The island of Staffa being nearly a mile in length, we have already had
a distant external view of the huge grassy mound which constitutes its
surface, reared on a steep, craggy base, hear and there exhibiting
superb basaltic columns, and everywhere consisting of basaltic pillars
more or less broken, irregular, and contorted, and in some instances
forming the entrance to caves of great interest, though of less grandeur
and magnificence than the giant temple of Nature which is the principal
feature and pride of Staffa and the chief object of our visit. Ah, here
comes the Bailie, looking as innocent as possible of the pipe! Christie,
too, has crept up from the cabin, and, though professing inability to go
ashore, is relieved by the sudden cessation of the steamer's motion, and
is prepared to witness with cheerfulness the disembarkation of her more
fortunate fellow-passengers. It is the office of boatmen from the
neighboring island of Ulva, hardy and skilful men, accustomed to these
boisterous seas, to row passengers ashore, and in case of calm weather,
such as we are blest with, to conduct their boats within the noble
archway and up the grand broad aisle of Fingal's Cave: for the floor of
this glorious cathedral is the rolling sea, whose green waves surge with
a grand swell and fall to the very extremity of the cave, echoing
through its vaults with a resonance which gave it its early Gaelic name
of Uaimh Bhinn, the Musical Cave. How and when these boatmen approached
unseen and surrounded our steamer as she lies here in the sun, I cannot
imagine; so perfect are all the arrangements for our convenience, that
they have probably been lying in wait for our approach, and had only to
dash our form among the black rocks of the shore; but in view of the
power of Nature in this locality, the wonderful architecture, of which
we witness as yet the mere _debris_, and the noble palace of the sea
which our imagination is already shadowing forth, it is not difficult to
believe that these hardy mariners spring up from the depths at the
voyager's bidding, and that they are neither more bidding, and that they
are neither more nor less than ocean genii, the servants of some ocean
king, appointed to wait on and convoy his guests. The Dexterity of these
men and the strength of their boats inspire perfect confidence, however;
for the latter are fast filling and putting off for the shore. The
landing-place mist be near at hand, though as yet out of sight; for
"See!" I exclaim to the Bailie, "one or two of the boats have landed
their parties and are already returning! Everybody is disappearing from
the steamer; had we not better make haste and secure a passage?"
But the Bailie, who is something of a philosopher, has confidence that
there is time and accommodation enough for us all; so he and I proceed
very leisurely to the step-ladder, and, as everybody else is in a hurry,
we fall to the very last boat that leaves the steamer. A few unforeseen
claimants and stragglers present themselves just as we are putting off,
and, as often happens at the last chance to go ashore, our boat is
somewhat overloaded, and I find myself separated from my companion, who
is standing upright in the bows, while I am seated in the stern among
the elderly Scotch folk, who seem so familiar with all the detail of the
place and proceedings I am led to believer them faithful worshipper of
Nature who come periodically to pay their vows in the national minster,
as members of some parish church go up reverently to the cathedral
convocations. An eager, excitable gude-wife next to me is especially
anxious and officious, and seems disposed to question the efficiency and
prudence of our Ulva boatmen.
"The boat is too full!" she cries, with the emphasis of certainty. "Tell
them to put back; she is too full!" and the murmur of alarm echoes in
our vicinity. "Don't be afraid, my dear," she adds, in a sort of
stage-aside to me, who, though I have observed that the boat's edge is
almost on a level with the water, have never dreamed of danger until she
put it into my head, "Not a bit of danger," she continues, patting me
encouragingly on the shoulder, while in the same breath she reiterates
to those in authority her startling warning and her assurance that we
shall presently sink by our own weight.
But the Bailie, standing in the bow, still maintains his philosophy, and
the smile on his face reassures me. And now, with only just that sense
of insecurity which adds to the awe of the occasion, I perceive that we
are rounding a cliff, and that the entrance to Fingal's Cave is dawning
on our view.
The magnificent proportions and perfect symmetry of the archway which
forms the entrance to the cave will be seen to better advantage somewhat
later, when the steamer, on leaving the island, sweeps directly past the
vestibule purposely to afford their passengers this opportunity; but one
is never more impressed with the hugeness and stability of this gigantic
structure than when measuring it by gradual approach, and looking up
into its lofty Gothic vault as we glide under the enormous archway and
out of the dazzling sunshine into the twilight of the deep interior.
Those whose imaginations are aided by statistics may form a more real
conception of this great natural structure by reflecting that the
archway at the entrance is forty-two feet in width, and its height
nearly seventy above the level of the sea, and that these vast
proportions are preserved to the farther extremity of the cave, as
distance of some two hundred and thirty feet. The imposing effect of the
portico is still further enhanced by the massive entablature of thirty
feet additional which it supports, and by the noble cluster of pillars
grouped on each side of the entrance-way. These lofty pillars, or
complication of basaltic columns, are in a general sense perpendicular,
their departure from the stern lines and angles of human architecture
serving only to proclaim them the workmanship of that Architect who
alone is independent of artistic rules, and giving new force to what
Goethe tells us is understood by genius, namely, "that Art is called Art
because it is _not_ Nature." Here with the poet of Nature, we may offer
"Thanks for the lessons of this spot,--fit school
For the presumptuous thoughts that would assign
Mechanic laws to agency divine,
And, measuring heaven by earth, would overrule
Infinite Power."
And here, if anywhere, is the place to learn how vainly Art may seek to
rival Nature. "How splendid," exclaims a learned prelate, "do the
porticos of the ancients appear in our eyes from the ostentatious
magnificence of the descriptions we have received of them! And with what
admiration are we seized, on seeing the colonnades of our modern
edifices! But when we behold the Cave of Fingal, formed by Nature in the
Isle of Staffa, it is no longer possible to make a comparison; and we
are forced to acknowledge that this piece of Nature's architecture far
surpasses that of the Louvre, that of St. Peter's at Rome, all that
remains of Palmyra and Paestum, and all that the genius, taste, and
luxury of the Greeks were ever capable of inventing."
So much for a comparison of this ocean cathedral with buildings of human
construction; and no less decisive is the verdict of the French author,
M. de St. Fond, in contrasting Staffa with other natural edifices. "I
have," he says, "seen many ancient volcanoes, and I have given
descriptions of several basaltic causeways and delightful caverns in the
midst of lavas; but I have never found anything which comes near to
this, or can bear any comparison with it, for the admirable regularity
of its columns, the height of the arch, the situation, the form, the
elegance of this production of Nature or its resemblance to the
masterpieces of Art, though Art has had no share in its construction. It
is therefore not at all surprising that tradition should have made it
the abode of a hero."
These are but general descriptions of this _chef d'oeuvre._ Shall I
attempt in my own words, or those of any other, to give even a feeble
impression of the grandeur which overarches and surrounds us as our boat
glides into the interior? Let Wilson speak; I dare not. Listen to his
words while I vouch for their truth.
"How often have we since recalled to mind the regularity, magnitude, and
loftiness of those columns, the fine o'er-hanging cliff of small
prismatic basalt to which they give support, worn by the murmuring waves
of many thousand years into the semblance of some stupendous Gothic
arch,
'Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,'
the wild waters ever urge their way; and the receding sides of that
great temple, running inwards in solemn perspective, yet ever and anon,
as ocean heaves and falls, rendered visible in its far sanctuary by the
broad and flashing light reflected by the foaming surges sweeping
onwards from below! Then the broken and irregular gallery which
overhangs that subterranean flood, and from which, looking upwards and
around, we behold the rich and varied hues of red, green, and gold,
which give such splendid relief to the deep and sombre colored
columns,--the clear bright tints which sparkle beneath our feet, from
the wavering, yet translucent sea,--the whole accompanied by the wild,
yet mellow and sonorous moan of each successive billow which rises up
the sides or rolls over the finely formed crowns of the lowlier and
disjointed pillars: these are a few of the features of this exquisite
and most singular scene, which cannot fail to astonish the beholder."
Up this irregular gallery, which extends to the farther extremity of the
cave, most of our steamer's party have already gone, having successively
deserted the boats to take advantage of this natural pathway, whereby,
stepping carefully along the wet slippery floor, and clinging for
security to a rope attached to iron bolts riveted in the solid stone of
the wall, they can penetrate to the innermost depths of the cavern.
Through the dim religious light of the place we can discern their
figures, diminished in the distant perspective, as in long procession
they grope their way, the joyous laughter of the younger votaries
mingling with the little shrieks of alarm or warning with which the more
cautious or timid emphasize every misstep or uncertain footing,--the
entire human murmur, fortunately for us, softened by distance, or
returned to our ears only in the mellowed form of an echo, so that we
are spared in some degree that mockery of mirth and discord, otherwise
so inevitable, and always so uncongenial to the spirit of the
place,--that tumult of voices, exclamations, and shouts so familiar to
the tourist, and which drew from Wordsworth, on occasion of his visit to
the spot, the half-bitter reflection,--
"We saw, but surely, in the motley crowd,
Not one of us has felt the far-famed-sight:
How _could_ we feel it, each the other's blight,
Hurried and hurrying, volatile and loud?"
Thus the Bailie's philosophy has not proved in fault. There is an
advantage in being the last comers, if it is merely that our
fellow-tourists have taken themselves out of our way. Only the harsh
vituperations of our boatmen make dissonance with Nature, as, their long
poles driven hard now against one side and now the other of the cave,
they strive to keep the boat in middle position, and save a collision
with the rocks. And even this discord is soon overborne. "Sing!" cried
the gude-wife at my elbow, as we passed under the great archway, and her
plastic soul, alive as readily to the spirit of praise as to that of
fear, caught the inspiration of the place; "all of you, sing!"
There was an earnestness, a fervor, in this woman, which made her every
word and thought contagious; and as either she, or some neighbor of hers
who shared her emotion and purpose, struck the key-note, voice after
voice joined in, until there swelled up from our little boat the almost
universal song,--no common trivial melody,--not even a national
air,--such would have been sacrilege,--but a grand old song of praise,
one of those literal versions of the Psalmist familiar to the ear and
lip of every kirk-loving Scot. And so, as the singing chorus went
sailing up that broad aisle, heart and voice united in a spontaneous
liturgy, an act of devout adoration, which seemed the only fit response
to the spirit that whispered to our souls, "Praise ye the Lord!"
The psalm ended, our boat with most of its passengers retraces its
course and is rowed back to the steamer,--the Bailie and I, however,
having first disembarked and clambered up to the rough gallery, with a
view of imitating the parties who are pursuing their explorations on
foot. This gallery, or causeway, which runs along the eastern side of
the cave, is about two feet in width, and consists of the bases of
broken pillars, whose dark purple hexagons, cemented together by
crystallizations or a white calcareous deposit, form a rough mosaic
flooring. The inequality of its surface, and the fact that the stones
are worn smooth and slippery by the action of the sea, render it a very
precarious pathway; and as soon as we have proceeded far enough to
gratify our curiosity and obtain satisfactory points of view, we are
content to abandon the enterprise of penetrating to the remotest depths,
preferring to reserve our time for a ramble over the exterior surface of
the island.
Emerging from the cavern and skirting its eastern side, we still find
ourselves stepping from hexagon to hexagon over a massive bed of refuse
material, and gazing upward at the columnar wall on our left which
upholds the table-land of the island. No traveller, however ignorant or
inappreciative of science, can fail to realize the immense interest
which these evidences of some great natural convulsion must possess for
the geologist; and a knowledge of the recent geological discoveries in
this and other of the Western Islands is not needed to impress us with
the conviction that treasures of truth are beneath and around us
everywhere, waiting to be revealed. But we have not the key, nor can we
pause to pick the lock.
Passing on, then, in our ignorance, but not without an awe of things
unknown, we recognize as within the scope of our comprehension two
broken pillars so lodged as to constitute the seat and back of a rude
chair, which has received the name of Fingal's Chair, and beyond this
the Clamshell Cave, so called from the curved form of the mass of
basaltic pillars at its entrance; and at length we attain a point where,
by scaling a rough staircase constructed for the convenience of
tourists, we gain the grassy summit of the island. So perpendicular is
the cliff at every point, that, these green slopes once reached, the
previous singularity of formation and wildness of scenery at once give
place to the pastoral. Rocks, columns, caves, and cliffs are all hid
from our view; we have gained Nature's upper story, and around us is a
perfect calm. Not even the steamer which brought us hither is visible,
so effectually do the bold precipices conceal every near thing in their
shadow. The great cavern through which ocean surges with a ceaseless
swell lies far beneath us, and no echo of its roar reaches this spot. A
few sheep are nibbling the short grass; the golden star-flowers and the
pink heather plumes at our feet are the lineal descendants, for aught we
can conceive, of star-flowers and heather plumes that flourished here a
thousand years ago,--so undisturbed a possession has Nature had In this
realm of hers for ages. No change, improvement, growth, has added to or
taken from Staffa. Storm-washed in winter, flower-crowned in summer, its
history is forever the same. Sitting here among the heather tufts, and
looking off on the limitless blue sea and the neighboring islands, it is
not hard to dream one's self away into by-gone centuries, to imagine
Bruce and his faithful islesmen sailing past as they go forth to rouse
the clans, or, diving deeper into legendary days, to picture Fingal
himself and his warlike allies bending their white sails towards the
ocean-palace that still claims him as its traditionary king.
"O Ossian, Carril, and Ullin! you know of heroes that are no more. Give
us the song of other years. Raise, ye bards of other times, raise high
the praise of heroes; that my son! may settle on their fame."
"Soon shall my voice be heard no more, and my footsteps cease to be
seen," was the prophetic cry of the "first of a thousand heroes," as he
learned from "Ullin, the bard of song" that his young son Ryno was "with
the awful forms of his fathers." But "the bards will tell of Fingal's
name, the stones will talk of me," was the consolatory thought of him,
who, grown old in fame, had a foreshadowing of the glory which would
hang round his memory, when he exclaimed, "But before I go hence, one
beam of fame shall rise, I will remain renowned; the departure of my
soul shall be a stream of light."
And who among ancient heroes could better deserve to have his memory
embalmed than he whom an honorable foe thus eulogized?--"Blest be thy
soul, thou king of shells! In peace thou art the gale of spring; in war,
the mountain storm." And what touching interest to us of later times
hangs round this legendary champion of the right, when we listen to his
mingled strain of triumph, lament, and justification!--"When will Fingal
cease to fight? I was born in the midst of battles, and my steps must
move in blood to the tomb, But my hand did not injure the weak, my steel
did not touch the feeble in arms. I behold thy tempests, O Morven! which
will overturn my halls, when my children are dead in battle, and none
remains to dwell in Selma. Then will the feeble come, but they will not
know my tomb. My renown is only in song, My deeds shall be as a dream to
future times!"
Yes, a dream,--and we are the dreamers. The songs of the bards are
ringing in our ears, and though no stone marks the tomb of Fingal, the
stones talk of him; the great basaltic columns are his memorial pillars,
and the sea yet sounds his dirge as its wailing echo sweeps mournfully
through Fingal's Cave.
But hark! The bell of the Pioneer is rousing us with the cry, "Wake up,
ye dreamers! Come back from the clouds, ye visionaries!" The time for
Staffa is up, and the steamer, like a cackling hen who is eager to call
her brood together, commences a system of coaxing, warning, and threat,
which soon results in the converging of her passengers from every
quarter of the island. Most of them are by this time rambling over its
upper surface, and all make for the rough stairway where the comparative
difficulties of the "ascensus" and "descensus" are in complete
contradiction to classical authority: the former having been
accomplished with ease, while the latter proves a terrific experience.
There is truly something maternal about the Pioneer; for here, as at
every other point of difficulty on our excursion, faithful guides are
stationed and strong hands outstretched for our assistance. Still it is
with a plunge,--half a nightmare and half a miracle,--that we, who are
among the earliest to make the experiment, arrive safely at the bottom,
and, stepping on board a boat, regain the steamer, where we sit at our
leisure and laugh at the absurd figure made by later comers as they
scramble down the cliff: Sir Thomas even forgetting his dignity in the
difficulties of the operation, and the interjectional phrases of her
Ladyship, as she now and then comes to a hopeless stand-still, tickling
our ears at the distance where we sit watching them.
Our entire party fairly on board, the Pioneer, now panting to be off,
sets her wheels in motion and starts on her further course, not,
however, without first skirting the base of the island and affording us,
as I have already intimated, one last view of Fingal's Cave, and that
the finest. It is an impressive circumstance, that at this moment the
attention of the tourist on the steamer's deck is divided between
Nature's great cathedral and man's early efforts in the same
direction,--that immediately opposite the pillared vestibule of the
Staffa minster the Abbey tower of the Blessed Isle looms boldly on our
view, the mimic architecture of man paying silent homage to the spot,
"Where, as to shame the temples decked
By skill of earthly architect,
A minster to her Maker's praise!
Not for a meaner use ascend
Her columns, or her arches bend;
Nor of a theme less solemn tells
That mighty surge that ebbs and swells,
And still, between each awful pause,
From the high vault an answer draws,
In varied tone, prolonged and high,
That mocks the organ's melody.
Nor doth its entrance front in vain
To old Iona's holy fane,
That Nature's voice might seem to say,
'Well hast thou clone, frail child of clay!
Thy humble powers that stately shrine
Tasked high and hard,--but witness mine!'"
And so, with a great lesson behind us and before, we sail away on that
summer sea and bid farewell to Staffa. The timid seal whom we have
disturbed creeps back to her cell, the wild-fowl returns to its nest,
the sea-swell rolls in and out in waves unbroken by our keel, and the
warm sun holds all in his soft embrace. The winter winds will roar
through the cavern erelong, the ocean lash pillar and ceiling with its
foam, tempests will beat and rage against its giant columns, the stormy
petrel will flap its wings in the archway, and the piercing cry of the
sea-gull keep time to the diapason of the deep; but the massive
structure whose corner-stone is hid beneath the waters, and which leans
upon the Rock of Ages, will still defy the tempest and loom in lonely
grandeur, alike in summer's smile and winter's frown the dwelling-place
of the Almighty. Iona's walls, reared centuries ago, and dedicated to
Him by human tribute, have crumbled or are fast crumbling to decay; but
this mighty temple, whose foundations no man laid, has gazed calmly
through all these ages at man's feeble work, and will gaze unchanged
until He who holds the sea in the hollow of His hand shall uproot its
columns.