After King William had defeated the Highland Clans, he gave the
Highland Chiefs a year and a half to make their submission to his
officers, and all had done this except MacDonald of Glencoe, whose
Chief--MacIan--had delayed his submission to the last possible day.
He then went to Fort William to tender his Oath of Allegiance to the
King's Officer there, who unfortunately had no power to receive it,
but he gave him a letter to Sir Colin Campbell, who was at Inverary,
asking him to administer the Oath to MacIan. The aged Chief hastened
to Inverary, but the roads were bad and almost impassable owing to a
heavy fall of snow, so that the first day of January, 1692, had
passed before he could get there; Campbell administered the Oath and
MacIan returned to Glencoe thinking that all was now right. But a
plot was made against him by the Campbells, whose flocks and herds,
it was said, the MacDonalds had often raided, and it was decided to
punish MacIan and to exterminate his clan; and a company of the Earl
of Argyle's regiment, commanded by Captain Campbell of Glenlyon, was
sent to Glen Coe to await orders. MacIan's sons heard that the
soldiers were coming, and thought that they were coming to disarm
them, so they removed their arms to a place of safety, and, with a
body of men, they went to meet the soldiers to ask if they were
coming as friends or foes. They assured them that they were coming as
friends and wished to stay with them for a short time, as there was
no room for them, for the garrison buildings at Fort William were
already full of soldiers. Alaster MacDonald, one of MacIan's sons,
had married a niece of Glenlyon's, so that the soldiers were
cordially received and treated with every possible hospitality by
MacIan and his Clan, with whom they remained for about a fortnight.
Then Glenlyon received a letter from Duncanson, his commanding
officer, informing him that all the MacDonalds under seventy years of
age must be killed, and that the Government was not to be troubled
with prisoners. Glenlyon lost no time in carrying out his orders. He
took his morning's draught as usual at the house of MacIan's son, who
had married his niece, and he and two of his officers accepted an
invitation to dinner from MacIan, whom, as well as the whole clan, he
was about to slaughter. At four o'clock the next morning, February
13, 1692, the massacre was begun by a party of soldiers, who knocked
at MacIan's door and were at once admitted. Lindsay, who was one of
the officers who had accepted his invitation to dinner, commanded the
party, and shot MacIan dead at his own bedside while he was dressing
himself and giving orders for refreshments to be provided for his
visitors. His aged wife was stripped by the savage soldiers, who
pulled off the gold rings from her fingers with their teeth, and she
died next day from grief and the brutal treatment she had received.
The two sons had had their suspicions aroused, but these had been
allayed by Glenlyon. However, an old servant woke them and told them
to flee for their lives as their father had been murdered, and as
they escaped they heard the shouts of the murderers, the firing of
muskets, the screams of the wounded, and the groans of the dying
rising from the village, and it was only their intimate knowledge of
the almost inaccessible cliffs that enabled them to escape. At the
house where Glenlyon lodged, he had nine men bound and shot like
felons. A fine youth of twenty years of age was spared for a time,
but one, Captain Drummond, ordered him to be put to death; and a boy
of five or six, who had clung to Glenlyon's knees entreating for
mercy and offering to become his servant for life if he would spare
him, and who had moved Glenlyon to pity, was stabbed by Drummond with
a dirk while he was in the agony of supplication. Barber, a
sergeant, with some soldiers, fired on a group of nine MacDonalds
who were round their morning fire, and killed four of them, and one
of them, who escaped into a house, expressed a wish to die in the
open air rather than inside the house, "For your bread, which I have
eaten," said Barber, "I will grant the request." Macdonald was
accordingly dragged to the door, but he was an active man and, when
the soldiers presented their firelocks to shoot him, he cast his
plaid over their eyes and, taking advantage of their confusion and
the darkness, he escaped up the glen. Some old persons were also
killed, one of them eighty years of age; and others, with women and
children who had escaped from the carnage half clad, were starved and
frozen to death on the snow-clad hills whither they had fled.
The winter wind that whistled shrill,
The snows that night that cloaked the hill,
Though wild and pitiless, had still
Far more than Southern clemency.
It was thrilling to read the account of the fight between the two Clans,
Mackenzie and MacDonnell, which the Mackenzies won. When the MacDonnells
were retreating they had to cross a river, and those who missed the ford
were either drowned or killed. A young and powerful chief of the
MacDonnells in his flight made towards a spot where the burn rushed
through a yawning chasm, very wide and deep, and was closely followed by
one of the victorious Mackenzies; but MacDonnell, forgetting the danger
of the attempt in the hurry of his flight and the agitation of the
moment, and being of an athletic frame and half naked, made a desperate
leap, and succeeded in clearing the rushing waters below.
Mackenzie inconsiderately followed him, but, not having the impulse of
the powerful feelings that had animated MacDonnell, he did not reach the
top of the opposite bank, succeeding only in grasping the branch of a
birch tree, where he hung suspended over the abyss. Macdonnell, finding
he was not being followed, returned to the edge of the chasm, and,
seeing Mackenzie's situation, took out his dirk, and as he cut off the
branch from the tree he said, "I have left much behind me with you
to-day; take that also," and so Mackenzie perished.
There was another incident of Highland ferocity that attracted us
powerfully, and read as follows: "Sir Ewen encountered a very powerful
English officer, an over-match for him in strength, who, losing his
sword, grappled with the chief, and got him under; but Lochiel's
presence of mind did not forsake him, for grasping the Englishman by the
collar and darting at his extended throat with his teeth, he tore away
the bloody morsel, which he used to say was the sweetest morsel he had
ever tasted."
We felt that the people hereabouts were still of another nation. The
descendants of Prince Charlie's faithful adherents still clung to their
ancient religion, and they preserved many of their old customs and
traditions in spite of the changes in outlook which trade and the great
canal had brought about.
It was therefore not to be wondered at that, after impressing our
memories with these and other fearful stories and eating the heavy
supper provided for us by our landlady, our dreams that night rather
disturbed our slumbers.
[Illustration: SCENE OF THE MASSACRE OF GLENCOE. "Especially
interesting to us was the account of the cruel massacre of Glencoe. Here
was enacted one of the blackest crimes in the annals of Scottish
history."]
Personally I was in the middle of a long journey, engaged in
disagreeable adventures in which I was placed at a considerable
disadvantage, as I was walking without my boots, when I was relieved
from an unpleasant position by the announcement that it was six o'clock
and that our boots had arrived according to promise.
(_Distance walked nine miles_.)
_Friday, September 29th._
There was a delightful uncertainty about our journey, for everything we
saw was new to us, and we were able to enjoy to the fullest extent the
magnificent mountain and loch scenery in the Highlands of Scotland, with
which we were greatly impressed. It was seven o'clock in the morning, of
what, fortunately for us, proved to be a fine day, as we left Fort
William, and after coming to the end of the one street which formed the
town we reached a junction of roads, where it was necessary to inquire
the way to Glencoe. We asked a youth who was standing at the door of a
house, but he did not know, so went into the house to inquire, and came
out with the information that we could get there either way. We had
already walked along the full length of Loch Ness, Loch Oich, and Loch
Lochy, so we decided to walk alongside Loch Linnhe, especially as that
road had the best surface. So on we went at a quick pace, for the
half-day's holiday yesterday had resulted in renewed energy. We could
see the great mountains in front which we knew we must cross, and after
walking three and a half miles we met a pedestrian, who informed us that
we were on the right way, and must go on until we reached Ballachulish,
where we could cross the ferry to Glencoe.
This information rather troubled us, as we had determined to walk all
the way, so he advised us to go round the "Head of the Loch"--an
expression we often heard used in Scotland--and to make our way there
across the open country; in this case the loch was Loch Leven, so we
left the highway and Loch Linnhe and walked to a small farm we could see
in the distance. The mistress was the only person about, but she could
only speak Gaelic, and we were all greatly amused at our efforts to make
ourselves understood. Seeing some cows grazing quite near, my brother
took hold of a quart jug standing on a bench and, pointing to the cows,
made her understand that we wanted a quart of milk, which she handed to
us with a smile. We could not ask her the price, so we handed her
fourpence, the highest price we had known to have been paid for a quart
of the best milk at home, and with which she seemed greatly pleased.
We were just leaving the premises when the farmer came up, and he
fortunately could speak English. He told us he had seen us from a
distance, and had returned home, mistaking us for two men who
occasionally called upon him on business. He said we had gone "three
miles wrong," and took great pains to show us the right way. Taking us
through a fence, he pointed out in the distance a place where we should
have to cross the mountains. He also took us to a track leading off in
that direction, which we were to follow, and, leaving him, we went on
our way rejoicing. But this mountain track was a very curious one, as it
broke away in two or three directions and shortly disappeared. It was
unfenced on the moorland, and there were not enough people travelling
that way to make a well-defined path, each appearing to have travelled
as he pleased. We tried the same method, but only to find we had gone
out of the nearest way. We crossed several small burns filled with
delightfully clear water, and presently saw another house in the
distance, to which we now went, finding it to be the shepherd's house.
Here the loud and savage barking of a dog brought out the shepherd's
wife, who called the dog away from us, and the shepherd, who was having
his breakfast, also made his appearance. He directed us to a small
river, which he named in Gaelic, and pointed to a place where it could
easily be forded, warning us at the same time that the road over the
hills was not only dangerous, but difficult to find and extremely
lonely, and that the road to Glencoe was only a drovers' road, used for
driving cattle across the hills. We made the best of our way to the
place, but the stream had been swollen by the recent rains, and we
experienced considerable difficulty in crossing it. At length, after
sundry walkings backwards and forwards, stepping from one large stone to
another in the burn, we reached the opposite bank safely. The only
mishap, beyond getting over shoe-tops in the water, was the dropping of
one of our bags in the burn; but this we were fortunate enough to
recover before its contents were seriously damaged or the bag carried
away by the current.
[Illustration: THE PASS.]
We soon reached the road named by the shepherd, which was made of large
loose stones. But was it a road? Scotland can boast of many good roads,
and has material always at hand both for construction and repair; but
of all the roads we ever travelled on, this was the worst! Presently we
came to a lonely cottage, the last we were to see that day, and we
called to inquire the way, but no English was spoken there. This was
unfortunate, as we were in doubt as to which was our road, so we had to
find our way as best we could. Huge rocks and great mountains reared
their heads on all sides of us, including Ben Nevis, which we could
recognise owing to the snowy coverlet still covering his head. The
country became very desolate, with nothing to be seen but huge rocks,
inaccessible to all except the pedestrian. Hour after hour we toiled up
mountains--sometimes we thought we reached an elevation of two thousand
feet--and then we descended into a deep ravine near a small loch. Who
could forget a day's march like this, now soaring to an immense height
and presently appearing to descend into the very bowels of the earth! We
must have diverged somewhat from the road known as the "Devil's
Staircase," by repute the worst road in Britain, for the track we were
on was in one section like the bed of a mountain torrent and could not
have been used even by cattle. Late in the afternoon we reached the
proper track, and came up with several herds of bullocks, about three
hundred in number, all told, that were being driven over the mountains
to find a better home in England, which we ourselves hoped to do later.
[Illustration: IN GLENCOE.]
We were fortunate in meeting the owner, with whom we were delighted to
enter into conversation. When we told him of our adventures, he said we
must have missed our way, and congratulated us on having a fine day, as
many persons had lost their lives on those hills owing to the sudden
appearance of clouds. He said a heap of stones we passed marked the spot
where two young men had been found dead. They were attempting to descend
the "Devil's Stair," when the mist came on, and they wandered about in
the frost until, overcome by sleep, they lay down never to rise again in
this world.
He had never been in England, but had done business with many of the
nobility and gentlemen there, of whom several he named belonged to our
own county of Chester. He had heard that the bullocks he sold to them,
after feeding on the rich, pastures of England for a short time, grew to
a considerable size, which we thought was not to be wondered at,
considering the hardships these shaggy-looking creatures had to battle
with in the North. We got some information about our farther way, not
the least important being the fact that there was a good inn in the Pass
of Glencoe; and he advised us to push on, as the night would soon be
coming down.
[Illustration: THE PASS IN GLENCOE.]
At the close of day we could just see the outline of a deep, dark valley
which we knew was the Pass of Glencoe, with a good road, hundreds of
feet below. Acting on the advice of the drover, we left the road and
descended cautiously until we could go no farther in safety; then we
collected an enormous number of old roots, the remains of a forest of
birch trees which originally covered the mountain-side, and with some
dry heather lighted an enormous tire, taking care to keep it within
bounds. A small rill trickling down the mountain-side supplied us with
water, and, getting our apparatus to work and some provisions from our
bags, we sat down as happy as kings to partake of our frugal meal, to
the accompaniment of the "cup that cheers but not inebriates," waiting
for the rising of the full moon to light us on our farther way to the
road below. We were reclining amongst the heather, feeling thankful to
the Almighty that we had not shared the fate of the two young men whose
cairn we had seen on the hills above--an end we might easily have met,
given the weather of yesterday and similar conditions--when suddenly we
heard voices below us. Our fire now cast a glare around it, and
everything looked quite dark beyond its margin. Our feelings of surprise
increased as from the gloom emerged the gigantic figures of two stalwart
Highlanders. We thought of the massacre of Glencoe, for these men were
nearly double our size; and, like the Macdonalds, we wondered whether
they came as friends or foes, since we should have fared badly had it
been the latter. But they had been attracted by the light of our fire,
and only asked us if we had seen "the droves." We gave them all the
information we could, and then bidding us "good night" they quietly
departed.
[Illustration: "THE SISTERS," GLENCOE. "Here was wild solitude in
earnest.... The scene we looked upon was wild and rugged, as if
convulsed by some frightful cataclysm."]
The darkness of the night soon became modified by the reflected light
from the rising moon behind the great hills on the opposite side of the
glen. We extinguished the dying embers of our fire and watched the full
moon gradually appearing above the rocks, flooding with her glorious
light the surrounding scene, which was of the sublimest grandeur and
solitude.
[Illustration: THE RIVER COE, GLENCOE.]
Many descriptions of this famous glen have been written, and no one who
could see it under such favourable and extraordinary conditions as we
enjoyed that night would be disposed to dispute the general opinion of
its picturesque and majestic beauty. Surely Nature is here portrayed in
her mightiest form! How grand, and yet how solemn! See the huge masses
of rock rising precipitously on both sides of the glen and rearing their
rugged heads towards the very heavens! Here was wild solitude in
earnest, and not even the cry of the eagle which once, and even now, had
its abode in these vast mountain recesses broke the awful silence which
that night prevailed in the Pass, disturbed only by the slumberous
rippling of water. The scene we looked upon was wild and rugged, as if
convulsed by some frightful cataclysm, and we saw it under conditions in
which Nature conspired to enhance its awfulness--a sight which few
painters could imitate, few writers could graphically describe. The
infidel may deny the existence of the Creator of the universe, but there
was here sufficient to fill the soul with awe and wonder, and to
influence even the sceptic to render acknowledgment to the great God who
framed these majestic hills. The reflection of the moon on the hills was
marvellous, lighting up the white road at the upper end of the pass and
the hills opposite, and casting great black shadows elsewhere which made
the road appear as if to descend and vanish into Hades. We fancied as we
entered the pass that we were descending into an abyss from which it
would be impossible to extricate ourselves; but we were brought up sharp
in our thoughts, for when we reached the road it suddenly occurred to us
that we had forgotten to ask in which direction we had to turn for the
"Clachaig Inn" named by the drover.
We sat down by the roadside in the hope that some one would come from
whom we might obtain the information, and were just beginning to think
it was a forlorn hope when we heard the sound of horse's feet
approaching from the distance. Presently the rider appeared, who proved
to be a cattle-dealer, he told us he had some cattle out at the foot of
the glen, and said the inn was seven miles away in the direction in
which he was going. We asked him if he would kindly call there and tell
them that two travellers were coming who required lodgings for the
night. This he promised to do, and added that we should find the inn on
the left-hand side of the road. We then started on our seven-mile walk
down the Pass of Glencoe in the light of the full moon shining from a
clear sky, and in about an hour's time in the greatest solitude we were
almost startled by the sudden appearance of a house set back from the
left-hand side of the road with forms and tables spread out on the grass
in front. Could this be the inn? It was on the left-hand side, but we
could not yet have walked the distance named by the cattle-dealer; so we
knocked at the door, which was opened by a queer-looking old man, who
told us it was not the inn, but the shepherd's house, and that the forms
and tables in front were for the use of passengers by the coach, who
called there for milk and light refreshments. Then the mistress, who was
more weird-looking still, came forward, and down the passage we could
see other strange-looking people. The old lady insisted upon our coming
in, saying she would make us some porridge; but my brother, whose nerves
seemed slightly unstrung, thought that we might never come out of the
house again alive! We found, however, that the company improved on
closer acquaintance.
The meal was served in two deep bowls, and was so thick that when our
spoons were placed in it on end they stood upright without any further
support, so it was, as the Lancashire people describe it, proper "thick
porridge." We were unable to make much impression on it, as we had not
yet digested the repast we had enjoyed on the hills above, and the good
old lady added to our difficulties by bringing a plentiful supply of
milk. It was the first time we had tasted meal porridge in Scotland.
Needless to say, after paying our hostess for her hospitality, we were
allowed to depart in peace, nor were we molested during the remainder of
our romantic evening walk. After proceeding about two miles farther
amidst some of the most lonely and impressive scenery in the Highlands,
we arrived at the "Clachaig Inn." It was after closing-time, but as the
gentleman on horseback had delivered our message according to promise,
the people of the inn were awaiting our arrival. We received a friendly
welcome, and proceeded to satisfy what remained of a formerly voracious
appetite by a weak attack on the good things provided for supper, after
which, retiring to rest in the two beds reserved for us, we slept so
soundly that in the morning when roused by a six-o'clock call we could
not recall that our dreams had been disturbed even by the awful massacre
enacted at Glencoe, which place was now so near.
(_Distance walked thirty miles_.)
_Saturday, September 30th._
By seven o'clock a.m. we were again on the road bound for Inverary,
which place we were anxious to visit, as it had recently been the scene
of a royal wedding, that of the Princess Louise with the Marquis of
Lorne. The morning was beautifully fine, but there had been a frost
during the night and the grass on the sides of the road was quite white.
The sky was clear, not a cloud being visible as we resumed our walk down
the glen, and in about three miles we reached the village of Glencoe.
Here we heard blasting operations being carried on quite near our road,
and presently we reached the edge of the loch, where there was a pier
and a ferry. We now found that in directing us to Inverary our friends
at the inn had taken it for granted that we wished to go the nearest
way, which was across this ferry, and we were told there were others to
cross before reaching Inverary. We therefore replenished our stock of
provisions at the village shop and turned back up the glen, so that
after seeing it in the light of the full moon the night before we had
now the privilege of seeing it in the glorious sunshine. We walked on
until we got to the shepherd's house where we had been treated to such a
heavy repast of meal porridge the previous evening, and there we had a
substantial meal to fortify us for our farther journey. On our way up
the glen we had passed a small lake at the side of our road, and as
there was not sufficient wind to raise the least ripple on its surface
it formed a magnificent mirror to the mountains on both sides. Several
carts laden with wool had halted by the side of the lake and these also
were reflected on its surface. We considered the view pictured in this
lake to be one of the prettiest sights we had ever seen in the sunshine,
and the small streams flowing down the mountain sides looked very
beautiful, resembling streaks of silver. We compared the scene in
imagination with the changes two months hence, when the streams would be
lines of ice and the mountain roads covered with a surface of frozen
snow, making them difficult to find and to walk upon, and rendering
travelling far less pleasant than on this beautiful morning. We often
thought that we should not have completed our walk if we had undertaken
it at the same period of the year but in the reverse direction, since we
were walking far too late in the season for a journey of this
description. We considered ourselves very fortunate in walking from John
o' Groat's to Land's End, instead of from Land's End to John o' Groat's,
for by the time we finished deep snow might have covered these Northern
altitudes. How those poor women and children must have suffered at the
time of the massacre of Glencoe, when, as Sir Walter Scott writes--
flying from their burning huts, and from their murderous visitors,
the half-naked fugitives committed themselves to a winter morning of
darkness, snow, and storm, amidst a wilderness the most savage in the
Western Highlands, having a bloody death behind them, and before them
tempest, famine, and desolation when some of them, bewildered by the
snow-wreaths, sank in them to rise no more!
[Illustration: BRIDGE OF ORCHY.]
They were doubtless ignorant of the danger they were in, even as they
escaped up the glen, practically the only way of escape from Glencoe,
for Duncanson had arranged for four hundred soldiers to be at the top
end of the pass at four o'clock that morning, the hour at which the
massacre was to begin at the other end. Owing to the heavy fall of snow,
however, the soldiers did not arrive until eleven o'clock in the
forenoon--long after the fugitives had reached places of safety.
Like many other travellers before us, we could not resist passing a
bitter malediction on the perpetrators of this cruel wrong, although
they had long since gone to their reward. And yet we are told that it
hastened that amalgamation of the two kingdoms which has been productive
of so much good.
We had our breakfast or lunch served on one of the tables ranged outside
the front of the shepherd's house, and in quite a romantic spot, whence
we walked on to a place which had figured on mileposts for a long
distance named "Kingshouse." Here we expected to find a village, but as
far as we could see there was only one fairly large house there, and
that an inn. What king it was named after did not appear, but there was
no other house in sight. Soon after passing it we again came in contact
with the master cattle-drover we had interviewed the day before, who
told us that he had brought his bullocks from the Isle of Skye, from
which place they had to travel seventy-one miles. We also passed several
other droves, some of which we might have seen previously, and by
nightfall came to Inveroran. Here we saw a comfortable inn which would
have just suited us, but as there was no church there and the next day
was Sunday, we decided to walk to the next village, about three miles
farther on, where we were informed there was a church, and a drover's
house quite near it where we could get lodgings. By this time it was
quite dark, and we passed Loch Tulla without either seeing it or knowing
it was there, and arriving at the Bridge of Orchy we found the drover's
house near the church. To our great disappointment the accommodation had
all been taken up, and the only place that the lady of the house knew of
in the direction we were going was a farmhouse about four miles away,
where she said, with a tone of doubt in her voice, "we might get in!" We
crossed the bridge and passed over the River Orchy, which connected Loch
Tulla with Loch Awe, some sixteen miles distant.
Fortunately for us the moon now rose, though obscured by great black
clouds, which we could see meant mischief, probably to make us pay
dearly for the lovely weather during the day. But luckily there was
sufficient light to enable us to see the many burns that crossed the
surface of the road, otherwise it would have been impossible for us to
have found our way. The streams were very numerous, and ran into the
river which flowed alongside our road, from among some great hills the
outlines of which we could see dimly to the left. We were tired, and the
miles seemed very long, but the excitement of crossing the rushing
waters of the burns and the noise of the river close by kept us awake.
We began to think we should never reach that farmhouse, and that we had
either missed our way or had been misinformed, when at length we reached
the desired haven at a point where a gate guarded the entrance to the
moor. All was in darkness, but we went to the house and knocked at the
front door. There was no response, so we tried the shutters that
barricaded the lower windows, our knocks disturbing the dogs at the back
of the house, which began to bark and assisted us to waken the
occupants. Presently we heard a sleepy voice behind the shutters, and my
brother explained the object of our visit in a fine flow of language
(for he was quite an orator), including references, as usual, to our
"walking expedition," a favourite phrase of his. As the vehement words
from within sounded more like Gaelic than English, I gathered that his
application for lodgings had not been successful. Tired as I was, I
could not help laughing at the storm we had created, in which the
"walking expedition" man heartily joined. But what were we to do? Here
we were on a stormy night, ten miles from the inn at Dalmally, which for
aught we knew might be the next house, hungry and tired, cold and wet;
and having covered thirty miles that day and thirty miles the day
before, how could we walk a further ten miles? Our track was unfenced
and bounded by the river on one side and the moors on the other, but
presently we came to a place where the surface of the moor rose sharply
and for some distance overhung the road, forming a kind of a cove. Here
we gathered, some of the dry heather that extended under that which
ornamented the sides of the cove, made quite a respectable fire, and ate
our last morsel of food, with which unluckily we were poorly provided.
To add to our misfortune, the wind grew into a hurricane and whirled the
smoke in every direction, forcing us at last to beat a hasty retreat.
We now faced the prospect of a night on the moors, and resolved to crawl
along at a sufficient speed to keep up our circulation, stopping at the
first house we came to. Here again the subdued light from the moon
proved useful, for we had not gone very far before we saw what appeared
to be a small house on the moor about a hundred yards away. We
approached it very cautiously, and found it was a small hut. How glad we
were to see that hut! We struck a light, and at once began an
exploration of the interior, which we found contained a form, a rustic
table reared against the wall, and, better than all, a fireplace with a
chimney above it about a yard high; the door was lying loose outside the
hovel. It may have been a retreat for keepers, though more likely a
shelter for men who had once been employed on the land, for attached to
it was a small patch of land fenced in which looked as though it had
been cultivated. With a few sticks which we found in one corner and a
handful of hay gathered from the floor we lighted a fire, for we were
now becoming experts in such matters; but the smoke seemed undecided
which way it should go, for at one minute it went up the chimney, at
another it came down. We went outside and altered the chimney a little,
for it was only formed of loose stones, and thus effected an improvement
for a time. The door gave us the most trouble, since being loose we had
the greatest difficulty in keeping it in its proper position, for the
wind was now blowing hard--so much so that we thought at times that the
hut itself would be blown over. At last a tremendous gust came, and down
went the chimney altogether. The fire and smoke now made towards the
doorway, so that we had frequently to step outside in order to get a
breath of fresh air. We tried to build the chimney up again, but this
was impossible owing to the velocity of the wind and rain and the
exposed situation. Our slender supply of fuel was nearly exhausted,
which was the worst feature, as it was imperative that we should keep
ourselves warm; so we decided to go back towards the river, where we had
seen a few small trees or bushes lining the bank between our track and
the water. Luckily, however, we discovered a dead tree inside the
enclosed land, and as I was somewhat of an expert at climbing, I
"swarmed" up it and broke off all the dead branches I could reach with
safety, it being as much as I could do to retain my hold on the slippery
trunk of the tree.
With the dead wood and some heather and pieces of turf we returned laden
and wet through to our dug-out, where we managed to get our fire burning
again and to clear away some of the stones that had fallen upon it.
Still there was no sleep for us that night, which was the most miserable
one almost that we ever experienced.
But just fancy the contrast! In the dead of night, in a desolate
Highland glen, scaling a stone fence in a pitiless storm of wind and
rain, and climbing up a dead tree to break off a few branches to serve
as fuel for a most obstinate fire--such was the reality; and then
picture, instead of this, sitting before a good fire in a comfortable
inn, with a good supper, and snug apartments with every
accommodation--these had been our fond anticipations for the week-end!
We certainly had a good supply of wet fuel, and perhaps burned something
else we ought not to have done: but we were really prisoners for the
night. The merciless wind and rain raged throughout, and we had to stick
to our novel apartment and breathe until daylight the awful smoke from
the fire we were compelled to keep alight. Yet our spirits were not
entirely damped, for we found ourselves in the morning, and often during
the night, singing the refrain of an old song:
We'll stand the storm, it won't be long;
We'll anchor by and by.
Just occasionally the gloom thickened when we ventured to think of
details, among which came uppermost the great question, "Where and when
shall we get our breakfast?"
(_Distance walked, including that to Dalmally, forty miles_.)
_Sunday, October 1st._
Soon after daylight appeared the rain moderated, and so did the wind,
which now seemed to have exhausted itself. Our sleep, as may easily be
imagined, had been of a very precarious and fitful character; still the
hut had rendered substantial service in sheltering us from the fury of
the storm. Soon after leaving our sorry shelter we saw a white house
standing near the foot of a hill beyond the moor, and to this we
resolved to go, even though it was a long distance away, as it was now
imperative that we should obtain food. A knock at the door, more than
once repeated--for it was still very early--at last roused the mistress
of the house, who opened the door and with kindly sympathy listened to
our tale of woe. She at once lit the fire, while the other members of
the family were still asleep in the room, and found us some soap and
water, our hands and faces being as black as smoke and burnt sticks
could make them. After a good wash we felt much better and refreshed,
although still very sleepy. She then provided us with some hot milk and
oatcake, and something we had never tasted before, which she called
"seath." It proved to be a compound of flour and potatoes, and after our
long fast it tasted uncommonly good. Altogether we had an enormous
breakfast, the good wife waiting upon us meanwhile in what we supposed
was the costume common to the Highlands--in other words, minus her gown,
shoes, and stockings. We rewarded her handsomely and thanked her
profusely as she directed us the nearest way to Dalmally.
On arrival at the well-appointed inn there, we received every
attention, and retired to our bedrooms, giving strict orders to the
waiter to see that we were called in time for lunch, and for the English
service at the kirk, which he told us would be held that day between one
and two o'clock. In accordance with our instructions we were called, but
it was not surprising, after walking quite forty miles since Saturday at
daybreak, that we should be found soundly sleeping when the call came.
Lunch was waiting for us, and, after disposing of it as hungry folk
should, we went to Glenorchy Church, only to find that, unfortunately,
there was no service that day. The minister, who had charge of two
parishes, was holding a service at his other church, seven miles distant
up the glen! We therefore hurried to the Free Kirk, which stood in
another part of the village; but as the Gaelic service had been taken at
one o'clock and the English service followed it immediately afterwards,
the minister had already begun his sermon when we arrived. The door was
shut, so entering quietly and closing it behind us, we were astonished
to find a table in the vestibule with a plate exposing to our view a
large number of coins evidently the result of the collection from the
worshippers within. We were surprised at the large proportion of silver
coins, an evidence that the people had given liberally. We added our
mites to the collection, while we wondered what would have become of the
money if left in a similar position in some districts we could think of
farther south. We were well pleased with the sermon, and as the
congregation dispersed we held a conversation and exchanged views with
one of the elders of the church chiefly on the subject of collections.
He explained that the prevailing practice in the Scottish Churches was
for the collection to be taken--or rather given--on entering the House
of God, and that one or two of the deacons generally stood in the
vestibule beside the plate. We told him it was the best way of taking a
collection that we had ever seen, since it did not interrupt or
interfere with the service of the church, and explained the system
adopted in the churches in England.
In our youthful days collections were only made in church on special
occasions, and for such purposes as the support of Sunday schools and
Missionary Societies. The churchwardens collected the money in large and
deep wooden boxes, and the rattle of the coins as they were dropped into
the boxes was the only sound we could hear, for the congregation
remained seated in a deep and solemn silence, which we in our youthful
innocence thought was because their money was being taken away from
them.
In later years brass plates were substituted for boxes in some churches,
and each member of the congregation then seemed to vie with his
neighbours for the honour of placing the most valuable coin on the
plate. The rivalry, however, did not last long, and we knew one church
where this custom was ended by mutual arrangement. The hatchet was
buried by substituting bags, attached, in this case, to the end of long
sticks, to enable the wardens to reach the farthest end of the pews when
necessary.
This system continued for some time, but when collections were
instituted at each service and the total result had to be placarded on
the outside of the church door, with the numbers and total value of each
class of coin recorded separately, the wardens sometimes found a few
items in the bags which were of no monetary value, and could not be
classified in the list without bringing scandal to the church and
punishment to the, perhaps youthful, offenders; so the bags were
withdrawn and plates reinstated, resulting in an initial increase of 10
per cent, in the amount collected.
The church was a large one, and a great number of ladies attended it on
Sundays, their number being considerably augmented by the lady students
from the Collegiate Institutions in the town, who sat in a portion of
the church specially reserved for them.
The Rector of the parish was an elderly man and an eloquent preacher,
who years before had earned his reputation in London, where in a minor
capacity he had been described by Charles Dickens as the model East End
curate.
Eight gentlemen were associated with him as wardens and sidesmen, all
well-known men in the town, one of whom being specially known for the
faultless way in which he was dressed and by his beautiful pink
complexion--the presence of the light hair on his face being scarcely
discernible, and giving him the appearance of being endowed with
perpetual youth. His surname also was that of the gentleman for whom all
young ladies are supposed to be waiting, so it was not to be wondered at
that he was a general favourite with them, and that some slight feeling
of jealousy existed among his colleagues. It was part of their duties to
collect the offerings from the congregation, and afterwards assemble at
the west end of the church, marching two and two in military step to the
east end to hand their collections to the clergyman who stood there
waiting to receive them.
One Sunday morning, when the favourite collector reached that end of the
church where most of the young ladies were located, he was surprised to
notice that all of them received him with a smile as he handed them the
plate. Several of them actually went so far as to incline their heads
slightly, as if adding a nod to their smiles. He thought at first that
they were amused at something connected with his new suit of clothes--of
which, by the way, he was quite proud--but a hasty examination of his
person from collar downwards showed everything to be in perfect order.
He felt annoyed and very uncomfortable when the ladies continued to
smile as he visited each pew, without his being able to ascertain the
reason why, and he was greatly relieved when he got away from them to
rejoin his colleagues. As he was advancing with them up the centre of
the church his eye chanced to rest for a moment on the contents of his
plate, and there, to his horror, he saw a large white mint-drop about
the size of a half-crown, which had been placed face upwards bearing the
words printed in clear red letters, "WILL YOU MARRY ME?" Then he
understood why the young ladies smiled and nodded acceptance so
pleasantly that morning, for, unconsciously, he had been "popping the
question" all round; although inquired into at the time, the mystery of
the mint-drop was never satisfactorily solved.
A gentleman to whom we told this story said it reminded him of another
of what he called a "swell"--a fine young fellow, with apparently more
money than sense--who dropped into a country church for service and was
shown into the squire's pew. The squire was old and of fixed habits.
After settling in his seat he drew out his half-crown as usual and
placed it on the ledge in front. His companion pulled out a sovereign
and ostentatiously put it on the ledge too. The squire stared hard at
him and soon reckoned him up. He then placed a second half-crown on the
first, and the stranger produced a second sovereign. Five times was this
repeated during the service. At last the churchwarden brought his brass
plate, which the squire gravely took and held out to his neighbour, who
swept the five sovereigns on to it in a very grand manner. The squire
picked up one half-crown for the plate and, with a twinkle in his eye,
returned the rest to his pocket!
Since the days of King David singing has always been considered a most
valuable aid in the offering up of prayers and praises to the Almighty,
and nothing sounded better in our ears than the hearty singing of a good
old hymn by the entire congregation. But why this period in the Church
Service should have been chosen in later years as a suitable time for
the wardens to disturb the harmony and thoughts of the parishioners by
handing round their collection plates was beyond our comprehension. The
interruption caused by that abominable practice often raised
unchristian-like feelings in our minds, and we wished at times that the
author of it, whoever he might be, could be brought to the gallows and
publicly hanged for his services; for why should our devotions be
disturbed by the thought that at any moment during the singing of a hymn
the collector might suddenly appear on the scene, possibly sneaking up
from the rear like a thief in the night, to the annoyance of every one
within reach? If the saving of time is the object, why not reduce the
length of the sermon, which might often be done to advantage? or,
failing that, why not adopt the system which prevailed in the Scottish
Churches?
[Illustration: DUNCAN-BANN-MACINTYRE'S MONUMENT.]
The elder of the Free Kirk at Dalmally was much interested in what we
told him about our English Services, where the congregations both prayed
and sang in positions differing from those adopted in Scotland, and to
continue the conversation he walked with us as far as Dalmally Bridge,
where we parted company. We then continued on our way to visit a
monument erected on a hill we could see in the distance "to the memory
of Duncan-Bann-Macintyre, the Glenorchy poet, who was born in the year
1724 and departed this life in 1812"; and, judging from the size of the
monument, which was in the style of a Grecian temple in grey granite and
inscribed to the memory of the "Sweetest and Purest of Gaelic Bards," he
must have been a man of considerable importance. From that point we had
a fine view of Loch Awe, perhaps the finest obtainable, for although it
is above twenty miles long, the lake here, in spite of being at its
greatest breadth, appeared almost dwarfed into a pool within the mighty
mass of mountains with lofty Ben Cruachan soaring steeply to the clouds,
and forming a majestic framework to a picture of surpassing beauty. The
waters of the lake reflected the beauties of its islands and of its
mountainous banks. These islands all had their own history or clan
legend and were full of mysteries. Inishail, once a nunnery, and for
ages the burying-place of the clan chieftains; Innischonell, from the
eleventh century the stronghold of the Argyll, whence they often sent
forth their famous slogan or defiant war-cry, "It's a far cry to
Lochawe"; Fraoch Eilean, where the hero Fraoch slew and was himself
slain by the serpent that guarded the apples for which the fair Mego
longed.
We then retraced our steps slowly to the Dalmally inn, where we were
served with tea in the sumptuous manner common to all first-class inns
in the Highlands of Scotland, after which we retired to rest, bent on
making good the sleep we had lost and on proceeding on our journey early
the following morning.