who have led them in our own day, can best say
how well this character has been kept up.
However little a Southron may be able to enter into this passionate
enthusiasm for what, to his ear, seems shrill discord—he must bear in
mind that, just as in him, the scent of a flower, or a few chords of old
melody, will sometimes waken up a long train of forgotten memories; so,
to one whose earliest love has been for the wild mists and mountains,
these strains bring back thoughts of home, and the memory of the dead
and of the absent comes floating back as on a breath from the moorland,
mingling with a thousand cherished, early associations, such as flood
the innermost heart with hidden tears.
How often we have heard of men whose lives have been spent toiling in
far-away lands till all home memories seemed dimmed; yet to whom, in
hours of weakness, and pain, and death, the dear mountain-tongue, came
back, and with it, the longing that the wild music they loved in
boyhood, might soothe their last hours.
You and I may bear witness how, twice within one year, as we watched the
last weary sufferings of two of the truest Highlanders that ever trod
heather, we have noted the same craving for “the dear old pipes,” and
the satisfied calm that drove away the tossing restlessness, as shrill
pibroch, and wild, wailing lament succeeded one another, and at last
brought sweet peaceful sleep, which doctors’ opiates had failed to
procure. Nor can we ever again listen to those piercing notes without a
vision of an early morning when a dark funeral procession sailed up a
misty loch, and thrilling pibrochs re-echoed from hill to hill,
awakening the sea-birds, which circled round the boat with plaintive
cries, as though they too were wailing for the “going away” of one who
loved all wild and beautiful things and creatures.
Dunvegan is the quaintest medley of the architecture of every age; each
proprietor, from the ninth to the nineteenth century, having left his
mark on the old castle. Its position is very fine, with surroundings of
wood, Skye’s rarest treasure, and standing on a mass of grey rock which
juts out into the sea; land-locked, and on this morning calm as a
mirror, reflecting each line of the old building as the water lips round
the foot of the crag. When the tide ebbs, there will be a broad belt of
the richest brown and gold tangle, and yellow sand.
Before we had finished breakfast, the young master of MacLeod came
alongside in his canoe to bid us welcome; and the pleasant greetings of
old friends soon consoled us for the pitiless rain which now commenced.
As we landed, and passed up the steep ascent to the castle, visions of
Vikings came over us, and of the turbulent feasts and frays which these
old walls have witnessed. We entered by a drawbridge—an object always
suggestive of days of sudden danger and of siege. And there are
dungeons, of course, in the thickness of the walls—so-called dungeons at
least—though like those at Gordonstown, where, in the dear old days of
our childhood, we played such merry games at hide and seek, I fancy
these were rather devised for the safety of their inmates, than for the
imprisonment of their foes.
The foes of the MacLeods were generally the Macdonalds; for in spite of
frequent intermarriages, the two clans were perpetually at feud,
“putting wedding rings on each other’s fingers, and dirks into each
other’s hearts.”
Thus, the old Norse and the Celtic nature are fully combined in these
races; for the MacLeods were originally pure Norsemen, bearing such
names as Torquil and Thormod; while the Macdonald who built the old
castle was a Celt. He gave his daughter (his only child) in marriage to
MacLeod of Harris; and on one occasion, when rowing across the Minch to
meet his son-in-law and grandchild, the two galleys came into collision
in a thick mist. Tradition says that the dutiful daughter bade her
husband steer on and strike her father’s smaller ship. Be that as it
may, the little galley did sink, and Macdonald was drowned. Then MacLeod
rowed over to Dunvegan, and took possession of it in the name of his
wife.
Above the doorway of one of the offices is an old stone carving, where
the arms of Macdonald are quartered with those of MacLeod, commemorating
one of those strange political marriages which resulted in so little
peace.
Through these the MacLeods, as well as the Macdonalds, claim descent
from that old hero of many legends, the great Somerled, whose ruined
castle we marked at Saddell in Cantyre. He was the youngest and fairest
son of Godfrey, king of Argyle—a mighty hunter, to whom the men of the
Western Isles made offer of their homage, if he would come over to Skye,
and be their chief. Somerled was standing beside a dark river when the
Islesmen found him. He pondered for awhile on their words, then made
answer, that if in yonder dark pool he caught a clean run salmon, he
would go with them. If not, he would remain where he was.
In a few moments, a silvery fish lay on the bank, and a shout of joy
from his new subjects proclaimed him their chief. Then he forsook his
father’s halls, and his beloved chase, and led his men to conquer
neighbouring isles. Wild deeds of valour by land and sea, soon made his
fame ring far and near; and in due time he became both Thane of Argyle
and Lord of the Hebrides. At his death, his eldest son Ronald, became
Lord of the Isles, while Dougal, the second son, succeeded to the
territories on the mainland, and founded the family of MacDougal of
Lorn; making his chief stronghold at the Castle of Dunstaffnage; thence
ruling his country with an iron hand. Not that he was allowed to hold it
undisturbed. On the opposite shore of Loch Awe, the Campbells were
already established, and Cailean Mòr, the great Colin, Knight of Lochow,
was not one tamely to own any superior. So there were fights and forays;
fire and bloodshed, even till the days of the Bruce, against whom
MacDougal fought with desperate hate, to avenge the murder of his wife’s
father, the Red Comyn. Then the misty heights of Ben Cruachan, its dark
passes, and the darker lake below, re-echoed the shouts of conflict, on
many a hard-fought day. Dunstaffnage was besieged and taken, and the
broad lands of Argyle were forfeited, and, after being held for awhile
by the Stewarts, were conferred on the Campbells, who had proved staunch
supporters of the Bruce in his dark hours of trouble. On Sir Neil
Campbell, who had fought “shouther to shouther”[62] with the king at
Bannockburn, he bestowed the hand of his sister, the Lady Mary Bruce;
nor was it long before the Chieftainship of Argyle and the Lordship of
Lorne likewise passed into the same strong keeping. By a wise stroke of
policy in love, Colin the first Earl of Argyle wooed and wedded the Lady
Isabel, daughter of the Lord of the Isles, and consequently a direct
descendant of Somerled, thus sealing the peace between the boar’s head
of the Campbells and the galley of the isles.
To return to the MacLeods. In their sea-girt fortress, among the
treasures of Dunvegan is a green fairy flag, which some materialists
believe to be only a relic of the crusades, a consecrated banner of the
Knights Templars, but which all true Highlanders affirm to have been a
gift to some ancestral MacLeod, from a fairy maiden. She promised that
on three distinct occasions when he or his clan were in danger, he might
wave the flag with certainty of relief. MacLeod proved false to his
fairy, and married a mere commonplace human maiden, whereupon his
spiritual wife waxed wroth, and ordained that every woman in the clan
should give birth to a dead child, and all the cattle should have dead
calves. Then a loud and bitter wail rang through the green valleys and
along the shores, and MacLeod, in sore tribulation, bethought him of the
flag. The fairy proved more true to her words than her lover had been to
his, so she withdrew her spell, and the clan once more flourished. Then
came a terrible battle, when MacLeod and his men were well-nigh routed,
and again, though he must have been sorely ashamed of himself, he waved
the flag, and the victory was his. Why the flag was not waved for the
third time, when the isles were ruined by the failure of the kelp trade;
or during the potato famine, MacLeod best knows. Perhaps he thought it
well to save one “last tune in the old fiddle.” At all events the green
flag still lies in its old case, and is such a treasure as no other
laird can show.
There is also a precious drinking cup, bearing date A.D. 993. It stands
about ten inches high, on silver feet, and is curiously wrought in wood
with embossed silver, once studded with precious stones, and still
retaining some bits of coral. It bears an inscription, telling how
certain old Norsemen died, trusting in Christ’s mercy; and within the
cup, the letters IHS are four times repeated. Hence we infer its
original use as a chalice—though for many a long year it has crowned the
wildest scenes of revelling and drunkenness; such as were held in these
wild fastnesses up to very modern days. Another drinking trophy is Rorie
Mhor’s horn; an ox’s horn with silver rim, which holds about five
English pints; the old custom was that every young chief should prove
his metal by draining this horn, filled to the brim with claret, at a
draught—but in this degenerate age of shams, a false lining within the
horn enables the chieftain to pledge his vassals in a much shallower
goblet. Big Sir Roderick was one of James VI.’s knights, and his royal
master seems to have taken an amiable interest in his sobriety, for we
find his name in an order of the Privy Council for 1616, when it was
enacted that MacLean of Duart, and Sir Rorie MacLeod should not use in
their houses more than four tun of wine each; Clanranald was limited to
three tun, and Coll, Lochbuy, and Mackinnon, were allowed but one. An
attempt at compulsory reformation, which must have encouraged smuggling
to an unwonted degree.
The horn is not the sole remaining trace of the Big Knight. Part of the
castle was built by him, and a waterfall close by is still known as
Rorie Mhor’s nurse, because he loved its lullabies to hush his slumbers!
On the opposite side of the loch are two high hills, known as MacLeod’s
Tables; and on their broad flat tops, the pure white snow lies unmelted,
for long months, as though it were some spotless fairy napery. MacLeod
has his maidens also, three dark rocks rising from the sea, which, when
seen through foam and mist, bear some fanciful likeness to the mermaids,
whose murmurous songs should soothe the dreams of the old sea kings.
Near these rock-maidens is a cave, which for some time was the prison of
the unhappy Lady Grange, wife of the Lord Justice Clerk; whose sad
history is stranger than any fiction. In an evil hour she became aware
that her husband and many of his friends were in league with the
Jacobites in 1715. MacLeod and Macdonald agreed for their mutual safety,
to remove her to some distant district and announce her death. So
violently was this effected, that two of her teeth were knocked out in
the struggle. The unhappy lady was conveyed to Durinish, and kept in
this dreary cave, whence she was removed to Uist; and then to St. Kilda,
where she remained seven years. Just imagine this! Seven years in St.
Kilda!! Dreading lest any clue to her existence might be discovered, her
persecutors now brought her back to Uist, and to Skye, whence she
contrived to despatch a letter to England, rolled up in a hank of wool.
The chance purchaser of this wool forwarded the letter, which thus
reached its destination safely, and deliverance seemed at hand. A
government boat was despatched in search of her, but failed in its
quest, and her jailors carried her back to Innis-fada, the long island,
carrying in the boat with her, a rope with noose and heavy stone
attached, wherewith to sink her to the lowest depth of the sea, rather
than suffer her to be rescued. The poor lady finally died in Skye, and
was buried in the old kirkyard of Trumpan.
We would fain have prolonged our cruise, but that tyrant of the age, the
post, recalled us once more to Uig, where all was calm and peaceful as
usual. There were the same picturesque lassies, whose one short “coatie”
and bare legs, were seen running along the wet shore; while head and
shoulders were lost beneath the great creel, overflowing with such a
pile of green grass, and pink clover, with large white hemlocks and
daisies, as seemed only a huge nosegay, with a sickle stuck in the
middle of it.
If you speak to one of these little foragers, a bright face will glance
up from under a scarlet handkerchief—but she will not attempt to answer,
for though the lassies as well as the lads learn English at the
“schule,” and can read it pretty well, hardly one can translate a
sentence; and the girls, living in Gaelic homes do not find that
necessity for English, which compels their brothers to pick it up. These
were our last days in the sunny bay; and they recall pleasant memories
of rowing and fishing—and of long beautiful evenings when ofttimes we
wandered up to some green headland, thence looking across the calm sea
to the distant isles, all wrapt in that deep peace which specially
belongs to the gloaming—the hour
“When sweet and slumb’rous melodies o’er land and water creep,
As Nature sits with half shut eyes, singing herself to sleep.”
Thence returning to the little lodge by a path, skirting fields of tall
brown rye grass and sweet clover, the chosen home of the corn crake,
who, through all the dewy night, watches among the long grasses, and
utters her harsh grating cry, jarring to most ears—though to some, dear
through association, more like the croaking of a frog than the note of a
little brown bird, guarding the nest where sleep her brood of quaint,
black, long-legged little ones.
Wakeful though _she_ may be, _we_ must sleep now, to be ready for the
morrow’s cruise.