I omit the letters of 1869, which describe at great length, and not
very interestingly, a summer trip on board the lighthouse steamer to
the Orkneys, Shetlands, and the Fair Isle. The following of 1870 I
give (by consent of the lady who figures as a youthful character in
the narrative) both for the sake of its lively social
sketches--including that of the able painter and singular personage,
the late Sam Bough,--and because it is dated from the Isle of
Earraid, celebrated alike in _Kidnapped_ and in the essay _Memoirs of
an Islet_.
_Earraid, Thursday, August 5th, 1870._
MY DEAR MOTHER,--I have so much to say, that needs must I take a large
sheet; for the notepaper brings with it a chilling brevity of style.
Indeed, I think pleasant writing is proportional to the size of the
material you write withal.
From Edinburgh to Greenock, I had the ex-secretary of the E.U.
Conservative Club, Murdoch. At Greenock I spent a dismal evening, though
I found a pretty walk. Next day on board the _Iona_, I had Maggie
Thomson to Tarbet; Craig, a well-read, pleasant medical, to Ardrishaig;
and Professor, Mrs., and all the little Fleeming Jenkinseses to Oban.
At Oban, that night, it was delicious. Mr. Stephenson's yacht lay in the
bay, and a splendid band on board played delightfully. The waters of the
bay were as smooth as a mill-pond; and, in the dusk, the black shadows
of the hills stretched across to our very feet and the lights were
reflected in long lines. At intervals, blue lights were burned on the
water; and rockets were sent up. Sometimes great stars of clear fire
fell from them, until the bay received and quenched them. I hired a boat
and skulled round the yacht in the dark. When I came in, a very pleasant
Englishman on the steps fell into talk with me, till it was time to go
to bed.
Next morning I slept on or I should have gone to Glencoe. As it was, it
was blazing hot; so I hired a boat, pulled all forenoon along the coast
and had a delicious bathe on a beautiful white beach. Coming home, I
_cotogai'd_ my Englishman, lunched alongside of him and his sister, and
took a walk with him in the afternoon, during which I find that he was
travelling with a servant, kept horses, _et cetera_. At dinner he wished
me to sit beside him and his sister; but there was no room. When he came
out he told me why he was so _empresse_ on this point. He had found out
my name, and that I was connected with lighthouses, and his sister
wished to know if I were any relative of the Stevenson in Ballantyne's
_Lighthouse_. All evening, he, his sister, I, and Mr. Hargrove, of
Hargrove and Fowler, sate in front of the hotel. I asked Mr. H. if he
knew who my friend was. "Yes," he said; "I never met him before: but my
partner knows him. He is a man of old family; and the solicitor of
highest standing about Sheffield." At night he said, "Now if you're down
in my neighbourhood, you must pay me a visit. I am very fond of young
men about me; and I should like a visit from you very much. I can take
you through any factory in Sheffield and I'll drive you all about the
_Dookeries_." He then wrote me down his address; and we parted huge
friends, he still keeping me up to visiting him.
Hitherto, I had enjoyed myself amazingly; but to-day has been the crown.
In the morning I met Bough on board, with whom I am both surprised and
delighted. He and I have read the same books, and discuss Chaucer,
Shakespeare, Marlowe, Fletcher, Webster, and all the old authors. He can
quote verses by the page, and has really a very pretty literary taste.
Altogether, with all his roughness and buffoonery, a more pleasant,
clever fellow you may seldom see. I was very much surprised with him;
and he with me. "Where the devil did you read all these books?" says he;
and in my heart, I echo the question. One amusing thing I must say. We
were both talking about travelling; and I said I was so fond of
travelling alone, from the people one met and grew friendly with. "Ah,"
says he, "but you've such a pleasant manner, you know--quite captivated
my old woman, you did--she couldn't talk of anything else." Here was a
compliment, even in Sam Bough's sneering tones, that rather tickled my
vanity; and really, my social successes of the last few days, the best
of which is yet to come, are enough to turn anybody's head. To continue,
after a little go in with Samuel, he going up on the bridge, I looked
about me to see who there was; and mine eye lighted on two girls, one of
whom was sweet and pretty, talking to an old gentleman. "_Eh bien_,"
says I to myself, "that seems the best investment on board." So I sidled
up to the old gentleman, got into conversation with him and so with the
damsel; and thereupon, having used the patriarch as a ladder, I kicked
him down behind me. Who should my damsel prove, but Amy Sinclair,
daughter of Sir Tollemache. She certainly was the simplest, most naive
specimen of girlhood ever I saw. By getting brandy and biscuit and
generally coaching up her cousin, who was sick, I ingratiated myself;
and so kept her the whole way to Iona, taking her into the cave at
Staffa and generally making myself as gallant as possible. I was never
so much pleased with anything in my life, as her amusing absence of
_mauvaise honte_: she was so sorry I wasn't going on to Oban again:
didn't know how she could have enjoyed herself if I hadn't been there;
and was so sorry we hadn't met on the Crinan. When we came back from
Staffa, she and her aunt went down to have lunch; and a minute after up
comes Miss Amy to ask me if I wouldn't think better of it, and take some
lunch with them. I couldn't resist that, of course; so down I went; and
there she displayed the full extent of her innocence. I must be sure to
come to Thurso Castle the next time I was in Caithness, and Upper
Norwood (whence she would take me all over the Crystal Palace) when I
was near London; and (most complete of all) she offered to call on us in
Edinburgh! Wasn't it delicious?--she is a girl of sixteen or seventeen,
too, and the latter I think. I never yet saw a girl so innocent and
fresh, so perfectly modest without the least trace of prudery.
Coming off Staffa, Sam Bough (who had been in huge force the whole time,
drawing in Miss Amy's sketchbook and making himself agreeable or
otherwise to everybody) pointed me out to a parson and said, "That's
him." This was Alexander Ross and his wife.
The last stage of the steamer now approached, Miss Amy and I lamenting
pathetically that Iona was so near. "People meet in this way," quoth
she, "and then lose sight of one another so soon." We all landed
together, Bough and I and the Rosses with our baggage; and went
together over the ruins. I was here left with the cousin and the aunt,
during which I learned that said cousin sees me _every Sunday_ in St.
Stephen's. Oho! thought I, at the "every." The aunt was very anxious to
know who that strange, wild man was? (didn't I wish Samuel in Tophet!).
Of course, in reply, I drew it strong about eccentric genius and my
never having known him before, and a good deal that was perhaps
"strained to the extremest limit of the fact."
The steamer left, and Miss Amy and her cousin waved their handkerchiefs,
until my arm in answering them was nearly broken. I believe women's arms
must be better made for this exercise: mine ache still; and I regretted
at the time that the handkerchief had seen service. Altogether, however,
I was left in a pleasant frame of mind.
Being thus left alone, Bough, I, the Rosses, Professor Blackie, and an
Englishman called M----: these people were going to remain the night,
except the Professor, who is resident there at present. They were going
to dine _en compagnie_ and wished us to join the party; but we had
already committed ourselves by mistake to the wrong hotel, and besides,
we wished to be off as soon as wind and tide were against us to Earraid.
We went up; Bough selected a place for sketching and blocked in the
sketch for Mrs. R.; and we all talked together. Bough told us his family
history and a lot of strange things about old Cumberland life; among
others, how he had known "John Peel" of pleasant memory in song, and of
how that worthy hunted. At five, down we go to the Argyll Hotel, and
wait dinner. Broth--"nice broth"--fresh herrings, and fowl had been
promised. At 5.50, I get the shovel and tongs and drum them at the
stair-head till a response comes from below that the nice broth is at
hand. I boast of my engineering, and Bough compares me to the Abbot of
Arbroath who originated the Inchcape Bell. At last, in comes the tureen
and the hand-maid lifts the cover. "Rice soup!" I yell; "O no! none o'
that for me!"--"Yes," says Bough savagely; "but Miss Amy didn't take
_me_ downstairs to eat salmon." Accordingly he is helped. How his face
fell. "I imagine myself in the accident ward of the Infirmary," quoth
he. It was, purely and simply, rice and water. After this, we have
another weary pause, and then herrings in a state of mash and potatoes
like iron. "Send the potatoes out to Prussia for grape-shot," was the
suggestion. I dined off broken herrings and dry bread. At last "the
supreme moment comes," and the fowl in a lordly dish is carried in. On
the cover being raised, there is something so forlorn and miserable
about the aspect of the animal that we both roar with laughter. Then
Bough, taking up knife and fork, turns the "swarry" over and over,
shaking doubtfully his head. "There's an aspect of quiet resistance
about the beggar," says he, "that looks bad." However, to work he falls
until the sweat stands on his brow and a dismembered leg falls, dull and
leaden-like, on to my dish. To eat it was simply impossible. I did not
know before that flesh could be so tough. "The strongest jaws in
England," says Bough piteously, harpooning his dry morsel, "couldn't eat
this leg in less than twelve hours." Nothing for it now, but to order
boat and bill. "That fowl," says Bough to the landlady, "is of a breed I
know. I knew the cut of its jib whenever it was put down. That was the
grandmother of the cock that frightened Peter."--"I thought it was a
historical animal," says I. "What a shame to kill it. It's as bad as
eating Whittington's cat or the Dog of Montargis."--"Na--na, it's no so
old," says the landlady, "but it eats hard."--"Eats!" I cry, "where do
you find that? Very little of that verb with us." So with more raillery,
we pay six shillings for our festival and run over to Earraid, shaking
the dust of the Argyll Hotel from off our feet.
I can write no more just now, and I hope you will be able to decipher
so much; for it contains matter. Really, the whole of yesterday's work
would do in a novel without one little bit of embellishment; and,
indeed, few novels are so amusing. Bough, Miss Amy, Mrs. Ross, Blackie,
M---- the parson--all these were such distinct characters, the incidents
were so entertaining, and the scenery so fine, that the whole would have
made a novelist's fortune.
MY DEAR FATHER,--No landing to-day, as the sea runs high on the rock.
They are at the second course of the first story on the rock. I have as
yet had no time here; so this is [Greek: a] and [Greek: o] of my
business news.--Your affectionate son,