accident that would befall him but a few hours after he thus talked so
hopefully.
At sunset to-night a balloon-like cloud settles down on the peak of
distant Ben Voirloch, and as this soon becomes tinged with red, the
lofty hill has all the appearance of a burning mountain. But all the
northwestern sky is now such a sight to see that only the genius of a
Burns could describe it in words, while no brush of painter could do
justice to it, now that the immortal Turner is no longer on earth.
There are leaden-grey clouds banked along near the horizon; behind these
and afar off are cloud-streaks of gold, which--now that the sun is
down--change slowly to crimson, then to grey and to bronze.
An hour after sunset these cloud-streaks are of a strange pale yellow
colour, only one shade deeper than the sky-tint itself. Even while I am
still gazing on it this last turns to a pale sea-green of indescribable
beauty, and high up yonder rides a half-moon.
Deeper and deeper grows the yellow of the cloud-streaks till they assume
a fiery orange colour; above this is the green of the empty sky, while
higher still, betwixt this and the blue vault of heaven, in which the
moon is sailing, is a misty blush of crimson.
But now all the distant mountain-tops get enveloped in clouds of
leaden-grey, the night-air becomes chill; I close my notes and retire to
my caravan, and soon I hope to be sleeping as soundly as my honest dog
yonder.
Travelling about, as I constantly do, in all sorts of queer places and
among all kinds of scenes, both in towns and in the country, it may not
seem surprising that I am often the right man in the right place when an
accident occurs. I am certain I have saved many lives by being on the
spot when a medical man was wanted _instantly_.
I _did_ retire to my caravan; but, instead of going to bed, all inviting
though it looked, I began to read, and after an hour spent thus the
beauty of the night lured me out again. "Happy thought!" I said to
myself; "it must be nearly eleven o'clock; I shall go and see what sort
of people are emptied out of the inns."
But at the very moment I stood near the door of the hotel already
mentioned, the innkeeper had been hurled from the topmost banisters of
the stairs by a drunken farmer who had fallen from above on him.
The shrieks of women folks brought me to the spot.
"Oh! he is killed, he is killed!" they were screaming.
And there he lay on his back on the cold stones with which his head had
come into fearful contact. On his back he was, still as death, to all
appearance dead. With half-open eyes and dilated pupils, and pulseless.
His injuries to the skull were terrible. Two medical men besides
myself despaired of his life. But above him, a few steps up the stairs,
and lying across them half asleep and unhurt, lay the doer of the deed.
Oh! what a sermon against the insinuating horribleness of intoxicating
drink did the whole scene present!
The Morning of the Games.
It is going to be a beautiful day, that is evident. White fleecy clouds
are constantly driving over the sun on the wings of a south-east wind.
Bands of music have been coming from every direction all the morning.
They bring volunteers, and they bring their clansmen and the heroes who
will soon take part in the coming struggle.
Now Highland gatherings and games, such as I am describing, are very
ancient institutions indeed in Scotland I have no reference book near me
from which to discover how old they are. But in "the '45" last century,
as most of my readers are probably aware, a great gathering of the clans
took place among the Highland hills, presumably to celebrate games, but
in reality to draw the claymore of revolt and to fight for Royal
Charlie. They will know also how sadly this rebellion ended on the
blood-red field of Culloden Moor.
During the summer and autumn seasons nearly every country district in
the north has its great Highland gathering; but the two chief ones are
Braemar and Inverness. The latter is called the northern meeting, and
has a park retained all the year round for it. At Braemar, the Queen
and Royal family hardly ever fail to put in an appearance.
The clans, arrayed in all the pomp and panoply of their war-dress, in
"the garb of old Gaul," each wearing its own tartan, each headed by its
own chieftain, come from almost every part of the north-eastern
Highlands to Braemar with banners floating and bagpipes playing, a
spirit-stirring sight to see.
The ground on which the games take place is entirely encircled by a rope
fence, and near are the white tents of the officers in charge, the
various refreshment-rooms, and the grand stand itself. The whole scene
is enlivening in the extreme; the dense crowd of well-dressed people
around the ropes, the stand filled tier on tier with royalty, youth, and
beauty, the white canvas, the gaily-fluttering flags, the mixture of
tartans, the picturesque dresses, the green grass, the cloud-like trees,
and last, but not least, the wild and rugged mountains themselves--the
effect of the whole is charming, and would need the pen of a Walter
Scott to do justice to it.
But to return to the games about to begin before me. Crowds are already
beginning to assemble and surround the ropes, and independent of the
grand stand, there are on this ground several round green hills, which
give lounging-room to hundreds, who thus, reclining at their ease, can
view the sports going on beneath them.
I am lying at full length on the top of my caravan, a most delightful
position, from which I can see everything. Far down the field a brass
band is discoursing a fantasia on old Scottish airs. But the effect is
somewhat marred, for this reason--on the grass behind the grand stand,
with truly Scottish independence of feeling, half-a-dozen pipers are
strutting about in full Highland dress, and with gay ribbons fluttering
from their chanters, while their independence is more especially
displayed in the fact that every piper is playing the tune that pleases
himself best, so that upon the whole it must be confessed that at
present the music is of a somewhat mixed character.
From the top of my caravan I call to my gentle Jehu John, _alias_ my
coachman, who comes from the shire of bonnie Berks.
"John," I shout, "isn't that heavenly music? Don't you like it, John?
Doesn't it stir your blood?"
Now John would not offend my national feelings for all the world; so he
replies,--
"It stirs the blood right enough, sir, but I can't say as 'ow I likes it
quite, sir. Dessay it's an acquired taste, like olives is. Puts me in
mind of a swarm o' bees that's got settled on a telegraph pole."
But the games are now beginning. Brawny Scots, tall, wiry Highlanders,
are already trying the weights of the great caber, the stones, and the
hammers. So I get down off my caravan, and, making my way to the field,
seat myself on a green knoll from which I can see and enjoy everything.
_Throwing the Heavy Hammer_.--This is nearly always the first game. The
competitors, stripped to the waist, toe the line one after the other,
and try their strength and skill, the judges after each throw being
ready with the tape. Though an ordinary heavy hammer will suit any one
for amateur practice, the real thing is a large ball fastened to the end
of a long handle of hard, tough wood.
It is balanced aloft and swung about several times before it quits the
hands of Hercules, and comet-like flies through the air with all the
velocity and force that can be communicated to it.
Donald Dinnie, though he wants but two years of being fifty, is still
the champion athlete and wrestler of the world. There is a good story
told of Donald when exhibiting his prowess for the first time in
America. The crowd it seems gave him a too limited ring. They did not
know Donald then.
"Gang back a wee bit!" cried Donald.
The ring was widened.
"Gang back a wee yet?" he roared.
The crowd spread out. But when a third time Donald cried "Gang back!"
they laughed in derision.
Then Donald's Scotch blood got up. He swung the great hammer--it left
his hands, and flew right over the heads of the onlookers, alighting in
the field beyond.
No one in San Francisco would compete with Donald, so he got the records
of other athletes, and at a public exhibition beat them all.
Throwing the light hammer is another game of the same kind.
_Putting the Stone_.--The stone, as an Irishman would say, is a heavy
round iron ball. You plant the left foot firmly in advance of the
right, then balancing the great stone or ball on the palm of the right
hand on a level with the head for a few moments, you send it flying from
you as far as possible. There is not only great strength required, but
a good deal of "can," or skill, which practice alone can give.
_Tossing the Caber_.--The caber is a small tree, perhaps a larch with
the branches all off. You plant your foot against the thin end of it,
while a man raises it right up--heavy end uppermost--and supports it in
the air until you have bent down and raised it on your palms. The
immense weight of it makes you stagger about to keep your balance, and
you must toss it so that when the heavy end touches the ground, it shall
fall right over and lie in a line towards you. This game requires great
skill and strength, and it is seldom indeed that more than one man
succeeds in tossing the caber fair and square.
There are heavy and light hammers, there are heavy and light
putting-stones, but there is but one caber [at principal games], and at
this game the mighty Donald Dinnie has no rival.
The jumping and vaulting approach more to the English style of games,
and need not be here described; and the same may be said about the
racing, with probably one exception--the sack race. The competitors
have to don the sacks, which are then tied firmly round the neck, then
at the given signal away they go, hopping, jumping, or running with
little short steps. It is very amusing, owing to the many tumbles the
runners get, and the nimble way they sometimes recover the equilibrium,
though very often no sooner are they up than they are down again.
There usually follows this a mad kind of steeplechase three times round
the course, which is everywhere impeded with obstructions, the favourite
ones being soda-barrels with both ends knocked out. Through these the
competitors have to crawl, if they be not long-legged and agile enough
to vault right over them.
The dancing and the bagpipe-playing attract great attention, and with
these the games usually conclude. At our sports to-day both are
first-class.
The dancing commences with a sailor's hornpipe in character, and right
merrily several of the competitors foot it on the floor of wood that has
been laid down on the grass for the purpose. Next comes the Highland
fling, danced in Highland dress, to the wild "skirl" of the great
Highland bagpipe. Then the reel of Tulloch to the same kind of music.
Here there are of course four Highlanders engaged at one time.
I hope, for the sake of dear auld Scotland, none of my readers will
judge the music of the Highland bagpipes from the performances of the
wretched specimens of ragged humanity sometimes seen in our streets.
But on a lovely day like this, amidst scenery so sublime, it is really a
pleasure to lie on the grass and listen to the stirring war march, the
hearty strathspey or reel, the winning pibroch, or the sad wail of a
lament for the dead.
Few who travel by train past the village or town of Auchterarder have
the faintest notion what the place is like. "It is set on a hill," that
is all a train traveller can say, and it looks romantic enough.
But the country all round here, as seen by road, is more than romantic,
it is wildly beautiful.
Here are some notes I took in my caravan just before coming to this
town. My reason for giving them now will presently be seen.
"Just before coming to Auchterarder we cross over a hill, from which the
view is singularly strange and lovely. Down beneath us is a wide strath
or glen, rising on the other side with gentle slope far upwards to the
horizon, with a bluff, bare, craggy mountain in the distance. But it is
the arrangement and shape of the innumerable dark spruce and pinewoods
that strike the beholder as more than curious. They look like regiments
and armies in battle array--massed in _corps d'armee_ down in the
hollow, and arranged in battalions higher up; while along the ridge of
yonder high hill they look like soldiers on march; on a rock they appear
like a battery in position, and here, there, and everywhere between,
e'en long lines of skirmishers, taking advantage of every shelter."
It was not until Monday morning that I found out from the kindly
Aberuthven farmer, in whose yard I had bivouacked over the Sunday, that
I had really been describing in my notes a plan of the great battle of
Waterloo. The woods have positively been planted to represent the
armies in action.
Had not this farmer, whom we met at the village, invited us to his
place, our bivouac over the Sunday would have been on the roadside, for
at Aberuthven there was no accommodation for either horses or caravan.
But the hospitality and kindnesses I meet with everywhere are universal.
The morning of the 17th of August was grey and cloudy, but far from
cold. Bidding kindly Farmer M--and his family good-bye, we went
trotting off, and in a short time had crossed the beautiful Earn, and
then began one of the longest and stiffest ascents we had ever
experienced.
A stiff pull for miles with perspiring horses; but once up on the
braeland above this wild and wonderful valley the view was indescribably
fine. The vale is bounded by hills on every side, with the lofty Ben
Voirloch far in the rear.
The Earn, broad, clear, and deep, goes winding through the level and
fertile bottom of the valley, through fields where red and white cattle
are grazing, through fields of dark-green turnips, and fields yellow
with ripening barley. And yonder, as I live, is a railway train, but so
far away, and so far beneath us, that it looks like a mere mechanical
toy.
High up here summer still lingers. We are among hedgerows once more and
wild roses; the banks beneath this are a sight. We have thistles of
every shade of crimson, and the sward is covered with beds of bluebells
and great patches of golden bird's-foot trefoil; and look yonder is an
old friend, the purple-blue geranium once more.
From the fifth milestone, the view that suddenly bursts upon our sight
could hardly be surpassed for beauty in all broad Scotland. A mighty
plain lies stretched out beneath us, bounded afar off by a chain of
mountains, that are black in the foreground and light blue in the
distance, while great cloud-banks throw their shadows over all.
But soon we are in a deep dark forest. And here I find the first
blooming heath and heather, and with it we make the Wanderer look quite
gay.
How sweetly sound is the sleep of the amateur gipsy! At Bankfoot, where
we have been lying all night, is a cricket-ground. I was half awakened
this morning (August 18th) at 5:30 by the linen manufactory hooter--and
I hate a hooter. The sound made me think I was in Wales. I simply said
to myself, "Oh! I am in South Wales somewhere. I wonder what I am
doing in South Wales. I daresay it is all right." Then I sank to sleep
again, and did not wake till nearly seven.
The village should be a health resort.
Started by eight. A lovely morning, a mackerel sky, with patches of
blue. Heather hills all around, some covered with dark waving pine
forests.
But what shall I say about the scenery 'twixt Bankfoot and Dunkeld? It
is everywhere so grandly beautiful that to attempt to describe it is
like an insult to its majesty and romance.
Now suppose the reader were set down in the midst of one of the finest
landscape gardens, in the sweetest month of summer, and asked to
describe in a few words what he saw around him, would he not find it
difficult even to make a commencement? That is precisely how I am now
situated.
But to run through this part of the country without a word would be mean
and cowardly in an author.
Here are the grandest hills close aboard of us that we have yet seen--
among them Birnam; the most splendid woods and trees, forest and
streams, lakes and torrents, houses and mansions, ferns and flowers and
heather wild. Look where I will it is all a labyrinth, all one maze of
wildest beauty, while the sweet sunshine and the gentle breeze sighing
thro' the overhanging boughs, combined with the historical reminiscences
inseparable from the scenery, make my bewilderment pleasant and
complete.
Yes! I confess to being of a poetic turn of mind, so make allowance,
_mon ami_, but--go and see Dunkeld and its surroundings for yourself--
"Here Poesy might woke her heaven-taught lyre,
And look through nature with creative fire
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides;
The woods, wild scattered, clothe their ample sides.
Th' outstretching lake, embosomed 'mong the hills,
The eye with wonder and amazement fills.
The Tay meandering sweet in infant pride,
The Palace rising by its verdant side,
The lawns wood-fringed in nature's native taste,
The hillocks dropt in nature's careless haste;
The arches striding o'er the newborn stream,
The village glittering in the noontide beam."
The above passage, from the poet Barns, refers to the village and
scenery of Kumon, but it equally well describes the surroundings of
Dunkeld.
Pitlochrie is our anchorage to-night.
The little town, when I first approached it, seemed, though picturesque
and lovely in the extreme, almost too civilised for my gipsy ideas of
comfort; the people had too much of the summer-lodging caste about them;
there were loudly dressed females and male mashers, so I felt inclined
to fly through it and away as I had done through Perth.
But the offer of a quiet level meadow at the other end of this village
of villas, surrounded by hills pine-clad to their summits, and hills
covered with heather, the maiden-blush of the heather just appearing on
it, tempted me, and here I lie.
Met many delightful people, and still more delightful, happy children.
The wandering tourist would do well to make his headquarters here for at
least a week. There is so much to be seen all around. It is indeed the
centre of the land of romance and beauty.
Started next day through the Pass of Killiecrankie. Who has not heard
of the wild wooded grandeur of this wonderful pass, or of the battle
where the might of Claverhouse was hurled to the ground, and the hero
himself slain?
It was a sad climb for our horses, but the pass is fearfully, awesomely
grand. One cannot but shudder as he stands on the brink of the wooded
chasm, over which the mounted troopers were hurled by the
fierce-fighting Highlanders.
Just after leaving the pass, on the right is a meadow, in the centre of
which is a stone, supposed by most tourists to mark the spot where the
great Claverhouse fell. It is not so, but a preaching stone, where
outdoor service was held in days of yore.
Behold up yonder, high above it on the hillside, the granite gables of
"Ard House" peeping out above the trees. Near here was Claverhouse
slain, shot while his horse was stooping to drink some water.
Made our midday halt in front of Bridge of Tilt Hotel. Were visited by
many good people. Brakes laden with tourists pass and repass here all
day long, for the scenery around here is far famed; splendid forests and
wild rugged mountains, lochs and waterfalls--everything Highland.
A wretched kilted piper strutted round the Wanderer after dinner,
playing pibrochs. I like the bagpipes and I love the Highland garb, but
when the former is wheezy and shrieking, when the latter is muddy and
ragged, and the musician himself pimply-faced and asthmatical, it takes
away all the romance.
I saw this miserable piper afterwards dancing and shrieking. He was
doing this because an ostler belaboured his bare legs with a gig whip.
I was glad to hear the real Highland bagpipes soon after. The wild
music came floating on the autumn air from somewhere in the pine forest,
and I could not help thinking of McGregor Simpson's grand old song, the
March of the Cameron Men--
"I hear the pibroch sounding, sounding,
Deep o'er the mountains and glen,
While light springing footsteps are trampling the heath -
'Tis the march of the Cameron men."
The day is fiercely hot, but a breeze is blowing and the roads are good.
On leaving Blair Athol the way continues good for a time; we catch a
glimpse of the Duke's whitewashed castle on the right, among the trees
and wood.
But we soon leave trees behind us, though on the left we still have the
river. It is swirling musically round its bed of boulders now; in
winter I can fancy how it will foam, and rage, and rush along with an
impetuosity that no power could resist!
We are now leaving civilisation behind us--villas, trees, cultivated
fields, and even houses--worth the name--will for a time be conspicuous
only by their absence.
Some miles on, the road begins to get bad and rough and hilly, rougher
by far than the roads in the Wolds of York or among the banks of
Northumberland. It gets worse and worse, so rough now that it looks as
if a drag-harrow had been taken over it.
We are soon among the Grampians, but the horses are wet and tired. Even
Pea-blossom, hardy though she be, is dripping as if she had swum across
a river, while poor Corn-flower is a mass of foam, and panting like a
steam engine.
We were told we ought to go _past_ the Highland hamlet of Struan. We
find now, on enquiring at a wayside sheiling, that Struan is out of our
way, and that it consists of but one small inn and a hut or two, where
accommodation could hardly be found for man or beast.
So we go on over the mountains.
About a mile above Struan, we stop to let the horses breathe, and to
gaze around us on the wild and desolate scene. Nothing visible but
mountains and moorland, heath, heather, and rocks, the only trees being
stunted silver birches.
Close beside the narrow road, so close indeed that a swerve to one side,
of a foot or two, would hurl the Wanderer over the rock, is the roaring
river Garry. Its bed is a chaos of boulders, with only here and there a
deep brown pool, where great bubbles float and patches of frothy foam,
and where now and then a great fish leaps up. The stream is a madly
rushing torrent, leaping and bounding from crag to crag, and from
precipice to precipice, with a noise like distant thunder.
We see an occasional small covey of whirring grouse. We see one
wriggling snake, and a lizard on a heather stem, and we hear at a
distance the melancholy scream of the mountain whaup or curlew,--a
prolonged series of shrill whistling sounds, ending in a broken shriek--
but there are no other signs of life visible or audible.
Yes, though, for here comes a carriage, and we have to go closer still--
most dangerously close--to the cliff edge, to give it room to pass.
The horses are still panting, and presently up comes a Glasgow merchant
and his little boy in Highland dress.
He tells us he is a Glasgow merchant. Anybody would tell anyone
anything in this desolate place; it is a pleasure to hear even your own
voice, and you are glad of any excuse to talk.
He says,--
"We are hurrying off to catch the train at Blair Athol."
But he does not _appear_ to be in much of a hurry, for he stays and
talks, and I invite him and his child up into the saloon, where we
exchange Highland experiences for quite a long time.
Then he says,--
"Well, I must positively be off, because, you know, I am hurrying to
catch a train."
I laugh.
So does the Glasgow merchant.
Then we shake hands and part.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.
SNOW-POSTS--A MOONLIGHT RAMBLE--DALWHINNIE--A DANGER ESCAPED--AN UGLY
ASCENT--INVERNESS AT LAST.
"The rugged mountain's scanty cloak
Was dwarfish shrubs of birch and oak,
And patches bright of bracken green,
And heather red that waved so high,
It held the copse in rivalry;
But where the lake slept deep and still,
Dank osiers fringed the swamp and hill."
Scott.
"Now wound the path its dizzy ledge
Around a precipice's edge."
Idem.
Farther and farther on we walk or trot, and wilder and still more wild
grows the scenery around us.