A SUNDAY AT OBAN.
Taking advantage of a fine day, we left Ardrossan, with its coal and
timber ships, early one Saturday, and were soon tossing up and down that
troubled spot known as the Mull of Kintyre. It was a glorious sight, and
one rarely enjoyed by tourists, who make a short cut across a canal, and
lose a great deal in the way of beautiful effects of earth, and sea, and
sky. On our left was the Irish coast, here but fifteen miles across, and
far behind were the dark forms of the mountains of Arran. Islay, famed
for its whisky in modern and for its romantic history in ancient times,
next rises out of the waters. Jura, with its three Paps, as its hills
are called, comes next, and then, in the narrow sound between Jura and
Scarba, there is the terrible whirlpool of Corrybrechan, the noise and
commotion of whose whirling waves are often, writes the local Guide-book,
audible from the steamer. The tradition is, as referred to in Campbell's
"Gertrude of Wyoming," that there a Danish prince, who was foolhardy
enough to cast anchor in it, lost his life. To-day it is silent and at
rest, and it requires some stretch of imagination to believe, as the poet
tells us, that "on the shores of Argyleshire I have often listened with
delight to the sound of the vortex at the distance of many leagues." At
length we reach Scarba, Mull is swiftly gained, and there, on the other
side of us, not, however, to be visited now, are Staffa and Iona.
Altogether, we seem in a deserted district. It is only now and then we
see a house, or gentleman's residence, and, except where we pass some
slate works on our right, the rocks and hills around seem utterly
unutilised. Occasionally we see a few sheep or cattle feeding, and once
or twice we are cheered with arable land, and crops growing on it; but
the rule is to leave Nature pretty much to herself. It is the same on
the water. We on board the fairy _Elena_, and the gulls following in our
wake, are almost entirely monarchs of all we survey. On we glide up the
Frith of Lorne, which seems to narrow as we come near to Kerrera, which
has on its lofty sea-cliff the ancient Castle of Glen; and there before
us lies Oban, or the white bay, in all its charms of wood and hill and
water. Oban is a growing place, and we land where the steamer which
brings on the tourists from Iona has just put down its passengers,
amongst whom I see Dr. Charles Mackay, who, in the evening of his days,
much affects this delightful retreat--a place, I imagine, quiet enough in
winter, but now seemingly the head-quarters of the human race. There are
yachts all round, but none equalling the _Elena_. The hotels which line
the bay are handsome, beautifully fitted up, and the proprietors are
looking forward to the 12th of August and the advent of the English. All
the shops are doing a roaring trade, and as to eggs, not one has been
seen in Oban these four days. Here come the coaches, something of a
cross between omnibuses and wagonettes, which run to Glencoe and Fort
William, and other spots more or less famed in Scottish story; and here
is the band to remind one of watering-places nearer home. I find here
the original Christy's Minstrel (I never thought of finding him so far
North), and the proprietor of an American bazaar, who tells me that he
has been taking his 40 pounds a night, but who finds himself too well
known to the natives, and intimates that he will have to move off
shortly; and last, but not least, a gentleman who modestly enters himself
in the fashionable announcements as Smith, of London! I should like to
see that Smith. I dare say I should know him; but at present I have not
succeeded in running him down. If he is going to stay long at Oban, it
strikes me he should have plenty of money in his pocket. I don't blame
the Oban hotel-keepers. They have a very short summer, and are bound to
make hay while the sun shines; but they do stick it on. The Doctor tells
me of a Scotchman who came to London, and who, to illustrate the
costliness of his visit, remarked to his friend that he had not been
half-an-hour in the place but bang went sixpence. That economical Scot
would find money go quite as quickly here. At any rate, such are my
reflections as I turn into my little cot after, one by one, the lights in
Oban have been put out, and the last of the pleasure-seekers has retired
to roost.
On Sunday morning I wake to find that it has rained steadily all night,
and that it is raining still. Mrs. Gamp intimates that life "is a wale
o' tears." Oban seems to be such emphatically. This is awkward, as I
hear the refined and accomplished lady who shares with us the perils and
the dangers of the deep intimates that in Scotland people are not
expected to laugh on the Sabbath-day. It rains all breakfast; it rains
as we descend the _Elena's_ side, and are rowed ashore; it rains as we
make our way to the Established Church, in which that popular minister,
the Rev. Mr. Barclay, of Greenock, is to preach. His sermon is on the
death of Moses. He glides lightly over the subject, telling us that his
text, which is Deut. xxxv. 5, teaches the incompetency of the noblest
life, the penal consequences of sin, the mercy mingled with the Divine
judgment, and the uniformity of God's method of dealing. Mr. Barclay is
listened to with attention. In his black gown, his tall, dark figure
looks well in the pulpit, and there must be some eight or nine hundred
people present. There is a collection after, but I see no gold coin in
the plate, though the bay is full of yachts, and there must be many
wealthy people there. Perhaps, however, they patronise the small
Episcopalian church close by. After the sermon, we are rowed back in the
heavy rain to the yacht, and "it is regular Highland weather" is all the
consolation that I get, as I dry myself in the stoke-hole, while the
Doctor philosophically smokes.
In the evening we are rowed again on shore, and seek out the Free Church,
where Professor Candlish, the son of the far-famed Doctor of that name,
is to preach. He has the reputation of being a remarkably profound
divine, and certainly reputation has not done him injustice in this
respect. His sermon is a great contrast to that I heard in the morning.
It is full fifty minutes long, and is an argumentative defence of the
text, "Being justified freely by His grace through the redemption that is
in Christ Jesus." The preacher proposed to deal with the objection,
which he admitted might be fairly made, that if Jesus paid the debt, our
salvation was not a matter of grace at all; and for this purpose we had
line upon line in thoroughly old Scotch fashion, the hearers all the
while looking out the passages of Scripture referred to in their Bibles.
The sermon was old-fashioned as to thought, but the language was modern.
I was glad I went to hear it. The congregation was not above half the
size of that which appeared in the Established Church, and a great deal
less fashionable. There you saw a good deal of the tourist element.
Here we had the real natives, as it were; and I must own that I saw more
men than I should have seen in a congregation of the same size at home.
At the church in the morning we had, in addition to the Scotch Psalms,
such hymns as "I lay my sins on Jesus," and "Lord of the worlds above."
In the evening we had no novelties of that kind. Indeed, the whole
service was dry and severe to a degenerate Southern. Mr. Barclay quoted
a good deal of Mrs. Alexander's fine poem on the death of Moses.
Professor Candlish did nothing of the kind. His sermon was, in fact,
quite in accordance with the day and the _genius loci_. I felt it was
such a sermon as I had a right to expect. As I leave the church, I
wonder to myself how the tourists manage. It is too wet to walk, and if
they do take a walk it is not considered the correct thing in these
northern latitudes, where, to make matters worse, the Sunday is nearly an
hour longer than it is in London. I am afraid, however, some of the
townsfolk find the time hang heavily on their hands. It seemed to me
that there was an unusually large number of female faces at the window,
and when the boat comes to fetch us on board the _Elena_ all the windows
are full of, I fear, frivolous spectators. It is true that I am adorned
with a genuine Highland bonnet, and would make my fortune in London as a
Guy on the fifth of November; but here Highland bonnets are common. It
is true my companion is a great divine from town, and one well known in
Exeter Hall; but here you would take him for a skipper, and nautical men
are as common as Highland bonnets. I fear it is for very weariness that
Oban ladies sit staring out of the windows on the empty streets and
silent bay this dull and watery Sabbath night. I can almost fancy I hear
them sing--
"I am a-weary, a-weary;
Oh! would that I were dead!"