TO STORNOWAY.
A fine day came at last, and we steered off from Portree, leaving the
grand Cachullin Mountains, rising to a height of 3,220 feet, and the
grave of Flora Macdonald, and the cave where Prince Charles hid himself
far behind. On the right were the distant mountains of Ross-shire, and
on our left Skye, and the other islands which guard the Western Highlands
against the awful storms of the ever-restless Atlantic. Here, as
elsewhere, was to be noticed the absence of all human life, whether at
sea or on land. It was only now and then we saw a sail, but, as if to
compensate for their absence, the birds of the air and the fishes of the
sea seemed to follow in a never-ending crowd. More than once we saw a
couple of whales spouting and blowing from afar, and the gulls, and
divers, and solan-geese at times made the surface of the water absolutely
white, like snow-islands floating leisurely along. Just before we got up
to Stornoway, at a great distance on our right, Cape Wrath, more than a
hundred miles off, lifted up its head into the clear blue sky, the
protecting genius, as it were, of the Scottish strand. It was perfectly
delightful, this; one felt not only that in Scotland people had at rare
intervals fine weather, but that by means of steamers and yachts and
sailing vessels of all kinds, the people of Scotland knew how to improve
the shining hour. It was beautiful, this floating on a glassy sea, clear
as a looking-glass, in which were reflected the clouds, and the skies,
and the sun, and the birds of the air, and the rocks, with a wonderful
fidelity. It seemed that you had only to plunge into that cool and
tempting depth, and to be in heaven at once. At Stornoway we spent a
couple of days. The town stands in a bay, perhaps not quite so romantic
as some in which we have sheltered, but very picturesque, nevertheless.
The first object to be distinctly seen as we entered was the fine castle
which Sir James Mathieson has erected for himself, at a cost altogether
of half a million, and the grounds of which are in beautiful order; them
we had ample time to inspect that evening, as in Stornoway the daylight
lasted till nearly ten o'clock. Happily, Sir James was at home, and we
on board the yacht had an acceptable present of vegetables, and cream,
and butter, very welcome to us poor toilers of the sea. Stornoway is a
very busy place, and has at this time of the year a population of 2,500.
In May and June it is busier still, as at that time there will be as many
as five hundred fishing boats in the harbour, and a large extra
population are employed on shore in curing and packing the fish. In the
country behind are lakes well stocked with fish, and mountains and moors
where game and wild deer and real eagles yet abound. But a great
drawback is the climate. An old sportsman writes:--"The savagery of the
weather in the Lewes, the island of which Stornoway is the capital, is
not to be described. A gentleman from the county of Clare once shot a
season with me, and had very good sport, which he enjoyed much. I asked
him to come again. 'Not for five thousand pounds a year,' he replied,
'would I encounter this climate again. I am delighted I came, for now I
can go back to my own country with pleasure, since, bad as the climate
is, it is Elysium to this.'" Let me say, however, the weather was superb
all the time the _Elena_ was at Stornoway.
As a town, Stornoway is an immense improvement on Portree. It rejoices
in churches, and the shops are numerous, and abound with all sorts of
useful articles. The chief streets are paved. It has here and there a
gas lamp, and the proprietor of the chief hotel boasted to me that so
excellent were his culinary arrangements, that actually the ladies from
the yachts come and dine there. Stornoway has a Freemasons' Hall, and,
wandering in one of the streets, I came to a public library, which I
found was open once a week. On Saturday night the shops swarmed with
customers, chiefly peasant women--who put their boots on when they came
into the town, and who took them off again and walked barefoot as soon as
they had left the town behind--and ancient mariners, with a very
fish-like smell. On Sunday the churches were full, and at the Free
Church, where the service was in Gaelic, the crowd was great. In a
smaller church I heard a cousin of Norman Macleod--a fine, burly
man--preach a powerful sermon, which seemed to me made up partly of two
sermons--one by the late T. T. Lynch, and the other by the late Alfred
Morris. I strayed also into a U. P. church, but there, alas! the
audience was small. In Stornoway, as elsewhere, the couplet is true--
"The free kirk, the poor kirk, the kirk without the steeple,
The auld kirk, the rich kirk, the kirk without the people."
On the Monday morning we turned our faces homeward, and as the weather
was fine, we passed outside Skye, and saw Dunvegan Bay, of which
Alexander Smith writes so much; passing rocky islands, all more or less
known to song, and caves with dark legends of blood, and cruelty, and
crime. One night was spent in Bunessan Bay, where some noble sportsmen
were very needlessly, but, _con amore_, butchering the few peaceful seals
to be found in those parts; and a short while we lay off Staffa, which
rises straight out of the water like an old cathedral, where the winds
and waves ever play a solemn dirge. In its way, I know nothing more
sublime than Staffa, with its grey arch and black columns and rushing
waves. No picture or photograph I have seen ever can give any adequate
idea of it. "Altogether," writes Miss Gordon Cumming, "it is a scene of
which no words can convey the smallest idea;" and for once I agree with
the lady. It is seldom the reality surpasses your expectations. As
regards myself, in the case of Staffa I must admit it did.
The same morning we land at Columba, or the Holy Isle. The story of St.
Columba's visit to Iona is laid somewhere in the year A.D. 563. He, it
seems, according to some authorities, was an Irishman, and from Iona he
and his companions made the tour of Pagan Scotland; and hence now
Scotland is true blue Presbyterian and always Protestant. Here, as at
Staffa, we miss the tourists, who scamper and chatter for an hour at each
place, and then are off; and I was glad. As Byron writes:--
"I love not man the less, but nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be or have been before,
To mingle with the universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal."
The history of Iona is a history of untold beauty and human interest.
Druids, Pagans, Christian saints, have all inhabited the Holy Isle.
Proud kings, like Haco of Norway, were here consecrated, and here--
"Beneath the showery west,
The mighty kings of three fair realms were laid."
All that I could do was to visit the ruins of the monastery and the
cathedral, and one of the stone crosses, of which there were at one time
360, and to regret that these beautiful monoliths were cast into the sea
by the orders of the Synod as "monuments of idolatrie." St. Columba,
like all the saints, was a little ungallant as regards the fair sex.
Perhaps it is as well that his rule is over. He would not allow even
cattle on the sacred isle. "Where there is a cow," argued the saint,
"there must be a woman; and where there is a woman there must be
mischief." Clearly, the ladies have very much improved since the
lamented decease of the saint. From Iona we made our way to the very
prosperous home of commerce and whisky known as Campbeltown. Actually,
the duty on the latter article paid by the Campbeltown manufacturers
amounts to as much as 60,000 pounds a year. At one time it was the very
centre of Scottish life. For three centuries it was the capital of
Scotland. It is still a very busy place, and it amused me much of a
night to watch the big, bare-footed, bare-headed women crowding round the
fine cross in the High Street, which ornaments what I suppose may be
called the Parochial Pump. Close to the town is the church and cave of
St. Kieran, the Apostle of Cantyre, the tutor of St. Columba. At present
the chief boast of Campbeltown is that there were born the late Norman
Macleod and Burns' Highland Mary. When Macleod was a boy the days of
smuggling were not yet over in that part of the world. Here is one of
his stories:--"Once an old woman was being tried before the Sheriff, and
it fell to his painful duty to sentence her. 'I dare say,' he said
uneasily to the culprit, 'it is not often you have fallen into this
fault.' 'No, indeed, shura,' was the reply; 'I hae na made a drap since
yon wee keg I sent yoursel'.'" Let me remark, _en passant_, that my
friend, the Doctor, was born here, and that is proof positive that at
Campbeltown the breed of great men is not yet exhausted. I mention this
to our lady, and she is of the same opinion.