the electric search-light was got into working order, and we astonished
the natives of Courthill and other solitary houses by flashing the
light of day in upon them at midnight. The ship’s pinnace and other
small craft on the loch appeared like lime-light pictures thrown on
a screen. The submarine electric tackle, which is used in cases of
accident to the screw, or to the bottom of the vessel, was also got
into play; and a very striking and novel effect it produced. A number
of small fishes were attracted by the light, and swam about within the
halo it formed. The scene recalled forcibly the stanza which Byron
completed by adding the last two lines:—
“The sun’s perpendicular ray
Illumined the depths of the sea;
And the fishes, beginning to sweat,
Cried (something) how hot we shall be.”
[Illustration: _The Piper._]
[Illustration: SAMMY.]
Most memorable of all, the Captain’s boy astonished every one by
volunteering a hornpipe, while dancing was in progress on the
promenade deck. Sir Donald summoned his piper to play the necessary
accompaniment; but that did not suit Sammy’s steps. He required the
whole orchestra of the ship’s band; and he gave them his instructions
with the cool confidence of a professional performer. While he was in
the very midst of his double-shuffle, Captain Webster appeared on the
gangway, calling, ‘Sammy, you rascal, what are you doing there?’ Sir
Donald, fancying for the moment that the Captain was in earnest, rushed
forward to propitiate his wrath. It was as good as a play. If the scene
had been preconcerted, it could not have been more effective. But Sam
was not in the least perturbed. He continued his performance amid the
applause of the whole company, until he was tired out. It afterwards
transpired that the boy had been ‘on the boards’ before, probably in
the part of the ‘Midshipmite’ in the Children’s ‘Pinafore.’
[Illustration: _Head of Loch Kishorn._]
VII
ROUND CAPE WRATH
[Illustration: _Rona Island—Lewis and Harris in the distance._]
Friday, September 5th, was perhaps the most enjoyable day of the whole
cruise. We started, in magnificent weather, with the intention of
steaming up the west coast to Cape Wrath, and thence eastward along the
north coast to Thurso. We steered up the Inner Sound, between Raasay
and Rona on the one hand, and the rugged coast of Applecross on the
other. We crossed Loch Torridon, at the head of which Ben Liugach rose
in calm and majestic splendour. Opposite Gairloch, we had a fine view
of Ben Slioch, which overlooks Loch Maree. Still finer, however, was
the view backward, where the Coolins frowned even in the sunshine—the
solemn pyramid of Blaven asserting itself in presence of loftier peaks.
From this rugged background the rocky ridge extended northward by the
Storr rocks and the Quiraing to the extremity of the island. Toward
the west, the misty outline of Lewis and Harris broke, but scarcely
broke, the regularity of the horizon.
[Illustration: _Summer Sheen—in Skye Waters._]
Then we crossed Loch Broom, with its Summer Isles, and the point of
Rhu-Coigach, and Enard Bay, and Loch Inver, and we began to recognise
the peculiar character of the Sutherlandshire mountains. They rise
abruptly to a considerable height from wide intervening valleys, and
they frequently assume the sugar-loaf shape. That is the case with
Suilven, ‘the sugar-loaf’ _par excellence_, and also with Canisp, and
Ben Stack, and Foinaven near Loch Laxford.
[Illustration: _The Coolins—Blaven—Marsco._]
The whole coast is rugged and forbidding. Close to the Point of Stoer
is the Rhu-Stoer, a detached columnar rock resembling the Old Man of
Hoy in Orkney. Several other stacks of similar formation were seen as
we passed northward, conspicuously ‘The Shepherd’ between Loch Inchard
and Cape Wrath. As we approached the latter, we felt once more the
Atlantic swell, and the ship pitched and rolled somewhat, though she
was as a rock in comparison with the smaller coasting steamers that ply
habitually in these waters, two of which we saw labouring heavily; and
some of us, at least, felt thankful that we were not as they.
[Illustration: Cape Wrath
—Lennox Browne]
Cape Wrath, now seen by many of us for the first time, is really
a splendid headland. The name in its modern interpretation may be
appropriate enough, considering the wild seas that roar and bluster
around it; but in point of fact it has no connection with the English
word ‘wrath.’ It is a corruption of the Norse ‘Hvarf,’ which meant
‘the turning-point of the land,’ and might have been more correctly
Englished ‘Cape Warp.’ The lighthouse stands on a cliff 370 feet
above the sea, beneath which there is a succession of jagged points,
or needle-rocks, stretching seaward, perforated at their bases with
several openings, through which the surf breaks and spends itself in
spray. A more perilous point for shipping in a dark night it would
be hard to conceive. As we passed the Cape, the cold, rainy squalls
which had followed us for some time cleared off, leaving behind them,
however, very striking effects of sea and sky.
The north coast, east of Cape Wrath, partakes of the same rugged
character as the promontory. There are castle rocks, and detached
rocks, and dark ‘cletts,’ too numerous to mention. There are isolated
mountains of considerable height about the dark Kyle of Durness, and
Loch Erribol, and the Kyle of Tongue. The coast-scenery, however,
becomes rapidly tamer. Ben Hope and Ben Loyal are the last prominent
peaks that stand out from the undulating plain.
[Illustration:
_Thurso—from the Bay._]
Beyond Strathy Point, we reach the lowlands of Caithness. Green meadows
and yellow corn-fields sloping down to the golden sands become common.
Around Brims Ness and Holburn Head, the coast is as flat and level as
the shores of Fife and the Lothians. Near Holburn Head, however, there
is another huge detached rock, 200 feet high, called the Clett, around
which the ocean surges and swells night and day in most weathers.
Passing this rock at a safe distance, we entered Thurso Bay, and
anchored securely in Scrabster Roads. The rain clouds cleared off
toward evening, and revealed a beautiful sunset.
[Illustration:
_The Old Man of Hoy._]
At Thurso (which is Thor’s Town, another Norse landmark) we were in
touch once more with the British railway and postal systems. The
most prominent object on the mainland was the castle lately rebuilt
by Sir J. G. Tollemache Sinclair—a cold-looking mansion, rendered
more forbidding by the absence of trees. The town itself looked very
picturesque, with its spires and chimneys breaking the coast-line,
while the fields of golden grain that surrounded it bespoke fertility
and prosperity. Other noteworthy features of the neighbourhood were
Harold’s Tower, the Bishop’s Castle, and the bold bluffs of Dunnet
Head, the most northerly point of the mainland. The northward view
included the Orkney Islands, and Hoy Head, with the Old Man of Hoy at
its base, which, at a later hour, and in the ‘witching time of night,’
stood out grandly in the moonlight.
‘The Old Man of Hoy
Looks out on the sea,
Where the tide runs strong, and the wave rides free:
He looks on the broad Atlantic sea,
And the Old Man of Hoy
Hath this great joy,
To hear the deep roar of the wide blue ocean,
And to stand unmoved ’mid the sleepless motion,
And to feel o’er his head
The white foam spread
From the wild wave proudly swelling,
And to care no whit
For the storm’s rude fit,
Where he stands on his old rock-dwelling.’
—PROFESSOR BLACKIE.
VIII
A RAID ON ORKNEY
[Illustration: _Copinsay Island—Orkney._]
During the night we were rocked in the cradle of the deep, even at
our anchorage, by the north-west wind, which blew strongly; and at
an early hour in the morning, the anchor was weighed, and we steamed
steadily through the Pentland Firth, generally a tempestuous passage,
and then northward past the rugged islet of Copinsay, with its myriads
of sea-birds, into Shapinsay Sound. Balfour Castle, on the island of
Shapinsay, was the most prominent object in the landscape. One is apt
to wonder how the massive building came there, so inconsistent is
its pretentious appearance with its bare and cheerless surroundings.
By-and-by we anchored in Kirkwall Roads, and every one, as quickly as
possible, was transferred to land in the ‘Iolanthe,’ and the steam
launch, or the attendant gigs.
Kirkwall is not a very stirring or lively place, but it has an
old-world flavour, which makes a visit to it pleasant and memorable.
Its narrow and tortuous streets, paved with flags, its old-fashioned
houses, many of them with secluded courts, and presenting their gables
to the sea, and most of all its ancient Cathedral, invest it with a
peculiar interest.
[Illustration: _Kirkwall—from the Bay._]
The Cathedral forms, of course, its chief attraction. This building,
which is the most conspicuous object in the town, as seen either from
the sea or from the land, dates from the twelfth century, having
been founded by Jarl Rognvald in 1137, in memory of his uncle, St.
Magnus. Its style is chiefly Norman, but it contains many features of
the Pointed Gothic or Early English style, which makes it extremely
interesting to the antiquary and the architect, resembling in that
respect the famous Cathedral of Trondhjem, which belongs to the same
period. Outwardly, it is wonderfully well preserved. Though really a
very small building of its kind—a cathedral in miniature,—its parts
are so well proportioned that it has almost an imposing appearance.
Worthy of special notice are the great east window, which Sir Henry
Dryden believed to be unique; the circular window in the south
transept; and the carving of the west door, which Dryden refers to as
probably the finest example in the British Islands of the effective
combination of particoloured stones. But the delicate floral work in
the arch of the doorway is now much weather-worn, and the fine pillars
are wasted to skeletons. The tower, to which we mounted, commands a
splendid view of the town and bay and the surrounding islands.
[Illustration: _The Earl’s Palace—Kirkwall._]
From the Cathedral we passed to the Bishop’s Palace, part of which is
probably as old as the Cathedral itself, though the greater part is
known to have been built in the sixteenth century by Bishop Reid, who
made additions to the Cathedral also. In the older part of this palace
King Haco died on his return from Largs, and his remains lay for a time
within the Cathedral.
Still more interesting are the remains of the Earl’s Palace, which
stands to the east of the last-named building. It was erected by the
notorious Earl Patrick Stewart—“Black Pate”—about 1590. He was the
son of Lord Robert Stewart (a natural son of James V.), Earl of Orkney.
Black Pate also built Scalloway Castle in Shetland; and in the erection
of both he levied contributions from his vassals and retainers without
stint, requiring them not only to furnish the materials in stone, lime
and eggs, with which the mortar was mixed, but also to work like slaves
under his command: hence his by-name, “The Scourge of the Islands.”
By-and-by his notorious deeds became known in Edinburgh, and he was
captured, and ended his career on the gallows.
[Illustration:
_The Earl’s Palace—Kirkwall._]
He must, however, have been a man of fine taste and grand notions, if
we are to judge by the architectural features of his palace. It is
really a fine specimen of the Scottish baronial style, many of the
details of ornament—in round turrets, quaint gables, and projecting
windows—being beautiful, especially as seen through the grove of
sycamore-trees which surrounds the building. A remarkable feature is a
level arch over one of the great fireplaces in the banqueting hall, on
either side of which the initials “P.E.O.” (Patrick, Earl of Orkney)
may still be seen. This is one of the best examples of the straight
arch in Scotland.
The day being exceedingly fine, a large contingent enjoyed a drive
along the Stromness road to Maeshowe and the Stones of Brogar and
Stenness.
Maeshowe is an unique chambered mound, and is one of the most
interesting of the many interesting antiquities of Orkney. The mound
is 36 feet high and 300 feet in circumference. The central chamber (15
feet square) is built of solid blocks of stone. The roof is of bee-hive
shape, and in the walls there are on three sides deep cells or shelves
5 or 6 feet long. It is reached by a long and narrow passage, and as
the whole is underground, it has to be explored by candle-light. The
position and the dimensions of the cells suggest a place of burial,
such as the early Britons used; but the numerous inscriptions on the
walls are Runic and Norse. There has therefore been a great deal of
discussion as to the purpose of the building; but the general belief
now is that it was originally a Pictish sepulchre, and that it was
broken into by the Norsemen after the ninth century, and was used by
them as a place of refuge, and for the concealment of treasure.
A mile and a half farther on are the two celebrated stone circles,
called respectively the Ring of Brogar and the Ring of Stenness. The
latter is the smaller, though it has given its name to the whole.
According to our own Antiquary, who accompanied the party, that circle
was 104 feet in diameter, and consisted originally of twelve stones, of
which only two are standing. The Ring of Brogar, according to the same
authority, was 340 feet in diameter, and comprised sixty stones, of
which thirteen are standing, while ten others, though they have fallen,
are still entire. We were assured that these are the finest stone
circles in Scotland, far surpassing in extent the Stones of Callernish
in Lewis, and comparing favourably with the more famous remains of
Stonehenge. As to the purpose of these circles, we were left to solve
the mystery for ourselves, being warned, however, that their connection
with Druidical worship is now discredited.
One of the most famous of these monoliths was the Stone of Odin in
the Stenness circle, now no longer erect. It was perforated by a
hole, about five feet from the ground, and was regarded with the
utmost veneration, being used (as the readers of Scott’s _Pirate_ will
remember) as the place where lovers plighted their troth by clasping
hands through the aperture. The stones in the case of both circles are
of the Old Red Sandstone formation.
[Illustration:
WEST DOORWAY
KIRKWALL
CATHEDRAL]
IX
OUR SHIP’S NAME-MOTHER
The whole party returned to the ‘Dunottar Castle’ about five o’clock,
and soon afterwards the anchor was weighed and we started on our
homeward voyage. The wind, which had been blowing fresh from the
north-west all day, fell away toward sunset, and during the night—the
only night spent in sailing—we had a wonderfully quiet passage.
About five o’clock in the morning, those who were fortunate enough to
occupy berths on the port side of the ship saw a magnificent sunrise.
The sky was clear overhead, but there was a dense bank of clouds on
the eastern horizon. Presently, in the midst of the dark mass, a
ruddy longitudinal streak appeared. Then the streak was doubled and
multiplied. The upper air glowed with opalescent tints. The clouds
melted away, and the ruddy orb of the sun appeared on the verge of the
ocean. The sea around us, and for miles away, was calm as a mirror, and
reflected the gradations of light and the fiery hues of the eastern
sky. It was an enchanting scene, such as could be witnessed only once
or twice in a lifetime.
We passed Aberdeen about six o’clock, but at too great a distance to
obtain a definite view. About breakfast-time we were off Stonehaven,
which threw back from its windows the rays of the morning sun. It
was a glorious day. Not a cloud darkened the sky, not a ripple broke
the surface of the sea except in the track of the ship. Presently we
were abreast of the ruins of Dunottar Castle, perched on its rocky
pedestal—the veritable name-mother of our ship. The breakfast-bell
was ringing (a welcome sound in ordinary circumstances), but every one
was loath to leave the deck. The order was therefore given to lie-to
until that necessary rite had been performed. Then we returned to the
deck with satisfied spirits, and gazed for half an hour or more on the
beautiful scene. Artists, photographers, and scribes were soon busily
at work, all eager to catch the fleeting beauty.
[Illustration: _Dunottar Castle._]
The detached, or semi-detached, rock on which the ruins of the Castle
stand is about two miles south of Stonehaven. It is 160 feet high,
and a deep chasm separates it, all but completely, from the mainland,
which at this point is wild and precipitous. The neighbourhood,
indeed, is a continuous series of cliffs, which are frequented by
numerous sea-birds: hence the popular name given to the coast, of the
‘Fowlesheugh.’
Here again the resources of our own Antiquary were called into
requisition, and he assured us, with the unblushing confidence of an
expert, that the name of the Castle meant in Gaelic ‘the fort of the
low promontory.’ It is easy to believe that the rock was the site of a
castle from very early times, a siege of ‘Dunfoither’ (as it was then
called) by a king of the Picts in the seventh century being on record
(681 A.D.).[1] The Castle the ruins of which remain is of course of
much later date, though its buildings belong to different ages. It
appears, from evident signs, to have covered the greater part of the
surface of the rock, which is 4½ acres in extent.
[1] See Sir Donald Currie’s _Book of Garth and Fortingall_, page 83.
Its position resembles very closely that of Tantallon Castle in the
Firth of Forth, and before the days of artillery it must have been
almost impregnable. Nevertheless, Blind Harry describes a capture of
Dunottar by William Wallace, when four thousand Englishmen were burned
in the Castle. It was re-fortified by Edward III. in 1336; but these
incidents relate to an older castle than that of which the remains
survive.
The present Castle, as far as can be ascertained, was begun by Sir
William Keith, the ‘Great Marischal of Scotland,’ towards the close of
the fourteenth century, and the lands and castle remained in the hands
of the Keith family till the Rebellion of 1715, when the owner threw
in his lot with the Pretender, and forfeited his estates. One of the
mottoes of the family was couched in the quaint and defiant words,
‘They haif said:
Quhat say they:
Lat thame say!’
When the ship received the name of the Castle, these words also were
adopted as its motto.
[Illustration: _Dunottar Castle in olden time—from an old print._]
Dunottar was besieged by the gallant Marquis of Montrose during
the great Rebellion, the Earl Marischal of that time having been
a Covenanter (1645). Montrose offered him fair terms if he would
capitulate, but the Covenanting clergymen who had taken refuge within
the Castle overruled him, as their kind overruled David Leslie at
Dunbar; and he was not allowed to surrender. Thereupon the Marquis
subjected the surrounding property to military execution, to the great
dismay of the Earl, when he saw flames and smoke rising from his
houses, and notwithstanding the assurance of Andrew Cant (ominous name)
‘that the reek would be a sweet-smelling incense in the nostrils of the
Lord.’ Evacuation followed as a matter of course.
When Charles II. visited Scotland in 1650, he was entertained in
Dunottar Castle by the seventh Earl Marischal. In the following year,
when the English Parliamentary army overran Scotland, the Scottish
Estates deposited the Regalia in Dunottar Castle, then deemed the
strongest place in the kingdom, and George Ogilvy of Barras was
appointed Lieutenant-Governor. It was besieged by Cromwell’s army, and
Ogilvy held out until famine rendered his troops mutinous, whereupon he
surrendered. Before he did so, however, the Regalia had been cleverly
removed by Mrs. Granger, the wife of the minister of Kinneff—a village
on the coast, four miles farther south. Having obtained the permission
of the English commandant to visit her friend Mrs. Ogilvy, the
Lieutenant-Governor’s wife, Mrs. Granger, carried with her, on leaving
the Castle, a bundle of clothes, in which the Crown was imbedded, and
also a huge distaff covered with lint, which was in fact formed of the
Sceptre and the Sword of State.
The same night, the precious treasures were buried by the minister
himself under the flags of his church at Kinneff; and there they
remained till after the Restoration of 1660, when they were unearthed,
and were presented to Charles II. by the same George Ogilvy who had
formerly been Commander of the Castle. Ogilvy’s only reward was the
title of Baronet, and a new coat of arms. The minister and his wife
received no reward—not even thanks. Sir John Keith, the brother of the
Earl Marischal, was made Earl of Kintore in 1677, and was the ancestor
of the present Earl, who is the tenth to hold the dignity.
After its surrender to Cromwell, the Castle was partially dismantled
and reduced to ruins. What remained of it was, like the Bass Rock,
used as a State prison for the Covenanters during the persecutions
under Charles II. and the Duke of York. One hundred and sixty-seven
men and women were imprisoned at one time in its ‘Whig’s Vault,’ or
Black Hole, and nine of them speedily died of suffocation. Driven to
despair, some twenty-five of them one night crept out of a window and
along the face of the cliff, in the hope of effecting their escape. Two
of these daring men fell over the rock and were killed. The others were
captured, and were subjected to terrible cruelties.
A few years after the forfeiture already referred to, the Castle was
sold, and was completely dismantled. It was subsequently repurchased by
the Keith family; and it passed finally into the hands of Sir Alexander
Keith, Writer, Edinburgh, whose grandson, Sir Patrick Keith Murray of
Ochtertyre, sold it in 1875 to Mr. Innes of Cowie, near Stonehaven.
Having studied the Castle and its surroundings long enough to deepen
our impressions of it, we got up steam again, and went on our way past
Bervie, with its outstanding Craig-David; past Montrose, stretched
over a level site; past Arbroath, with its tall chimneys, its spires,
and its ancient Abbey,—all seen in the dim distance, and reposing
peacefully in the Sabbath calm.
[Illustration: _Montrose—from the Sea._]
X
A DAY OF REST
At the morning service, which was held as usual in the saloon, Dr.
Cameron of Cape Town preached an eloquent and suggestive sermon from
Luke xiii. 29, ‘They shall come from the east, and from the west, and
from the north, and from the south, and shall sit down in the kingdom
of God.’ The words, he thought, were not inappropriate to the occasion;
for the company was gathered from many parts of this country, and some
of its members from distant lands. It might be said, indeed, that we
had come from the east, and from the west, from the north, and from
the south. After pointing out that the words were Christ’s real answer
to the question, ‘Are there few that be saved?’ and showing that His
restrictions applied to those who sought to enter the kingdom of God in
other ways than by the strait gate, the preacher continued:—
‘My text gives us the vision of a great commonwealth or society,
into which all worthy elements of human character are gathered up—a
kingdom of God which is at the same time a kingdom of man. And they
form a great multitude which no man can number, because fresh crowds
are ever gathering into it. “The nations of them that are saved shall
walk in the light of it.”
‘“They shall come from the East”—the land of immemorial traditions and
gorgeous imaginations, of Oriental splendour and barbaric gold: the
cradle of civilisation, and philosophy, and religion: where, a thousand
years before Christ, mystics dreamed of a blessedness which could be
reached only by those who mortified the flesh, and contemplated the
unseen glories of the spiritual world;—the East, with its patient
millions who have borne without complaint the yoke of a cruel bondage:
with its frankincense and myrrh, once laid in homage at the cradle of a
little child: with its jewelled temples raised in honour of gods many
and lords many, and its holy plains,
“Over whose acres walked those blessed feet
Which, eighteen hundred years ago, were nailed,
For our advantage, to the bitter cross.”