Now on to Iona, a distance of seven or eight miles, a formidable voyage,
perhaps, for early pilgrims to this sacred shrine, to us barely
affording time for dinner, a meal of which I have no remembrance of
partaking on this eventful day,--though my recollections would doubtless
have been more poignant, if I had failed to do so,--and of which I can
at least certify that it was sumptuous and well-served, since the
luxurious habits of life enjoyed on these floating hotels of the
Hutchesons are proverbial, and the flavor of good cheer still clings to
my palate, especially that of the daily "salmon so fresh as still to
retain its creamy curd."
The approach to Iona, Icolmkill, or Colmeskill, as it is variously
termed, has in it nothing imposing, if we except the ancient Abbey,
already descried at a distance, and the neighboring ruins, the simple
fact of whose presence in this lonely isle is suggestive of all that has
given interest and sanctity to this cradle of Christianity in Britain.
On landing at the rude pier, formed of masses of gneiss and granite
boulders, we find ourselves opposite the modern village, a row of some
forty cottages, running parallel with the shore, and, as is the case in
nearly all Scotch villages, including both an established and a free
church. We have scarcely set foot on the beach before we have a
verification of Wordsworth's experience:--
"How sad a welcome! To each voyager
Some ragged child holds up for sale a store
Of wave-worn pebbles, pleading on the shore
Where once came monk and nun with gentle stir,
Blessings to give, news ask, or suit prefer."
But I have no heart to find fault with this small fry of the modern
fishing-town, whose trade in pressed sea-weeds, shells, and stones is
now so extensive that near the ruins they have established rival
counters, and are a most clamorous set of persecutors; for I still have
pleasure in looking on the really precious and suggestive mementos of
the place which they thrust upon me, a willing victim.
A little to the rear of the village, though still nearly on a level with
the beach, are the ruins, to which we are guided by Archibald Macdonald,
chief boatman, and authorized to act as our cicerone. In setting forth
on our explorations, we must premise that little now remains to mark the
age of the Culdees and the simple life of St. Columba and those
companions of his apostolic zeal who first settled in Iona, and thence,
going forth in pilgrim fashion and with the endurance of pilgrim
hardships, diffused Christianity through Britain. A huge mound, or
cairn, yet marks the place where the missionaries first landed; and
there are still, in a remote part of the island, vestiges of the rude
dwelling-place or cell in which the Culdees first made their abode and
set up the cross as a luminary for the yet uncivilized nations. With the
exception of these rude vestiges, the tradition of their virtues and the
results of their self-sacrificing labors are their only memorial. But
the standard which they planted followers of later ages have continued
to maintain; and the monastic buildings, now more or less ruinous, and
marking successive eras of Church history, are all of great antiquity,
many being of a date so remote that the records of them are merely
traditional. But wherever the pilgrim turns his eye or sets his foot,
voices whisper to him that this is holy ground. The very silence and
mystery which inwrap the place have a tendency to exalt the soul; and
although doubts may arise in regard to some of the traditions, and
incredulity may condemn others as simply mythical, faith so often
becomes sight, and the essence of faith is so triumphant everywhere, as
to make us feel, with the great moralist, that "that man is little to be
envied whose patriotism would not gain force upon the plain of Marathon,
or whose piety would not grow warmer among the ruins of Iona."
Our first visit is to the Nunnery, of which the chapel only remains
standing. The style of its architecture is Norman, and it probably dates
no farther back than the beginning of the thirteenth century. The tomb
of the Princess Anna, the last prioress, is still preserved, though much
defaced by the rude feet of soulless tourists. Her figure is sculptured
in bas-relief on the stone, and the mirror and comb which are introduced
as symbolic of the female sex suggest that instinct of decoration
inherent in woman, and which, if superfluous anywhere, certainly would
be so in a nunnery at Iona. There is a sad interest in the remains of
this sanctuary, the only refuge for innocence and gentleness in a
barbarous age, when many a votary was doubtless driven hither by motives
similar to those which actuated the fair maid of Lorn, of whom Sir
Walter Scott tells us,--
"The maid has given her maiden heart
To Ronald of the Isles;
And, fearful lest her brother's word
Bestow her on that English lord,
She seeks Iona's piles;
And wisely deems it best to dwell
A vot'ress in the holy cell,
Until these feuds, so fierce and fell,
The abbot reconciles."
"The cemetery of the nunnery," as we learn on the authority of Dr.
Johnson, and at the date of his visit, "was, till very lately, regarded
with such reverence that only women were buried in it." And how the
burly speech and rugged bluntness characteristic of the old philosopher
are softened and atoned for, to my thinking, when he adds, "These relics
of veneration always produce some mournful pleasure. I could have
forgiven a great injury more easily than the violation of this imaginary
sanctity."
Next to its renown as an ancient seat of piety and learning, it is as a
burial-place that Iona is chiefly known and venerated. Though it is
difficult now to identify the tombs of kings, or to distinguish them
from those of the humbler individuals who have found a last
resting-place in Reilig Orain, the burial-place of St. Oran, it is
unquestionably true that the sanctity of the island gave it a preference
over any other spot as a place of sepulture, especially for royalty,--a
preference, doubtless, partly due to the belief in an ancient Gaelic
prophecy, which foretold that before the end of the world "the sea at
one tide shall cover Ireland and the green-headed Islay, but Columba's
Isle shall swim above the flood."
Forty Scottish kings are said to have been interred in Iona, among whom
we have Shakspeare's authority for including King Duncan.
"_Rosse._ Where is Duncan's body?
"_Macd._ Carried to Colmeskill,
The sacred storehouse of his predecessors,
And guardian of their bones."
Among the monuments of Christianity in Iona, none are more conspicuous
and eloquent than the numerous crosses, of which the original number is
said to have been three hundred and sixty. Most of them have been
ruthlessly carried away or demolished. For myself, much as I deplore the
Vandalism which has mutilated nearly all these sacred memorials, I can
well dispense with the other three hundred and fifty-nine crosses for
the sake of the vivid recollection, I may almost say consciousness, I
have of one, that of St. Martin, which stands upright and in good
preservation just at the entrance of the cathedral inclosure, and
produces a solemn effect upon the mind of every reverential beholder. It
consists of a solid column of mica schist, fourteen feet in height,
fixed in a massive pedestal of red granite, and is of substantial rather
than graceful proportions. It is carved in high relief, and on one side
is sculptured with emblematic devices, of which the Virgin and Child,
surrounded by cherubs, occupy the central place. But its most
characteristic feature is its antiquity, enhanced to the eye by the gray
lichens and the rust of time, with which it is so incrusted that it
presents a hoary and venerable aspect, and seems the embodiment of that
ancient faith to which the whole island is consecrated. Here saints and
abbots of distant ages have knelt and wept and prayed, and caught the
inspiration for their labor of love, and here still, if we listen to the
voices in our hearts, we may hear the Spirit's whisper, and he who runs
may read the everliving sermon written on the old gray stone.
We have now gained the Cathedral, by far the best preserved and most
imposing of the ruined edifices of Iona,--a building which exhibits
various styles of architecture, and which is probably of more recent
construction than the other monastic or ecclesiastical monuments. It is
cruciform, and the square tower at the intersection, about seventy feet
in height, remains entire. The building is unroofed: for here, as in the
case of every other ancient structure on the island, every particle of
wood-work has been carried away, that material being too precious in
Iona to escape being converted to utilitarian purposes. The dimensions
of the cathedral or abbey church are spacious, and it boasted, even in
recent centuries, a noble altar and many other decorations, of which it
has been despoiled,--partly, no doubt, by the inhabitants of the island;
but tourists and pilgrims to the place are in no slight degree
responsible for these depredations, since, in their eagerness for
mementos, they have mercilessly robbed and mutilated it, and it is
prophesied, that, in spite of every possible precaution, many of the
interesting memorials of antiquity in Iona will soon be unrecognizable
or will have ceased to exist.
The tomb of Abbot Mackinnon, who died in 1500, though greatly defaced,
still exhibits a sculptured figure of its occupant, thought to do much
credit to the art of that period; and the largest monument in the
island, that of Macleod of Macleod, is still preserved. It is in this
church that the celebrated "Black Stones" of Iona were kept, on which
the old Highland chieftains were accustomed to take oaths of contract or
allegiance, and for which they entertained so sincere a reverence that
oaths thus ratified were never broken. Dr. Johnson observes,--"In those
days of violence and rapine, it was of great importance to impress upon
savage minds the sanctity of an oath, by some particular and
extraordinary circumstances. They would not have recourse to the black
stones upon small or common occasions; and when they had established
their faith by this tremendous sanction, inconstancy and treachery were
no longer feared."
Though neither the ancient structures nor the modern village of Iona are
situated much above the sea-level, and are so near to the shore as to
constitute the foreground of the picture, as seen from the usual
landing-place, the island is not without its highlands, which rise to a
considerable elevation immediately behind the village, some bold cliffs
even obtruding themselves upon our return pathway to the steamer: for I
can recall the picturesque effect produced upon the landscape by the
figure of one of the Baronet's daughters, seated at her ease upon the
summit of a huge, precipitous rock, her sketch-book in her lap, and her
pencil busily delineating the prospect in our direction. I scarcely
think, however, that, like the travelling photographer, she dreamed of
including her fellow-tourists in her sketch-book of reminiscences, any
more than I then anticipated the day when I should be tempted to
illustrate mine by her own and her sister's portraits.
I believe some rare ferns are to be found in Iona; it includes in its
vegetable kingdom one hawthorn, and a species of dwarf-oak is said to
occur there sparingly; but I cannot remember seeing even the most
inferior specimen of a tree upon the island. Bareness, desolation, is
its one characteristic,--a feature from which the meanness and poverty
of the row of village huts by no means detracts. As, once more
re-embarked on our steamer, we take a final view of Iona, the external
impression is meagre and poor indeed. So much the warmer and more
animated, then, is the glow of enthusiasm and gratitude with which we
dwell on the piety and self-sacrifice of those saints of old with whose
memory the Blessed Isle is still fragrant. Nor are the piety and zeal of
God's saints perpetuated chiefly by ecclesiastical monuments, or
embalmed in human hearts alone; for,
"when, subjected to a common doom
Of mutability, those far-famed piles
Shall disappear from both the sister Isles,
Iona's saints, forgetting not past days,
Garlands shall wear of amaranthine bloom,
While heaven's vast sea of voices chants their praise."
Is it the weariness of body entailed on us by our pilgrimages among the
wonders of Staffa and the ruins of Iona,--is it the mind overtasked by
the effort to grasp and comprehend so much of interest and novelty,--or
is it the soul tuned to deeper thoughts and holier sympathies than are
wont to engage it, which steeps us for the remainder of our voyage in
the luxury of repose? A mingling of all, I suspect. And happily the
sentiment seems universal. Christie, who, warned by her painful
experience of the steamer's oscillations, as she swung like a pendulum
on the sea-swell off Staffa, has been only too glad to accompany us on
shore at Iona, is not only relieved of her sea-sickness, but insured for
the rest of the trip. Somehow she, the Bailie, and I find ourselves
among that large proportion of our company who have gradually migrated
to the forward part of the boat, where, forgetful of the
conventionalities which have hitherto restrained us, we are grouped on
the fore-deck in whatever listless or indolent attitude the prevailing
mood may suggest. The August afternoon is drawing to a close, and the
sun is declining. Our share in the day's labor--though it be but
laborious pleasure--is done; the remainder of the task devolves on the
Pioneer, and, while she ploughs the waves, we have but to rest,
meditate, and congratulate ourselves and one another. There is a hum of
merry voices from the knot of gay young Scots, whose spirits are toned
down, not damped, by the experiences of the day. Our English girls, with
their young brother, are prettily grouped on the deck-floor, the latter
stretched at the feet of the youngest girl, and exchanging with her
those sweet confidences which always exist between a chivalrous boy and
the sister nearest his own age. Their confiding parents have remained
aft, as have a majority of the elders of the company; but, though youth,
freedom, and high natural spirits preponderate at our end of the boat,
peace seems to be brooding over us with dove-like wings.
We are still skirting the bold, precipitous shores of Mull, the central
loadstone which has kept us all day to our course, and now and then our
attention is especially engrossed by the view of her rugged cliffs,
terrible in winter's storms, and her natural arches of basalt, through
which the sea washes at high-water, and which betray in every feature a
family likeness to great Staffa. But for the most part our hearts and
thoughts now are with the past, and gratitude and thanksgiving are
welling up within us for a day on which sunshine, fair breezes, and a
prosperous voyage have combined with Nature's most glorious revelations
and humanity's holiest relics in opening up to us pleasures and
privileges beyond compare. Or, if a thought of the future mingles with
our meditations, it is the rapturous thought that these gifts of
Providence once ours are ours for a life-time.
At length, a softening of the majestic landscape, a contraction from the
sea's wide expanse into comparatively still waters, and, bidding
farewell to Mull, we have entered the Sound of Kerrera, and the great
island is hid from us by its less imposing sister, Kerrera Island, the
same that land-locks the Bay of Oban. We have but to make our way
through the picturesque channel, whose scenery is already familiar to
our eyes, and now Dunolly, the moss-crowned warder of the bay, greets us
once more, her friendly face, as we sweep into our little harbor,
seeming to hail us with a "Welcome Home!"
Home to the Caledonian, where a "towsy tea," as my Scotch friends would
term it, awaits the tired and hungry travellers: a motley, substantial
meal: fowls of the daintiest,--fresh herring, never eaten in such
perfection as on the Hebridean coast,--honey-comb of the tint of burnt
umber,--fragrant, ambrosial honey, the very juice of the heather, the
crystallized sun and dew in which these unshadowed hills bask and bathe
without let or hindrance.
Then a stroll round the bay and along the white sea-wall, now glistening
in the moonlight, and then to bed, to dream perhaps of Ossian's heroes,
of storm-swept castles, of old monkish rites, and of the ocean
cathedral's eternal chant,--dreams which, however varied and strange,
can lull the spirit into no softer illusions, can rouse it to no wilder
ecstasies than the reality of our experience in our twelve hours' sail
round Mull.