Almost every district of the Highlands bears the trace of the vast
forests with which at no very distant period the hills and heaths were
covered: some have decayed with age, but large tracts were purposely
destroyed in the latter end of the sixteenth and the early part of the
seventeenth century. On the south side of Beann Nevis a large pine
forest, which extended from the western braes of Lochabar to the black
water and the mosses of Ranach, was burned to expel the wolves. In the
neighbourhood of Loch Sloi a tract of woods, nearly twenty miles in
extent, was consumed for the same purpose; and at a later period a
considerable part of the forests adjoining to Lochiel was laid waste by
the soldiers of Oliver Cromwell, in their attempts to subdue the Clan
Cameron. Nothing of late years has tended more to the destruction of the
small woods than the pasturage of sheep. Wherever these animals have
access to a copse-wood which has been cut down, they entirely stunt its
growth, and sometimes destroy it altogether, by continually eating off
the young shoots as soon as they appear. A considerable quantity of the
yet remaining woods is also too frequently sacrificed to the avarice of
the proprietors. On the west bank of Loch Catrine, near the Trossachs, a
ground which ought now to have been as sacred as the vale of Tempe, a
beautiful copse-wood has been cut and sold within a recent period; and
there appears in its place only the desolate side of a naked heather
hill. It is not above sixty years since Glen Urcha has been divested of
a superb forest of firs some miles in extent. The timber was bought by a
company of Irish adventurers, who paid at the rate of sixpence a tree
for such as would now have been valued at five guineas. After having
felled the whole of the forest, the purchasers became bankrupt, and
dispersed: the overseer of the workmen was hanged at Inverara, for
assassinating one of his men. The laird never received the purchase of
his timber, and a considerable number of the trees were left upon the
spot where they fell, or by the shores of Loch Awe, where they were
carried for conveyance, and gradually consumed by the action of the
weather. Those mosses where the ancient forests formerly stood, are
overspread with the short stocks of trees still standing where they
grew. Age has reduced them almost to the core, and the rains and decay
of the earth have cleared them of the soil: yet their wasted stumps, and
the fangs of their roots, retain their original shape, and stand amid
the hollows, the realization of the skeletons of trees in the romance of
Leonora. Abundance of these remains of an older world are to be seen in
Glen Urcha and its neighbourhood. In Corrai Fhuar, Glen Phinglass, and
Glen Eitive, they are met at every step. In the first, a few living firs
are yet thriving; but they are surrounded on every side by the shattered
stumps, fallen trunks, and blasted limbs of a departed forest.
It is difficult to conceive the sad emotions which are excited by this
picture of an aged existence falling without notice, and consuming in
the deepest solitude and silence: on every side lie different stages of
decay, from the mouldered and barkless stock, half overgrown with grass
and moss, to the overturned tree, yet bearing on its crashed limbs the
withered leaves of its last summer. In Glen Phinglass there is no longer
any living timber; but the remains of that which it once produced are of
greater magnitude than those in Corrai Fhuar. In this tract the trees
were chiefly oak; firs were, however, intermixed among them, and in the
upper part of the glen is the stump of one six feet in diameter. At
intervals are stocks of oak from five to seven or eight feet in height;
they are all of a great size and age: some are still covered with bark,
and yet bear a few stunted shoots; but many are so old, that the mossy
earth has grown on one side to their top, and the heath has begun to
tuft them over like ivy. In Glen Eitive the remains are less
obliterated: many of the scathed and knotted stumps yet bear a thin head
of wreathed and dwarfish boughs, and in some places trunks of immense
oaks, straight as a mast, yet lie at the foot of the stump from which
they were snapped. I know not how to describe the feelings with which I
have gazed upon these relics of the ancient forests which once covered
the hills, and looked up to the little feathery copse-wood which is all
that now remains upon the side of the mountain. What must be the soul of
that man who can look upon the change without a thought? who hears the
taunts of the stranger revile the nakedness of his land, and who can
stand upon his hill and stretch his eye for an hundred miles over the
traces of gigantic woods, and say, “This is mine;” and yet ask not the
neglected earth for its produce, nor strive to revive the perished glory
of his country, and which to be reanimated needs but to be sought?
The success of those who have possessed this patriotism _ought_ to be a
source of emulation, and _is_ a monument of reproach to those who do not
follow their example. The princely avenues of Inverara, the beautiful
woods of Glengarrie, the plantations of Duntroon, and the groves of
Athol, must excite in a stranger, admiration; in a native, pride and
gratitude--pride in the produce of his country, and gratitude to the
noble possessors who have preserved and cherished that which every
Scottish proprietor ought to support, the honour and the interest of his
fathers’ land.
* * * * *
Mr. Allan’s elegant poem is a “lament” on the desertion of the Highlands
by its ancient inhabitants. He says:--
Full often in the valleys still and lone,
The _ruins of deserted huts_ appear.
And here and there grown o’er for many a year,
_Half-hidden ridges_ in the heath are seen,
Where once the delving plough and waving corn had been.
In a note on this stanza, Mr. Allan eloquently depicts the depopulated
districts, viz.:--
Upon the narrow banks of lonely streams, amid the solitude of waste
moors, in the bosom of desolate glens, and on the eminences of hills
given to the foxes and the sheep, are seen the half-mouldered walls of
ruined huts, and the mossy furrows of abandoned fields, which tell the
existence of a people once numerous and rich. In these melancholy traces
of desolation are sometimes seen the remains of eight or twelve houses
bereft of their roofs, and mouldering into a promiscuous heap. Upon one
farm in the straith of Glen Urcha there were “sixty years since”
thirty-seven “smokes;” at this day they are all extinguished, except
four. A less extensive but more striking instance of this falling away
of the people will still farther illustrate the lines in the poem. I was
one evening passing up a solitary glen between Glen Phinglass and Loch
Bhoile; the day was fast closing, and wearied with hunting, and at a
distance from the inhabited straiths, I wished to discover some house
where I might obtain refreshment. As I turned the shoulder of the hill,
I came upon a small level plain where four glens met. In the midst stood
two cottages, and I hastened forward in the hopes of obtaining a stoup
of milk and a barley scone. As I drew near I remarked that no smoke
issued from the chimney, no cattle stood in the straith, nor was there
any sign of the little green kale yard, which is now found in the
precincts of a highland cottage. I was something discouraged by the
quiet and desolation which reigned around; but knowing the solitude and
poverty of the shepherds of the outward bounds, I was not surprised. At
length, however, as I drew near, I saw the heath growing in the walls of
the huts, the doors were removed, and the apertures of the windows had
fallen into chasms. As I stopped and looked round, I observed a level
space which had been once a field: it was yet green and smooth, and the
grass-grown ridges of long-neglected furrows were perceivable, retiring
beneath the encroaching heather. Familiarity with such objects prevented
surprise and almost reflection; but hunger and weariness reminded me not
to linger, and I pursued my way towards Loch Bhoile. As I turned into
the north-west glen, I again discovered before me a small house by the
side of the burn, and the compactitude of its walls and the freshness of
its grey roof as the setting sun glinted upon its ridge, assured me that
it was not deserted. I hastened onward, but again I was deceived. When I
came near, I found that although it had not been so long uninhabited, it
was forsaken like the rest: the small wooden windows were half-closed;
the door stood open, and moss had crept upon the sill; the roof was
grown over with a thick and high crop of long-withered grass: a few
half-burnt peats lay in a corner of the hearth, and the smoke of its
last fire was yet hanging on the walls. In the narrow sandy path near
the door was a worn space, which yet seemed smoothened by the tread of
little feet, and showed the half-deranged remains of children’s
playhouses built with pebbles and fragments of broken china: the row of
stepping-stones yet stood as they had been placed in the brook, but no
foot-mark was upon them, and it was doubtless many a day since they had
been crossed, save by the foxes of the hill.
[351] Mr. Allan’s poems, the “Bridal of Caölchairn,” the “Last Deer of
Beann Doran,” &c. were published by Carpenter, Bond-street, in 1822.
* * * * *
~Garrick Plays.~
No. XXXIII.
[From the “True Trojans, or Fuimus Troes,” an Historical Play, Author
unknown, 1633.]
_Invocation of the Druids to the Gods of Britain, on the invasion of
Cæsar._
Draw near, ye Heav’nly Powers,
Who dwell in starry bowers;
And ye, who in the deep
On mossy pillows sleep;
And ye who keep the centre,
Where never light did enter;
And ye whose habitations
Are still among the nations,
To see and hear our doings,
Our births, our wars, our wooings;
Behold our present grief
Belief doth beg relief.
By the vervain and lunary,
By fern seed planetary,
By the dreadful misletoe
Which doth on holy oak grow,
Draw near, draw near, draw near.
Help us beset with danger,
And turn away your anger;
Help us begirt with trouble,
And now your mercy double;
Help us opprest with sorrow
And fight for us to-morrow.
Let fire consume the foeman,
Let air infest the Roman,
Let seas intomb their fury,
Let gaping earth them bury.
Let fire, and air, and water,
And earth conspire their slaughter.
By the vervain, &c.
We’ll praise then your great power,
Each month, each day, each hour,
And blaze in lasting story
Your honour and your glory.
High altars lost in vapour,
Young heifers free from labour,
White lambs for suck still crying,
Shall make your music dying,
The boys and girls around,
With honey suckles crown’d;
The bards with harp and rhiming
Green bays their brows entwining,
Sweet tune and sweeter ditty,
Shall chaunt your gracious pity.
By the vervain, &c.
_Another, to the Moon._
Thou Queen of Heav’n, Commandress of the deep,
Lady of lakes, Regent of woods and deer;
A Lamp, dispelling irksome night; the Source
Of generable moisture; at whose feet
Wait twenty thousand Naiades!--thy crescent
Brute elephants adore, and man doth feel
Thy force run through the zodiac of his limbs.
O thou first Guide of Brutus to this isle,
Drive back these proud usurpers from this isle.
Whether the name of Cynthia’s silver globe,
Or chaste Diana with a gilded quiver,
Or dread Proserpina, stern Dis’s spouse,
Or soft Lucina, call’d in child-bed throes,
Doth thee delight: rise with a glorious face.
Green drops of Nereus trickling down thy cheeks,
And with bright horns united in full orb
Toss high the seas, with billows beat the banks,
Conjure up Neptune, and th’ Æolian slaves,
Protract both night and winter in a storm,
That Romans lose their way, and sooner land
At sad Avernus’ than at Albion’s strand.
So may’st thou shun the Dragon’s head and tail!
So may Endymion snort on Latmian bed!
So may the fair game fall before thy bow!--
Shed light on us, but light’ning on our foe.
* * * * *
[From the “Twins,” a Comedy, by W. Rider, A. M. 1655.]
_Irresolution._
I am a heavy stone,
Rolled up a hill by a weak child: I move
A little up, and tumble back again.
_Resolution for Innocence._
My noble mind has not yet lost all shame.
I will desist. My love, that will not serve me
As a true subject, I’ll conquer as an enemy.
O Fame, I will not add another spot
To thy pure robe. I’ll keep my ermine honour
Pure and alive in death; and with my end
I’ll end my sin and shame: like Charicles,
Who living to a hundred years of age
Free from the least disease, fearing a sickness,
To kill it killed himself, and made his death
The period of his health.
* * * * *
[From “Sir Giles Goosecap,” a Comedy, Author Unknown, 1606.]
_Friendship in a Lord; modesty in a Gentleman._
_Clarence_, (_to some musicians_). Thanks, gentle friends;
Is your good lord, and mine, gone up to bed yet?
_Momford_. I do assure you not, Sir, not yet, nor yet,
my deep and studious friend, not yet, musical Clarence.
_Clar._ My Lord--
_Mom._ Nor yet, then sole divider of my Lordship.
_Clar._ That were a most unfit division,
And far above the pitch of my low plumes.
I am your bold and constant guest, my Lord.
_Mom._ Far, far from bold, for thou hast known me long,
Almost these twenty years, and half those years
Hast been my bedfellow, long time before
This unseen thing, this thing of nought indeed,
Or atom, call’d _my Lordship_, shined in me;
And yet thou mak’st thyself as little bold
To take such kindness, as becomes the age
And truth of our indissoluble love,
As our acquaintance sprong but yesterday;
Such is thy gentle and too tender spirit.
_Clar._ My Lord, my want of courtship makes me fear
I should be rude; and this my mean estate
Meets with such envy and detraction,
Such misconstructions and resolv’d misdooms
Of my poor worth, that should I be advanced
Beyond my unseen lowness but one hair,
I should be torn in pieces by the spirits
That fly in ill-lung’d tempests thro’ the world,
Tearing the head of virtue from her shoulders,
If she but look out of the ground of glory;
’Twixt whom, and me, and every worldly fortune,
There fights such sour and curst antipathy,
So waspish and so petulant a star,
That all things tending to my grace and good
Are ravish’d from their object, as I were
A thing created for a wilderness,
And must not think of any place with men.
* * * * *
[From the “English Monsieur,” a Comedy by the Hon. James Howard,
1674.]
_The humour of a conceited Traveller, who is taken with every thing that
is French._
_English Monsieur._ Gentlemen, if you please, let us dine together.
_Vaine._ I know a cook’s shop, has the best boiled and roast beef in
town.
_Eng. Mons._ Sir, since you are a stranger to me, I only ask you what
you mean; but, were you acquainted with me, I should take your greasy
proposition as an affront to my palate.
_Vaine._ Sir, I only meant, by the consent of this company, to dine
well together.
_Eng. Mons._ Do you call dining well, to eat out of a French house.
_Vaine._ Sir, I understand you as little as you do beef.
_Eng. Mons._ Why then, to interpret my meaning plainly, if ever you
make me such offer again, expect to hear from me next morning--
_Vaine._ What, that you would not dine with me--
_Eng. Mons._ No, Sir; that I will fight with you. In short, Sir, I can
only tell you, that I had once a dispute with a certain person in this
kind, who defended the English way of eating; whereupon I gent him a
challenge, as any man that has been in France would have done. We
fought; I killed him: and whereabouts do you think I hit him?
_Vaine._ I warrant you, in the small guts--
_Eng. Mons._ I run him through his mistaken palate; which made me
think the hand of justice guided my sword.
* * * * *
_Eng. Mons._ Madam, leading your Ladyship, puts me in mind of France.
_Lady._ Why, Sir?
_Eng. Mons._ Because you lead so like French ladies.
_Lady._ Sir, why look you so earnestly on the ground?
_Eng. Mons._ I’ll lay a hundred pounds, here has been three English
ladies walking up before us.
_Crafty._ How can you tell, Sir?
_Eng. Mons._ By being in France.
_Crafty._ What a devil can he mean?
_Eng. Mons._ I have often in France observed in gardens, when the
company used to walk after a small shower of rain, the impression of
the French ladies’ feet. I have seen such _bon mien_ in their
footsteps, that the King of France’s _Maitre de Daunce_ could not have
found fault with any one tread amongst them all. In this walk I find
the toes of the English ladies ready to tread one upon another.
* * * * *
_Vaine._ Monsieur Frenchlove, well met--
_Eng. Mons._ I cannot say the like to you, Sir, since I’m told you’ve
done a damn’d English trick.
_Vaine._ In what?
_Eng. Mons._ In finding fault with a pair of tops I wore yesterday;
and, upon my _parol_, I never had a pair sat better in my life. My leg
look’d in ’em not at all like an English leg.
_Vaine._ Sir, all that I said of your tops was, that they made such a
rushing noise as you walk’d, that my mistress could not hear one word
of the love I made to her.
_Eng. Mons._ Sir, I cannot help that; for I shall justify my tops in
the noise they were guilty of, since ’twas _Alamode_ of France. Can
you say ’twas an English noise.
_Vaine._ I can say, though your tops were made in France, they made a
noise in England.
_Eng. Mons._ But still, Sir, ’twas a French noise--
_Vaine._ But cannot a French noise hinder a man from hearing?
_Eng. Mons._ No, certainly, that’s a demonstration; for, look you,
Sir, a French noise is agreeable to the air, and therefore not
unagreeable, and therefore not prejudicial, to the hearing; that is to
say, to a person that has seen the world.
The Monsieur comforts himself, when his mistress rejects him, that
“’twas a denial with a French tone of voice, so that ’twas agreeable:”
and, at her final departure, “Do you see, Sir, how she leaves us? she
walks away with a French step.”