A TRIP TO SHETLAND.
Aberdeen--En route--Lerwick--Past and present saints--Some notes
on the islands--A Shetland poet--A visit to Bressay--From
Lerwick to Sandwick--Quarff--"That holy man,
Noah"--Fladibister--Cunningsburgh--"Keeping off"--The indignant
elder--Torquil Halcrow--Philology--A Sandwick gentleman--Local
tales--Foulah and Fair Isle--The fishing season.
ABERDEEN.
The most expeditious and comfortable way of getting to Shetland is by
way of Aberdeen.
I have passed through the city of _Bon Accord_ about six times during
the last twelvemonth, and like it better the more I see of it. It is one
of the stateliest towns in Britain, and its main street, spacious, airy,
and symmetrical, is hard to match. The architectural taste of the new
University Buildings is perfect, and will be more striking still to the
casual visitor, when the unsightly buildings all round have been torn
down. It would be worth while going to Aberdeen if for nothing but to
see the superb stretch of sandy beach between the mouths of the Don and
the Dee: one could sit and dream away a whole forenoon there and be
entirely oblivious to the proximity of a large town.
The finest tribute paid to Aberdeen was written nearly four hundred
years ago by the great Scotch poet, William Dunbar. Three years before
Flodden, Queen Margaret passed through the town, and Dunbar, who
accompanied her, was so delighted with the hospitality, loyalty, and
lavish expenditure of the magistrates, that he wrote a eulogistic poem
to commemorate the occasion. Dunbar carried away the impression that
Aberdeen was a _blythe_ place:
"_Blythe_ Aberdeen thou beryl of all tounis,
Thou lamp of beauty, bounty and _blitheness_."
I do not find that the town has produced many poets, but it has been the
cause of poetry in others.[25] A few years ago Mr. William Watson, out
of gratitude for the LL.D. bestowed on him by the University, wrote a
pleasant sonnet in which Aberdeen is represented as
"Beaming benignant o'er the northern main."
As I sat on the seashore, repeating to myself the lines of Mr. Watson's
poem, and breathing the fresh air, which an official of the bath-house
told me was _made in Germany_ (meaning thereby that the wind was blowing
from the east), the thought struck me that it would be a pardonable
pastime to employ the spare time I had before the boat started for
Lerwick, in writing a _Sonnet to Mr. William Watson_. In such
exercitations it is necessary to employ the second person singular:
Watson! I would thy pen were fluenter,
And yet, perchance, thou usest stores of ink,
Ampler than any of thy readers think,
In blotting that wherein the first quick stir
Of thought and genius made the language err.
If Heaven had lent thy polished Muse a blink
Of saving humour for her crambo-clink,
Then never-dying fame had fallen to her.
Yet Heaven be thanked for what it has bestowed
On thee of what is tunefullest and best:
The trim epistle, the heart-stirring ode,
The witching freshness of a _Prince's Quest_,
The soft romance that dreams of years gone by,
Bright noons and dewy glades of Arcady.
[25] A recent publication shows that Greek verse is well written
at the University. Paisley folk should know that an Aberdonian
Hellenist has put some of Tannahill's verses into Greek.
EN ROUTE.
The little steamer that plies between Aberdeen and Lerwick is timed to
leave the former port at 11.30 a.m., _or as soon afterwards as the tide
will permit_. Often the boat does not leave for some hours after 11.30
a.m., the tide not being always to blame. What a capacity the boat has
for empty barrels! I counted six heaped lorry-loads of them that were
rolled on board, destined, later on, to be filled with herring up north
among the islands.
It is extremely interesting (see Virgil III., 690) to stand in calm
weather on the deck of a moving vessel and talk about the notable places
on the coast with one who knows them well. Much information of a varied
and piquant kind may thus be acquired. The Aberdeenshire coast is rather
unpicturesque, but many historical legends linger airily on the stern
old ruins that are passed from time to time. I omit mention of these,
preferring to tell an anecdote of recent years that is associated with
the immense rocky sea-caverns, of world-wide fame, not far from Cruden
Bay. During the Boer War, some Scotch journalists, strong in the science
of genealogy, undertook to prove that all the generals at the front had
Scotch blood in their veins. It seems that these patriotic penmen
succeeded quite easily in making their contention good with respect to
all the generals _save one_. No Scotch lineage could be found for
General Buller. The difficulty was at last surmounted by the felicitous
conjecture that he was one of the famous _Bullers of Buchan_!
About eight miles past Cruden Bay is Peterhead, the most easterly town
in Britain. Great efforts are being made at present to boom this place
as a health resort. I have heard it said that "printers who die at 30 of
consumption elsewhere, weigh 21 stone at over threescore in Peterhead,"
also that "centenarians there have been known to get up at 5.30 a.m., to
chop wood, no chill or bacillus daring to make them afraid." The Home
Office has long thought highly of Peterhead as a place of permanent
retreat for those afflicted with ethical infirmities.
After Peterhead is left behind, the steamer soon gets entirely away from
land. All night long she battles through the surges, passes about 2 a.m.
the lonely Fair Isle, encompassed by the rushing roost, and two hours
later Sumburgh Head is visible. The approach to Bressay, especially if
the rocks and precipices are half seen through driving haze, is
suggestive, to a student, of the landscape of "Beowulf," with its _windy
walls_, _shadow-helms_, _broad nesses_, and _glimmering sea-cliffs_.
As seen from the sea, Lerwick looks trim and picturesque, but when the
visitor lands, he is apt to lose his bearings among its tortuous lanes.
I followed a porter who was tottering under the weight of trunks, and
asked him, as we treaded a flag-paved vennel: "Is it far to the main
street?" He grimly replied: "This _is_ the main street, sir." The
response unnerved me, shaky as I was with seventeen hours' tossing on
the North Sea. Once in the hotel, my spirits rose. A most welcome and
savoury breakfast--consumed near an open window commanding a view over a
sun-lit sound--is well able to hearten the most downcast.
LERWICK.
The town of Lerwick is indeed one of the finest of our island capitals,
and is constantly becoming finer. No visitor can fail to be impressed by
its unique natural harbour, gloriously screened by the God-given shelter
of the island of Bressay. Commercial Street, which runs along the
water's edge, is at the foot of a hill, and is so narrow in parts that
two vehicles can hardly get past each other. If I stayed in Lerwick, I
should not like to have any resident enemies, for it would be difficult
to keep from brushing clothes with them in the main street. Up from this
main street to the newer town, on a plateau at the top, run numerous
quaint wynds, sinuous, and not always well-scavenged. This new and
well-built part contains the far-seen and notable Town Hall, the
architecture of which would have pleased Ruskin, especially as its fine
windows are all appositely illustrative of Shetlandic annals. By
climbing the dusty clock-tower, one has a splendid view of all
surrounding slopes and seas.
Here is a hint to prospective tourists. Take to the left when you quit
the hall, get down the lane leading to the sea-crags, and walk for two
miles in the direction of the rifle-range. It is a glorious and solitary
walk--not altogether solitary, for the sea is invariably good company.
Don't be so foolish as to keep on your hat: off with it, and let the
air-borne sea-spume wet your brow. It is also a good thing to recite
Byron's vigorous "Address to the Ocean,"--the odd cows you may pass will
not stop their grazing for that. There is no finer air in King Edward's
dominions than that which blows in this region, for the hill air meets
the sea air that has come all the way from Norway, and the two coalesce
to give the rapt pedestrian a mouthful of exhilarating ether. One who is
really a poet and not merely a casual sonneteer, should try to get a
site for his tent on this particular shore, and retire to compose an
epoch-making epic. The mediæval saints knew what they were doing when
they retired to little nooks and isles along this coast to pray and
meditate undisturbed: it is much easier to feel devout in a fresh
atmosphere, than in the squalor of a town.
PAST AND PRESENT SAINTS.
What indeed astonishes the visitor to these northern isles is the
immense number of ecclesiastical ruins. The Christian missionaries seem
speedily to have translated their enthusiasm into stone and lime. What
hymns were chanted and what sermons preached up there in bygone times,
passes the wit of man to reckon! It is a far cry from Palestine to the
Shetland creeks and voes, but the voice of the lowly Nazarene
effectually reached the Celts and Norsemen of these treeless
storm-lashed isles.
Many of the smaller islands have the appellation _papa_, which
indicates, as I hinted above, that some monk or hermit, withdrawing from
the world to pray and meditate, has bequeathed a whiff of sanctity to
headland and skerry.
"The hermit good lives in the wood," says Coleridge, but for the
Shetland _papa_ there was no _nemorum murmur_:--
No sun-illumined leafage met his eye
Raised from perusal of the Holy Word,
No murmur of the woodland zephyr-stirred
Blended with his devotions sped on high,
Only the chiding of the billows nigh.
The clangour of the wheeling ocean-bird,
Or soul-astounding shriek of storm-fiend heard
From the dun cloud-battalions hurrying by,
Greeted his ear: yet piously through all
His life the austere anchorite remained,
On his lone island, buffeted by squall
And sea, and faithful unto death obtained
The promised guerdon that the Lord bestows
Upon the pure in heart, and only those.
It has been asserted by those who have means of knowing, that the days
of theological rigidity are past and gone in the Shetlands. Thing
unheard of in the Hebrides--the shops are open on Sunday mornings for
the sale of Saturday's _Scotsman_ and _Herald_. In some parts of
Scotland you could not hire a trap for a Sunday drive; in others, you
_might_ manage, by salving the driver's conscience with a double fare.
In Shetland the tariff is the same for the first and the last days of
the week. To explain the ecclesiastical differences between the islands
of the North and the West would require a philosopher with all Buckle's
shrewdness and ingenuity. Buckle accounted for the sombre nature of
Scotch theology by dwelling on the awe-inspiring reverberations of
thunder among the Highland peaks. The easy-going creed of the Shetlands
might perhaps be accounted for by a reference to the happy-go-lucky way
in which the sea wanders at will among the confusion of peninsulas,
islets, and skerries. Any theory is better than none at all, and
geopsychical explanations are fashionable at present.
The pulpit stars twinkle with great lustre in these boreal regions. A
country minister, with no preparatory groans, but sharp and trippingly
thus began his homily some Sundays ago: "It is now thirty-five years
since the Lord sent me to labour in this part of his vineyard, if
vineyard I may call it, where no grape was ever seen. On a bright summer
morning thirty-five years ago, I turned the corner of the road and came
among you. Young women, your mothers were in the fields, busy with the
work of the crofts. Your mothers were exceedingly fair to look upon, and
I am happy to say, my dear young sisters, that, by the providence of
God, the beauty of your mothers has lost nothing by being transmitted to
your comely selves. And now for my text, which you will find in Ezekiel,
chapter _x_ and verse _y_."
SOME NOTES ON THE ISLANDS.
A century ago Shetland was almost an unknown land to the Lowlanders of
Scotland. When a Shetland minister was deputed to attend the General
Assembly, it might take him a year to get there and back. His journey
was a very circuitous one: he had to go in a trading vessel to Hamburg,
take boat from Hamburg to London, and from London proceed to Leith. To
return from Edinburgh, the journey was performed the reverse way. Now
that there is a regular service between Aberdeen and Lerwick, and
between Leith and several of the Shetland ports, the journey can be
performed with comfort and expedition. Tourists flock North in the
summer season to admire the scenery, catch the trout, and inhale the
health-giving breezes.
The natives, being mainly of Norse descent, look with a kindly eye over
the water in the direction of Bergen. They do not love Scotland, and
they have their reasons. When the Shetlands were handed over to the
Scotch kings, numbers of needy adventurers, armed with cheaply-got
charters, swooped down on the islands and dispossessed the native
proprietors. This has neither been forgotten nor forgiven. Mr. Russell,
who lived for three years among them, says:--"They believe that the
present lairds are interlopers, and that they themselves have been
defrauded and despoiled. They speak of these things only among
themselves, and not openly; but those who have been in the country, and
have gained their confidence, know that there is a strong undercurrent
of feeling against Scotland and Scotsmen.... They conceive that they
have a claim even as things are, to dwell on the land, and that a
proprietor has no right to remove them from his estate." I was
dreadfully shocked to notice that in a volume of tales published by a
Lerwick author only four years ago, the leading villain was from the
mainland. "Scotland is nothing to us," said a Shetlander to an inspector
of schools. "What has Scotland ever done for us except send us _greedy
ministers and dear meal_?"
In the old days, when communication with the mainland was uncertain and
fitful, the luxuries of civilised life were quite unknown. In one
outlying district a box of oranges was washed ashore from a wreck: these
the natives boiled, under the impression that the orange was a novel
kind of potato. A cask of treacle, come by in a similar way, was used
like tar to daub the bottom of a smack. By and by a cow was seen to lick
the boat with evident relish, and this opened the eyes of the natives to
the real nature of the substance. Nowadays the natives are well in line
with modern civilisation, one of the most convincing proofs being that
they buy drugs and patent medicines of every kind. One has only to scan
the advertisement pages of the Shetland newspapers to note the
persistent way in which quacks of all shades bring their nostrums before
the notice of the islanders. Dyspepsia and rheumatism are the commonest
ailments; and to combat these, myriads of pills and numberless elixirs
are annually swallowed. Faith does a lot even when the drugs of a
legitimate practitioner are concerned: the fact that you have swallowed
something with a bitter taste is often a distinct aid to recovery. Mr.
Russell, whom I referred to above, says: "To my surprise, I learned that
some who were in extreme poverty, and had hardly enough food to eat,
were in the habit of sending South for pills and patent medicines."
A SHETLAND POET.
Long before I ever thought of visiting Shetland, I was acquainted with
the dialect spoken there, through having studied a most interesting
little book of poems called _Rasmie's Büdie_, published in Paisley. The
author of this book is Mr. Haldane Burgess, a very prolific and able
writer, but unfortunately afflicted with blindness. During my short stay
in Lerwick, I gave myself the pleasure of calling upon him, and I was
intensely delighted with my reception. When the sense of sight is lost,
that of touch becomes inordinately keen: Mr. Burgess has accordingly
excellent control over his type-writer, and can compose as nimbly as in
the days when his eyesight was unimpaired. He spoke of his most recent
novel, _The Treasure of Don Andreas_, and expressed himself as highly
pleased at the criticism passed upon it by a reviewer in the _Athenæum_.
Mr. Burgess begins composition every morning at seven, and regulates his
life with military precision. On all departments of Shetlandic history,
folk-lore, and dialect, he discourses with great knowledge, fluency, and
animation. But his interests in the general field of modern literature
are extremely wide. He speaks the Norse language almost as easily as
English, has studied Icelandic, and knows a good deal about the writers
of modern France. Some friend had been reading Arnold's _Literature and
Dogma_ to him shortly before my visit. He was loud in praise of that
book, the ironical insolence and pawky humour of which he had greatly
enjoyed.
On parting from Mr. Burgess, I received from him a copy of his pleasant
Shetlandic story _Tang_, a careful and illuminating study of island life
and manners. The English style struck me as full, robust, and strongly
tinged with poetical figures, and the character sketches drawn with the
precision of intimate knowledge. All his prose works display great
wealth of material, and much psychological insight. His most
characteristic production, however, is his little book of poems
mentioned above, _Rasmie's Büdie_. Rasmie is a Shetland crofter who is
typical of the race: shrewd, kindly, thoughtful, and gifted with a touch
of quaint sarcasm. He has perfectly clear views of life, this old
peasant, and is quite free from cant, or superstition, or mystery. Some
of his metaphors are droll: after long pondering on the scheme of
creation, he comes to the conclusion that earth is the field, heaven the
house, and hell the "midden." Pope, speaking of _Paradise Lost_,
complains that--
"In quibbles angels and archangels join,
And God the Father turns a school-divine."
What would the great Augustan have thought of verse in which God the
Father is likened to a cosmic Crofter?
"Dis Universe is Güd's grit croft,
It's His by richt, wis never koft
Frae gritter laird
And ne'er sall be, laek laand o Toft
Wi' idder shared."
For those who have the patience to pierce through the husk of Rasmie's
dialect, much amusement and delight is in store.
A VISIT TO BRESSAY.
If Charles Lamb and Herbert Spencer had been sent to Lerwick and Bressay
to write a report on what they saw, I daresay the difference of their
accounts would have astonished every reader. Lamb would probably have
swilled porter in the _Ultima Thule_ Refreshment Bar and written a most
interesting account of Bressay without ever crossing the Sound. The ribs
of a big uncouth Dutch boat, square, cumbrous, shell-fretted, and tilted
up on the beach, would probably have bulked more in Lamb's narrative
than the modern steam-trawlers that abound in these waters. His
politico-economical reflections on the rise in price of peppermint
lozenges, consequent on the annual arrival of the Dutch fishing crews
would, I am sure, have furnished excellent reading. Spencer's report
would have dealt, I fancy, with the rotation of crops, the cause of the
different currents, the varieties of pigmentation (with percentages)
among the islanders, and the evolution of fishing gear from its
rudimentary forms--in sum with the definite combination of heterogeneous
changes both simultaneous and successive, in correspondence with
external coexistences and sequences. No two out of a hundred visitors
see the same things, a fact which may help to prove Bishop Berkeley's
theory that the universe is subjective entirely.
I went over to Bressay with a genial and erudite clergyman to visit the
schoolhouse and inspect the ruins of an eighth century church. Three
Shetland women rowed us over the Sound and handled the oars splendidly.
The minister, a plump, jolly be-spectacled gentleman, who has not
"perpetrated matrimony," declared with a sigh that he was an unprotected
male, and on our arrival at the Bressay beach, he called aloud to the
oarswomen to lift him out of the boat. These muscular dames shrieked
with laughter and proceeded to unship their oars as if to buffet him:
he, thereupon, leaped lightly enough on the strand and, turning round,
would have improved the occasion by a word in season had not the
tittering Nereids begun to splash him as he stood on the shingle.
Innumerable sheep pasture on the Bressay slopes, and on the sky-line of
some of the hills one can discern companies of rollicking Shetland
ponies. My friend, the minister, who is writing a book on Darwin, got
into conversation with Mr. Manson, the Bressay pony-breeder. The latter
spoke thus about his tiny steeds: "Pony-breeding is a more puzzling
business than anything else in God's universe. The parents,
grandparents, and great grandparents of a given pony have all been
perfect in every point. Good! You naturally expect that a pony with such
exceptionable ancestry will itself be without a flaw. But is it? No,
often it is not. Too frequently you get bitter water from sweet, and
thistles instead of grapes. Just look at that tricky, mischievous,
ill-tempered, wall-eyed little rascal. Where did he get his evil
cantrips and his wall-eye? I have known his ancestors for four
generations back and they were all without a blemish." The minister made
a note of this fact within the book and volume of his brain: it may be
useful in the pulpit, and I expect to see it in print when he publishes
his book on Darwin.
The eighth century church was at last reached. It is about three miles
from the landing-place and quite near the water. Every point was most
lucidly explained by my ecclesiastical guide. To the outer eye the place
consisted of some low, ruined walls enclosing various species of rank,
wet grass. Such remains of olden piety are provocative of gloomy
reverie, which the rushing of the inconstant tide close by only serves
to deepen. Immediately after the Crucifixion and long before this church
was reared by saintly hands, the little Christian communities thought
the kingdom of God would shortly be established and all sin and
suffering be banished from the world. But the apostles died, and so
successively have
"Priest, doctor, hermit, monk grown white
With prayer, the broken-hearted nun,
The martyr, the wan acolyte,
The incense-swinging child"--
the bishop, the church-builder, and the patriot in all those
generations, and the kingdom of God is not with us yet, seems, indeed,
to be as far off as ever. When the world has been at peace for a while
and the millennium seems imminent, all of a sudden a perverse,
stiff-necked, _wall-eyed_ generation supervenes, and evolution gives way
to deterioration!
Lightly bounding down the ages, my companion turned my thoughts from
unrealised dreams of religion to those of politics. Along these waters
that cast their spray on the ancient ruin, James Hepburn, Earl of
Bothwell, third husband of Queen Mary, fled in hot haste, with a
pursuing squadron at his heels, in the year 1567. Kirkaldy of Grange
entered the Sound of Bressay as Bothwell was leaving by the northern
exit.
Our walk lasted about four hours, and ended up in the school-house,
where the teacher's hospitable dame regaled us to a welcome and
excellent cup of tea. It did us good after the strain of so many
reminiscences. The teacher is a hearty and sociable gentleman, who loves
his books and his fireside. On the fine Saturdays, friends ferry across
from Lerwick for a round of golf with him over the Bressay links. The
fine library, recently sent from Paisley, furnishes a pleasant variety
of reading both for himself and his pupils. On my remarking that, as
chairman at the lecture next evening, he need not speak more than thirty
minutes, he replied, with visible emotion, that he would concentrate his
remarks into a space of thirty seconds.
We got back to Lerwick in a lugsail that was full of passengers,
potatoes, and milk-cans. There was a good deal of loud, elementary chaff
during the twenty minutes' crossing. An old, wrinked, peat-smoked dame
gave us much good advice and (better still) a sprig of white heather
apiece. I found by subsequent experience that the trip is not always so
amusing. Next evening a boatman pulled us over, and it was stiff work
for him, as the Sound was lumpy and the wind contrary. Coming back, he
hoisted his sail, and we careered over in rollicking style. I was a
little scared at the swift-rushing currents and the switchback motion of
the boat. Overhead were moon, stars, and flying clouds; the hulls of big
steamers loomed like phantoms on the surface of the Sound; on the hill
opposite twinkled the ever-nearing light of Lerwick.
Bressay, I may add, has a nice little hall, with all items of modern
convenience, including ventilation. The building is used for every
legitimate purpose, from worship to _weel-timed daffin'_.
FROM LERWICK TO SANDWICK.
I have a vivid recollection of a day's drive from Lerwick to Sandwick,
down the long, narrow peninsula that terminates in Sumburgh head. I was
accompanied by the reverend gentleman already alluded to in connection
with Bressay.
It is a common saying in the isles that Shakespeare had his eye on the
soil of Shetland when he pronounced the famous line:
"'Tis true, 'tis _peaty_, 'tis _peaty_ 'tis, 'tis true."
On all sides in the country you see acre after acre of bog, dripping
with moisture and exuding black runnels whenever the spade of the
peat-cutter begins to slice its fibrous bulk. Should a wayfarer leave
the road by mishap after nightfall, he would soon be plunging in the
treacherous morasses. It is well for him to have a lantern swinging at
his girdle when the sun has gone down.
Such are the reflections suggested by a view of the country between
Lerwick and the little clachan of Quarff.
QUARFF.
Quarff is the headquarters of a minister who is said to be the only
extempore preacher in Shetland, if the word can be appropriately applied
to one who, being blind, has to prepare his sermons in "the quick forge
and working-house of thought" without the succour of books. This
gentleman spent long years in the little islets called _Skerries_, and,
like a miniature Augustine or Columba, claims to have been the first to
preach the sublime truths of Christianity on these limestone formations.
Though blind, he enjoys his pipe, and I had a smoke with him at the
fireside. Between the puffs, he indulged in a furious onslaught on the
Lord Chancellor and the Wee Frees. Lord Halsbury he considered a poor,
benighted creature, who didn't know the difference between a Trades
Union and a body of Christians. "_If he ever comes to Shetland_," said
the minister, "_he had better bring his woolsack with him, for I won't
let him down soft!_" After Lord Halsbury had been adequately trounced,
the talk turned on notable things that had happened in the district
within the last decade or two. One of the tales (which was very
divertingly told) had to do with the trite subject of intemperance, but
as it contains one or two novel touches, I here briefly rehearse it.
An elder of the place, who, with his trap, had come to grief one market
night on the way back from Lerwick, told his session a strange tale to
account for the catastrophe. "When I got to Lerwick in the forenoon, I
said to the driver: 'Young man, if I mistake not, you have had no tip
from me for a long time.' 'That's very true, sir,' said he. 'Well,' said
I, 'there's half-a-crown; go and spend it judiciously.' During the day I
transacted business with various friends, omitting none of the usual
rites. About five o'clock my driver returned, and harnessed the horse
for the return journey. At first I thought he had brought his brother
with him, but, on rubbing my eyes, I found it was an optical delusion.
As I watched him narrowly, I saw the outlines of a bottle bulging out
from his buttoned coat, and distinctly heard, as he moved to and fro,
the gurgling sound of liquid in agitation. He was smiling in
self-approval, and when I reproved him for his slowness, he quoted
Habakkuk v. 5, 'Hurry no man's cattle,' adding that his authority was
the Revised Version. As we went rattling along the road, his tricks
were fantastic in the extreme. At a point about two miles from Lerwick,
I saw, a little in front of us, a tall individual enveloped in a long
waterproof, of which the collar was turned up to cover his ears. The
eyes of this person glowed like live coal as he peremptorily demanded a
lift. Not waiting for permission, he, with a sudden spring, vaulted on
the trap and squeezed himself between the driver and myself. The air
grew hot and close. The driver became ten times friskier than before. I
determined to unmask the unceremonious stranger, and, putting down my
hand, grasped him by the foot. He had no boots on, and what I seized was
a cloven hoof. I asked him there and then if he was Beelzebub. 'I am,'
said he, 'and clever and all as you are, it will take all your talents
to slip out of my clutches this night.' At this point there is a blank
in my souvenirs. I only remember sparks flying and the sensation of
falling down from my seat on to a steep embankment. On recovering
consciousness, I found myself lying on a crofter's bed, with aching
limbs. I told him the story of my escape, and he said, after hearing it:
'We live in troublous times, John, and the Arch-deceiver seems to be off
the chain. Watch and pray, or you may fall further next time.'"
"THAT HOLY MAN, NOAH."
Particular stories are suggested by the place where one first heard
them. This profound remark is worked out in detail by Sir William
Hamilton and Professor Sully. As I look at the map of the road I
traversed that day, I am reminded of certain anecdotes retailed by my
genial and reverend guide.
"After leaving college," said he, "I was appointed assistant to a worthy
D.D. who regarded the higher critics as a species of vermin. Hell with
him was not a mere unpleasant state passed in _this_ world, but an
actual raging bonfire specially prepared for everyone who could not
repeat the Shorter Catechism. The parishioners of this worthy man were,
in consequence, devoutly orthodox, and had, one and all, a keen nose for
bad doctrine. They did not like to be fobbed off with a sermon of the
spineless order; they liked bones, blood, and fire--not a mosaic of
cheery quotations from Tennyson about the larger hope and about worms
not being cloven in vain. They had also a great liking for the
patriarchs, especially Noah. By ill luck, I spoke one Sunday on the
patriarchs, and handled them pretty roughly. I felt that sacred
enthusiasm which every man feels in denouncing the sins of others. I
gave the Captain of the Ark a special lick of tar. This sermon caused a
mighty commotion in the district. I might as well have asserted that the
paraphrases were inspired, or that Sankey's hymns were canonical. I
could see that the elders began to look coldly upon me. In barn and byre
little groups discussed my preaching, and there was much wagging of the
head and shooting out of the lip. A deputation came out of a
potato-field to me one day as I was walking along the road, and the
leader, an old theological crofter, said bluntly: 'Your sermons are not
pleasing us, if you please, sir.' 'Is the doctrine bad?' I asked. 'Not
exactly that, but the folk say it's very unseemly.' 'What special sermon
do they object to?' 'They think you're not sound on that holy man,
Noah.' 'Do they go the length of saying Noah was perfect?' 'They don't
just go that length; but, while admitting Noah was human, they desire'
(here the old man raised his head, shut his eyes, and shouted) 'to hear
no more from a young inexperienced lad like you, a single word about the
patriarch's shortcomings. The man was a patriarch, and therefore a
saint. Talk about his virtues as much as you like, but don't fash about
his trespasses, there's a good boy, I speak as your friend.'"
FLADIBISTER.
When my friend had delivered himself of this story, he pointed with his
pipe to a little confused collection of low, thatched cottages which we
were rapidly approaching on the left, and, oblivious of Noah, went thus
musing on: "You are now in the charmed domain of Fladibisteria, of which
the core or citadel, as it were, is this village of Fladibister. This is
no settlement of Norsemen: no, this is a Celtic nook where second sight
and such witchcraft flourished not so many years ago. Did not the
minister once rebuke them for their spells and mystic whims by aptly
applying to them the words of St. Paul to the Galatians: '_Oh, foolish
Fladibisterians, who hath bewitched you?_' There is an atmosphere of
tranquillity and Arcadian peace swimming over Fladibister such as is
nowhere else to be found in Shetland. The young men of the place roam
far over the sea, as mariners and fishers; but like the exiled
Jacobite--
'Who sighed at Arno for his lovelier Tees,'
they never feel happy till they are back home here under the roofs of
thatch. And what a work their women folks make with them when they
return! What feasting and merrymaking! What screwing of fiddle-pegs,
nimble motion of elbows and long-sustained dancing and skipping. I don't
deny that there is clink of glasses, too, at times, to aid the passage
of the hours far past the noon of night."
CUNNINGSBURGH.
Cunningsburgh, the journey to which was shortened by these tales, is one
of those places you might pass through without being aware of it; that
is to say, there is no feature about it so startling or abrupt as to
impress itself at once on the attention. The district all round is well
tilled, and the houses bien and comfortable.
The minister of the place arrests the attention instantly. His genial
face and hearty handshake have a more Christianising effect on the soul
than a ton of sermons. I have never heard a more kindly voice or seen a
face in which tenderness, merriment, and intellectual keenness, were all
so harmoniously blended. He does not smoke himself, but has that wise
and wide perception of things which leads him to press those who are
anxious to smoke, but say they are not, to take out their pipes in his
drawing-room. It was easy to see the man he was, by a hasty look at his
book-shelves. All the philosophers were represented there, from Plato
to the present-day mystical Germans. Lang's _Odyssey_ was side by side
with the Icelandic sagas and the Song of the Niebelungs. I did not see
many books of Systematic Theology; but the Greek tragedians, the Sacred
Books of the East, German and French novels, had all a place in the
bookcase of this cosmopolitan clergyman of a remote Shetlandic parish.
"KEEPING OFF."
In secluded townships like Cunningsburgh where life's round has much of
the monotony of fashionable society, and involves a still recurring
succession of similar duties, the minister is indeed a power. If he is a
man of broad and enlightened mind, his influence for good is
incalculable. The Kirk-Session is a permanent Court of Justice, taking
cognisance of minor matters of morality, and enforcing its decisions by
religious sanctions. To be barred from participating in the communion
rites might not seem a very alarming punishment to the easy-going
Lowlander; but to a Shetland peasant, being _keepit off_, as it is
technically called, is a terrible and humiliating penalty. A crofter
came to the manse to complain about his wife's unruly and satirical
tongue. "But what can I do to her?" said the minister, "she's your wife,
and you must assert your authority." "I've tried everything," said the
man, "but she still continues to be a troubler in Israel." The minister
professed his inability to interfere. "I can do nothing at all," he
said. "Yes you can," said the crofter, with a wink and a fearful
whisper, "_You can keep her off!_"
THE INDIGNANT ELDER.
Since the Reformation the people have lived and thriven under the
jurisdiction of the Session. In the records of the Session one finds a
chronicle of the sins, eccentricities, and merriments of the people for
the last two or three centuries. Several incidents based on these
minutes will make what I say abundantly clear. The Quarrel of the Elder
and the Minister's Housekeeper, for example, convulsed a still remoter
parish in much the same overmastering way as the Dreyfus Trial agitated
Paris. Herodotus is the only author I can think of who could have done
justice to this northern _affaire_. Let me briefly summarise it. Between
the minister's garden and that of one of his elders ran what was termed
a hedge. The shrubs which formed the base of this hedge were so
ill-grown that the minister's fowls could easily go, clucking and
scraping, from one garden into the other. Evidence was given to prove
that the cabbages and pot-herbs in the elder's plot were torn and
spoiled in parts. Every morning he stood at a gap in the hedge and sang
aloud like a skipper in a storm or Achilles at the trench of the Greeks:
"I am being ruined and brought to poverty by the minister's hens." This
cry grated upon the ears of the manse housekeeper, who by and by thought
it her duty to go out and reason with the elder. "It's no' the
minister's hens ava that's to blame, it's the craws o' the firmament."
"It's the hens." "No, the craws." "Hens I declare!" "You're a _deceitful
impostor_!" said the housekeeper. Now, no self-respecting elder could
stand that. Boiling with wrath as he was, he remembered his
ecclesiastical status, merely remarking that there was work for the
Session at last. By nightfall he had been in every croft within the
Session's jurisdiction, laying off his tale in each, and as he got
practice and more vehemence with constant repetition, he attained
extreme fluency and impressiveness before the day was done. An
unspeakable joy came over the community at the prospect of a delicious
scandal. To avoid the breach being healed by an apology, many of the
crofters sought to envenom the quarrel by refusing to believe that the
elder was altogether right. "Crows," they said, "had been known to play
havoc with cabbage. Elders were but human, and so, hasty in laying
charges on insufficient evidence. The case was certainly one for the
Church courts. The housekeeper must have a good defence to make, and
would no doubt make it at the proper time and in the proper place. We
must hear both sides." One may see by this that the spirit which
animates a great nation (the desire, namely, to divert itself with the
contentions of those who come before the public eye), animates also the
smallest communities in the realm. The great passion-stirring process,
_Hens versus Crows_, lasted for some seven months. Over and over again
the hedge was examined. Now the elder thought he had the best of it,
only to be damped by a revulsion of feeling in favour of the
housekeeper. The finding of the Session was adverse to the lady. The
fact that she had practically called the elder a son of Belial could not
be got over. The minister, holding the scales of justice, was forced, in
spite of himself, to declare against her. Considering her position,
some mildness was shown in pronouncing her condemnation and the penalty.
Having regard to the dignity of the offended man, nothing less than the
sentence of _keeping off_ could meet the ends of ecclesiastical law. But
one "keeping off" was deemed adequate. The elder was avenged. At the
ensuing communion, he was seen to smile and rub his hands diabolically,
as he glanced towards the back of the church, where sat, outside the
pale of the privileged elect, the unhappy and vanquished housekeeper,
who had called him an impostor.
TORQUIL HALCROW.
Torquil Halcrow's case presents features of a different order. For some
reason a _fama_ spread abroad respecting him to the effect that his
language and demeanour left much to be desired, and that not even the
presence, or at least proximity, of women operated to mellow the
strength of his vocabulary. Nothing definite was openly formulated
against him, but Torquil became aware that in certain quarters his
reputation was being slowly undermined. It is precisely this vague kind
of aggression on a man's character that is the most difficult to combat.
He took the bull by the horns in a most heroic way. _He got up a public
testimonial to himself, and went round canvassing for signatures._ The
testimonial ran thus:--"We, the undersigned women of the parish, have
pleasure in bearing witness that we have known Torquil Halcrow for
twenty years, and never have we known him do an unseemly act or utter an
unworthy expression." Thereafter followed a list of forty names.
Furnished with this document, he strode up to the manse, fluttered it in
the minister's face with a gesture of triumph, laid it down on the study
table, then turned on his heel and walked away. The minister, when he
examined the paper minutely, found that Torquil, in the belief that the
heading of the testimonial was not sufficiently strong, had added this
further clause in his own handwriting: "_but many a precious word of
truth and gracious spiritual comfort have we heard proceeding from his
lips_."
I have already referred to the beautiful and pathetic saying of Mr.
Barrie that every window-blind is the curtain of a tragedy. I thought of
that dictum as the minister of Cunningsburgh pointed to one cot after
another in the neighbourhood, and narrated the calamities that had
fallen upon them within recent years. Here, an old widow was mourning
the loss of a son who had gone to the deep-sea fishing and would never
return: his bright young life had been swallowed up in the insatiable
ocean, and she was left lamenting in her indigence. There, it was a
father who had been engulfed in the roost; or again, the illness of a
mother had cast a blight for years upon this other household. Sometimes
I have seen two old people, all their sons dead, living a kind of
stupefied half-life, automatically moving about, poor and wretchedly
clad, unable to understand anything except the welcome heat of the sun
and the animal comfort of a little food. There are many sad things in
this world: none is more sad than the sight of two old people outliving
their progeny and wandering about in decrepit second childhood with no
more substance than a dream. The sea is mainly answerable for the great
and deep tragedies of the Shetlands: it is like a pitiless monster,
howling in anger at their doors and claiming its yearly prey. No native
writer has as yet attempted to make vocal for us the immense dumb
sorrows of these fisher folks in the way Loti has done for the seafarers
of Brittany.
PHILOLOGY.
Jakobsen, the Danish philologist, spent some years recently in
collecting the remains of the old Norwegian speech that still linger in
the conversation and the place-names of the islanders. Perhaps the most
interesting point brought out by Jakobsen is the prevalence in
comparatively recent times of lucky words, which the fishermen used when
at the deep-sea fishing, and only then. This practice is undoubtedly a
relic of pagan ages when the sea-depths were regarded as the dominion of
dread water spirits, who keenly watched those who intruded in their
realms. The strange feature about this deep-sea speech is that its
expressions were purely Norse, whereas the home idiom of the fishers was
overwhelmingly English. The pagan beliefs respecting the hostile powers
of the sea found expression in old words handed down from a
pre-Christian epoch. These old words may have been originally liturgical
or worship words, for the sea was an object of veneration and awe to the
Norsemen who, in the conquering days, made their home on its angry
waters. It was believed that the jealous powers of the ocean were
vehemently hostile to Christianity, and hence the Shetland fishers, up
till quite recently, carefully avoided any direct mention of _church_
or _minister_ when on the water: the _haaf_ or lucky words being
respectively _benihoose_ (prayer-house) and _upstander_. Even the
domestic animals had special _haaf_ appellations. This conception of the
sea as filled with weird mysterious beings of unspeakable malignity,
ever ready to whelm the boat of an unwary intruder, carries the mind
back to the old alliterative lay of _Beowulf_, the contest of that hero
with the wallowing ocean-monsters, and the grim subterranean glow in the
sea-home of Grendel's mother. The Shetlanders have only too much reason
to brood over the cruelty of the sea. On July 20, 1881, during a
terrific squall, sixty-three breadwinners were engulfed in the thwarting
currents of the Sound of Yell.
A SANDWICK GENTLEMAN.
During all the foregoing discussion in the Cunningsburgh manse and
garden, our driver had been wondering what subjects of talk could
possibly be keeping us from continuing our journey to Sandwick. The two
ministers--the original one and the Cunningsburgh man also--at length
mounted the trap with me, and we all went joyfully on the final lap. The
object of the journey was to visit Mr. Sinclair of Sandwick, a gentleman
well worth going fifty miles to see. Mr. Sinclair has many qualities
that make a man notorious. He went to Australia in an emigrant ship many
years ago, and wrote a book upon it, in which he playfully remarks that
he got the full value of his passage money, inasmuch as there was a
birth, a death, and a suicide, between Plymouth and Melbourne. Another
of his distinctions is great dexterity in playing the violin, his
favourite pieces being "The Scalloway Lasses" and "The Auld Wife ayont
the Fire." The title of the last-named piece rather staggered me, until
I was informed by one of the ministers, who is a scholar and an
antiquarian, that it relates to a time when the fire was in the middle
of the room and when the smoke escaped by a hole in the roof, or in
default of that, by the door. Mr. Sinclair rendered these pieces with
infinite gusto, and, like all true artists, got as much pleasure as he
gave. He had also the most diverting way of ejaculating the word _hooch_
I have ever heard in my journey through life. It gives me pleasure to
add that he wrote a poem on fifty whales that were driven from the sea
by the local fishermen into Sandwick Bay. These whales were all
beautifully cooped in the narrow inlet and stranded on the beach, when
lo! the local landowners, citing some old statute, claimed from the
fishermen a share of the spoil. Mr. Sinclair, indignant and astute at
once, took upon himself the championship of the fishermen, and managed
matters so admirably that the lords of the soil were completely worsted
in the Edinburgh law-courts. Flushed with such signal success, he put
the whole story into metre. A printed and framed copy of the poem hangs
in a conspicuous place in his sitting-room. At our special request, he
favoured us by singing the impassioned stanzas. It was a unique treat to
hear him do so. There he was in the centre of the room holding the
framed verses in his hand, gazing fondly thereat even as a mother
regards her child. When the chorus came on, he laid down the poem, and
lifted up his voice with glorious enthusiastic force. Inspiration was in
his eye, his grey locks became dishevelled, his arms swung rhythmically
to the beat of the melody. The entire interview was intense: it was one
crowded hour, of which time is unable to cancel the memory.
LOCAL TALES.
The evening was a glorious one, and we _walked_ back some miles of the
way. The Cunningsburgh minister was full of stories. He alluded
laughingly to one of his flock who, when under the influence of drink,
was powerful in prayer. "_When he gets a dram he goes to his knees at
once._" The anecdote seemed to me to run counter to the views of the
hymnologist who says "Satan trembles when he sees, the weakest saint
upon his knees." Another of his stories had reference to two old
crofters, both over eighty, who began one evening to talk of the follies
of the young fisher-lads when they took to dram-drinking. One of the two
remarked: "I wonder now what folly we two old men would commit if we
chanced to get intoxicated, say at a funeral." "Well," said the other
hoary-headed and infirm octogenarian, "I have no idea what you would do,
but I am certain of this, that if I ever got the least bit touched, I
would go and make love to the lasses at once." Thereupon the two feeble
old fellows skirled a wicked laugh, and nearly gasped out their slim
residue of life in unseemly merriment.
Both ministers assured me that the belief in fairies still lingers on
among the Shetland peasantry. Up on the hill-side the trow is supposed
to wander about, and the little fellow can be seen skipping on the
moon-light sward, by all who have eyes and the necessary faith. It is
believed that he haunts the road-side even when the moon is not shining:
consequently, when the crofters have to go out of doors at night, they
protect themselves from his spells by carrying with them a blazing peat
gripped with tongs. This smokes and sparkles in the darkness and the
trow does not like it. It is easy for the electric-lighted citizens of
Glasgow and Edinburgh to laugh at the simple folk-lore of fisher and
crofter; but no one, however learned and sceptical, can quite escape
from the mystic influence of fairy-lore if he lives through a winter
among believing dalesmen. Let him look on the long silvery glimmer of a
sea-voe, and hear the natives tell of trows chasing the ebbing Neptune
down there on the dim sea-strand in a night of haze, before he says
(with Theseus, in the _Midsummer Night's Dream_):
"I never may believe
These antick fables, nor those fairy toys."
To the ear and eye of the philological Jakobsen, the Shetlanders both in
speech and looks are remarkably like the Norwegians of the Saettersdal.
In that part of Norway the trow is also a very popular terror. Children
of a disobedient and obstreperous turn are afraid to venture near a wood
at nightfall for fear of a little bogie with a red cap, who may suddenly
slide down a pine-tree and snatch them off.
FOULAH AND FAIR ISLE.
I do not altogether envy the candidate for parliamentary honours who has
to _nurse_ a remote insular constituency like Orkney and Shetland. I met
Mr. Cathcart Wason in Lerwick, and learned that he had been going the
round of the islands and had even paid a visit to the isolated and
mountainous rock of Foulah. Now this was a very daring feat indeed, for
I have heard of a young man who went once to visit his friends there and
was kept a prisoner for five months owing to the squalls. The papers
complimented Mr. Wason on his intrepidity: he went over from Walls in a
smack, and did not make his address too lengthy, for fear the weather
might change and Westminster be deprived of his eloquence for a space.
Mr. Wason is a very tall gentleman, but in Foulah he met his peers in
point of stature. The islanders are a fine set of men, hardy and godly.
They are adroit fowlers and nimble cragsmen. It gives one a queer
sensation to hear that the face of their sheer precipices used to be
(like level land elsewhere) apportioned equitably among the various
families. If A did not wish to catch birds on his aerial lot, he could
let it to B and claim a certain percentage of the spoil. The population
of the island is about 250: owing probably to intermarriage, there are
many childless homes.
I do not know if Mr. Wason has ever been to the Fair Isle, but I
understand an Ex-Moderator of the Church of Scotland visited the little
community there in 1903. There are two ways of getting to this islet:
(1) by means of a sailing boat which leaves Grutness for Fair Isle once
a fortnight with the mails; if the weather is bad, this mode of
communication is suspended, as in winter no sane man would venture
through the roost in such a boat; (2) by taking a passage on board the
S.S. _Pole Star_, which calls on the first of every month with stores
for the lighthouse. She is a strong, swift boat, and makes the journey
from Stromness, seventy miles away. I may remark that a lecturer wishing
to speak in the Fair Isle need not trouble himself about placards or
handbills: the whole population will be on the shore to welcome him when
he lands, and he could conveniently intimate his subject then, if he has
any breath left in his body. The Fair Isle possesses a church organ and
a non-surpliced choir. The islanders have a great appetite for sermons,
as the following story, told by Mr. Russell, amply proves. "The minister
of Dunrossness went one summer to dispense the communion in the Fair
Isle, and a storm came on which detained him there for about eight days.
The weather also prevented the boats from going to the fishing. As the
people had no pressing work to do at the time, and as it was only on
rare occasions that they enjoyed the presence of the parish minister,
they were anxious to avail themselves of his services while he was among
them. _Accordingly, at their desire, he preached every day during his
stay. In all, he preached thirteen times._ He had taken the precaution
of bringing a good stock of sermons with him. Before this was exhausted,
the weather providentially improved, so that he was able to get
home."[26]
The cherished legends of one's youth get sorely demolished in the course
of travel and investigation. The school-books used to say that the
Shetlanders were taught to knit by Spanish women saved from the wreck of
the Armada. The islanders stoutly deny any indebtedness, and declare
that there never was the slightest friendship between their ancestors
and the crews of King Philip's galleons.
[26] The prayers of as many righteous men as possible are
requested for the inspectors of schools who have to examine and
report on the state of education in the Orkneys and Shetlands. I
had the pleasure of conversing with one of these hard-worked
officials in November, 1906. He spoke very warmly of the improved
educational benefit of the libraries that have been sent from
Paisley to the isles and skerries. This gentleman inspects the
Fair Isle school once every two years. On the occasion of his
last visit, he was rowed from Lerwick in a "sixern," and had a
most tempestuous time going through the _roost_. Two of his
oarsmen sickened, and were helpless. On getting ashore at last,
he forgot all his sorrows and soaking, when he heard heartsome
strains of welcome being played on the _insular pianola_.
THE FISHING SEASON.
To Lerwick, during the fishing season, thousands of women come from the
island of Lewis to gut the myriad herring that are daily brought into
the bay. There is an extemporised town for the strangers on the
outskirts, over which float many odours, weird, pungent, and unsavoury.
All the processes of gutting, curing, and kippering go on in grand
style. The women, clad in a kind of oilskin, handle their dangerous
implements in most dexterous fashion. It is a horrid business, but well
paid. Prolific Nature is never tired supplying these women with work,
for as many as 68,000 eggs have been found in the roe of one female
herring. My friend, Mr. M'Kenzie of Ullapool, who is in the service of
the Fishery Board, took me to see the official examination of several
hundred barrels of fish, preparatory to the branding thereon of the
official stamp. The owners pay for this examination, but the additional
value given to each barrel by the Government mark far surpasses the fee
exacted by the Board. The branding-officer selects at random a barrel
here and there, extracts some dozen fish from each, and satisfies
himself as to the size and quality. If the herring are puny or of
inferior sort, the officer refuses to brand, and the examination fee is
refunded. Mr. M'Kenzie remarked that this was the only case in which he
had ever seen men reluctant to receive money. I followed that gentleman
as he walked over the long lines of slippery herring barrels, lying in
horizontal juxtaposition, and I cannot recommend the exercise to those
who have had no training in gymnastics.
The great success of the Shetland fisheries during the last year or two
has brought to Lerwick a palpable increase of business and droves of
business men. In the Grand Hotel there were, in August last, thirty
gentlemen resident who were in some way brought thither by the traffic
in herring--among the number a young Russian, who, with his wife, sat at
a little table apart, and kept jabbering their language with glib
expressiveness. His name was Walk-off, and his object was the
annexation of fish for Muscovite consumption. He had a flabby face and
long, dark hair, which he publicly combed. _She_ was small and
pretty--doll-like, indeed--with jewels in her ears, which glittered and
flashed in the gas-light. She was a very loquacious wee creature, and
her intonation reminded me of the caressing way the Swedes articulate
English. I heard him read the Russian newspapers to her with evident
emotion, but the only word I could make out was _Kouropatkin_. The
herring-agents at the hotel table were full of drollery. One of them,
hailing from Wick, addressed a neighbour abruptly to this effect: "I am
a rather expensive man to sit beside, and to one like you especially so,
for you seem to be a water-drinker. When I tell you who I am, however,
you will insist on standing me a bottle of champagne." He was frigidly
asked to state his grounds for such a preposterous expectation. "Prepare
to gasp," he replied; "you see before you one who is a model and a
beacon to all the men of Caithness. I am the sire of nine sturdy sons,
and _they have only three birth-days among them_, seeing that they came
into this vale of tears three at a time."