Rain is not to be heeded in the Highlands. It is the picturesque part
of the weather here. The air grows fresher and sweeter in a shower,
a richer fragrance comes out in the woods, and the true gloom and
grandeur of the mountains can only be seen when the grey rain-veils
are darkening and glittering among their glens. Even into the house
steals the reviving freshness of the rain. The scent of the wet
sweetbrier budding in the garden hedge enters at the open window; from
the larch-wood near, the grateful thrushes can be heard sending forth
more liquid trillings; and the daffodils, hung like yellow jewels along
the lawn, appear fairer and brighter amid the shower. But better than
wasting the day indoors it is to sally forth, strong-booted and roughly
clad, breathe the freshness of the cool, new air, and start, staff in
hand, for the hills themselves. It is worth while to defy the rain,
for the road lies through woods dewy and dim as Keats dreamed for his
“Endymion.” In their deep-secluded ways sometimes may be seen the timid
roedeer, and on the fragrant air be heard the amorous crooning of wild
doves.
In another month the quiet dells among these woods will be purple with
dewy hyacinths, and many a sequestered nook will be dim with the blue
forget-me-not. Already the open meads are sprinkled with patins of
buttercup-gold, and a modest spot of cream here and there, under some
mossy bank, betrays a late primrose. As yet, however, the delicate
broidery of summer has not carpeted the forest floors. Under the dark,
low-hanging branches of the spruce-firs--made a richer green by the
rain--there is only a russet wealth of withered fern, with a warm depth
of shadow such as Rembrandt loved to paint. Looking over a mossy old
bridge parapet into the ferny dingle below, one can see the feathery
grey larches powdered with sweet pink blossom, whose beauty few people
know; and lower down, by the burn, the alders putting forth silky
silver bud-tips--the “mouse’s ear,” which is the angler’s sign that
perch are to be caught. In open spaces where some forest-clearing has
been done, the few silver-barked birches left standing begin to show a
smir of green, their graceful drooping branches looking like trailing
sprays of delicate maidenhair; whilst here and there a spot is lit up
by the golden glory of the whin.
The woods at this time of the year are full of life, for the cruel
gun is silent, and many a happy home of bird and beast is hidden in
the tangled undergrowth. In the elm-tops about the lodge behind by
the river the rooks are giving each other much grandmotherly advice
as to the rearing of broods. The cock pheasant’s crow is to be heard
frequently in the covers, and sometimes, from his open feeding-ground
beside the path, a splendid bird rises suddenly with whirring wings,
and sails royally away to more secluded fastnesses. Among the
thick-leaved tangle of wild rhododendron on either hand blackbirds are
fluttering joyously about their nests. Overhead, occasionally, passes
the heavy, rushing flight of a wild pigeon. And more than once across a
gleam of sunshine on the path runs a red squirrel, like a bit of living
gold.
And while one treads on the brown, fallen needles of spruce and larch,
the subtle forest scents fill the heart with many pleasant memories.
Never are these forest scents richer than when brought out by a
shower, and it is curious how vividly some faint perfume drifting on
the air will recall the happy scenes of other days, memories that are
themselves the pensive fragrance of old age.
Through these ducal woods, and amid such pleasant sights and sounds,
some seventy years ago wandered the “Wizard of the North,” gathering
material for his work. Fairer scenes a poet could not have chosen to
gather inspiration from. Everyone may feel the eloquence of those
northern hills in front, as everyone may enjoy the fragrance of the
meadow violets: it needed a poet, however, to turn into speech the
eloquence of the hills, as it needs a bee to turn into honey the
fragrance of the flowers. Hither, therefore, fitly came Scott to his
work; and over clachan and mountain alike he has woven the golden net
of romance.
One may wander for miles through these woods and out beyond upon the
old Highland road, with its low, mossy dykes, without meeting a single
wayfarer. Only Nature herself, with gentle and sweet suggestion, speaks
to him of the past or of the future. For the touch of the fresh cool
air upon the face clears away all cobwebs of sordid thought, and
braces the faculties for new endeavour. Here, too, may be witnessed
many a matchless transformation scene. For presently the rain ceases,
the grey mist melts into the lucent blue of the sky, and wet hill and
woodland sparkle and glow in a flood of hot sunshine. Immediately
the shallow trout burn that comes down to the stepping-stones under
the edge of the wood laughs gaily and dances over its pebbles; the
mountain in front becomes a great sapphire burning gloriously under
the blue; the larks rise, true sun-worshippers, pouring forth rills
of song, libations to their God, at heaven’s own gate; and from the
twittering coppice flutter the vain chaffinches, with purple velvet
heads, gold breasts, and silver-barred wings, to show themselves.
Never do the vaunted birds of the tropics sing so joyously as the
sweet hedge-warblers of Britain; and, ages before the alchemists
came, thrush and robin and yellowhammer had found out Nature’s own
philosopher’s-stone, and sang the praises of that sunshine which, like
love and like human genius, turns all it touches into gold.
Steep as a wall in front rises the mountain barrier of the Highlands,
its wooded and inaccessible shoulder projecting far into the loch.
Only one passage is to be found through that rocky wall, and the road
to it winds perilously round a little bay, between darkening precipice
and lapping wave, before ascending the narrow and unseen defile. Daring
would the assailant be who tried that steep and narrow path with a
Highland foe above him! Scarcely more than a bridle-path, and steep as
a staircase, it winds upward between rugged mountain walls. A single
clansman, posted with gun and claymore behind one of its jutting crags,
might hold the road against a regiment. High and dark overhead against
the sky rise sombre pines and immemorial holly-trees, which from their
torn and shattered girth might be--
Seedlings of those that heavenward sprung
While yet the maiden moon was young
--ancient enough, at anyrate, to have looked down on many a Highland
foray. No one need marvel that the Macgregors thought themselves safe
when they had driven their spoil through the Pass of Balmaha.
And glorious as well as welcome was the sight that met these clansmen
when once actually through the defile. For away to the north, Ben
beyond Ben, far as eye could range, rose the fastnesses of their native
mountains--silver waters flashing below round islands of fern, and the
blue sky laughing above. Every glen had its memory, and every corrie
was their inheritance, and even the traveller of the present day can
know no more gorgeous spectacle than Ben Lomond after sunset burning
in amethystine fire. For more reasons than one, therefore, might these
rough old warriors rejoice when they had scaled the pass and beheld
before them this wild but lovely vista of the country they called their
home.