DEATH.
Dawn was stealing across the dun slopes of Ben Ora and the grey rocky
scalps of the Craig-na-tuirc, when I reached the crest of a hill
which overhung my mother's residence; and there I paused to draw
breath, and to survey a scene which, though familiar to me as the
features of my own face, never lost the charm of its lonely beauty.
Diminished by distance, the little thatched cottages in the glen
seemed less than molehills, but green and silent, dotting the slope
far down below, while above them rose the stupendous mountains piled
up, crest on crest, to heaven. From the humble roofs, the smoke was
beginning to ascend in long spiral columns into the clear and ambient
air, as the poor, but thrifty housewives of the glen prepared their
fires of guisse-monaye--the bogwood and black peat.
In this vast Highland solitude where I paused the breeze bore to the
ear no sound of domestic life; no sheep bleated, as of old, on the
green hill side; no horse neighed or cow lowed in the ample glen
beneath, for the poor cottagers had long since parted with all for
sustenance; but there rang the ceaseless rush of the torrent, which
plashed and glittered as it tore through the corrie; the whirr of the
plover, the hum of the heather-bee, or the distant roar of the
rutting hind, as he rose from his dewy lair among the feathery
bracken beside yonder old grey battle-cairn. Even these sounds were
faint or undefined, and all nature seemed as motionless and still, as
the stately stag with giant horns, that stood on a pinnacle of rock,
against the rosy flush of the eastern sky. He seemed to be surveying
the scene; then he moved his lofty antlers, and lo! between me and
the gorgeous blaze of light that overspread the east, and threw out
in black relief the sharp jagged outline of the rocky hill, there
rose a forest of branching antlers, as, in obedience to their king, a
noble herd of deer, calves, hinds, and harts, three thousand head and
more, stood for a minute as if to show their whole array, and then
with slow and measured steps, descended and wound down the mountain
side, until they disappeared among the sandy ravines and bushy
corries which the streams and storms of ages have torn and riven in
the bosom of Ben Ora.
There had been a great stalking expedition in the forests of the
West, and the gillies of the Marquis of Drumalbane had been driving
the deer for many miles along the shore; hence the collection of this
vast herd, but amidst its masses I could discern no trace of a
_white_ stag. Then, whence the vision of last night? Was this
animal indeed supernatural, and the harbinger of evil, as tradition
affirmed it to be?
My gloomy forebodings increased as the brilliance of morning
descended from the mountain slopes into the deep and dreamy glens,
and as I hastened down the narrow path which led to my mother's
house. No smoke was wreathing upward from its chimneys, and there
was an aspect of still life about it which surprised and alarmed me.
The door was wide open--an unusual circumstance. Anon, I saw a
number of persons hastening to and fro between the cottages of the
glen, and a little crowd of men and women gradually collected round
the house. A deadly terror smote my heart, and every pulse stood
still. Then my ears tingled, as a cry of lamentation woke the silent
echoes of the valley. I sprang down the mountain side, rushed
through the startled clachan, and at the door of the house met old
Mhari, her eyes red with weeping. She threw her arms round me.
'My mother?' I exclaimed.
'She is dying!' replied the sobbing woman, in her own figurative
language; 'she must soon be laid in the Place of Sleep, with her feet
to the rising sun.'
'Dying!' I ejaculated.
'Why protract the poor lad's misery?' said a gentleman, who wore a
suit of accurate black, with a white neckcloth, and silver
spectacles, and whom I knew to be the doctor of the district, and a
great enemy of old Mhari, for whose universal specific for all
complaints (wild garlic boiled with May butter) he had a great
contempt; 'why add to what he must suffer?--tell him at once, that he
may bear his loss like a Christian and a man. Mac Innon, your mother
is dead--God help you, my poor fellow!'
It was so--dead--and now I had not a relation, not a friend in the
world, but the poor people of the glen, to whom I was bound by the
common ties of clanship and descent. On learning that I had gone to
visit Sir Horace, and knowing well my fiery temper and proud
disposition, my mother's gentle breast had been filled by a hundred
tender anxieties and thoughts of danger. Finding herself alone for a
little space, animated by what purpose heaven only knows--perhaps by
a restless desire to breathe the fresh air of the glen for the last
time; perhaps to look for me, or perhaps to test the worth of the old
tradition, and so rid herself of a life that had become a burden;
inspired by some mysterious impulse, and endued thereby with more
than her wonted strength of thought and purpose, she had robed
herself in a plaid and wrapper, and left her bed unseen, for she was
found dead--dead on the rustic seat beside the porch, and
consequently _beyond_ the walls of the jointure-house. Here she was
found by Callum Dhu, on his returning with our doctor, a dapper
little country practitioner, whose attempts to restore animation
proved utterly unavailing.
'Dhia! Dhia!' was the exclamation of Callum; 'assuredly the curse of
the Red Priest is here!'
'Curse of--what do you say, my good man?' asked the doctor, with a
cross air of perplexity; 'it is the result of an inward complaint
under which she long laboured. She was highly
susceptible--nervous--sickly and sensitive--I was always quite
prepared for this fatal termination.'
'But you never said so till now,' retorted Callum; 'so what avails
your skill. Had she only kept _within_ the door she might have lived
long enough.'
I now felt myself above the reach of further misfortune. I had been
the mark of Fate's sharpest arrows, and a proud but fierce emotion of
defiance swelled within me for a time. Even Snaggs and the coming
terrors of the eviction were forgotten now. Thus I felt buoyed up,
as it were, by a courage gathered from the very depth of my despair;
but anon, the sense of loneliness that fell upon me was crushing and
profound.
She who for years had watched over me, as only a mother watches over
the last of her little brood; she who in age I had tended, nursed,
and consoled, with a love, like her own, the most unselfish and
unwearied, had died at last, when I was absent, and when none was
near to close her eyes--to kiss her pallid lip.
'It is a warning!' exclaimed her old nurse Mhari. 'The men of
Glentuirc are gone--those of Glen Ora must soon follow. Surd air
Suinard! chaidh Ardnamorchuan a doluidh!'[*]
[*] "Prepare Sainard, for Ardnamorchuan is gone to wreck!" a proverb.
Then came the funeral--all, all a dream to me.
The night had been dark and stormy, and in Glen Ora the keening of
the women, and the howling of the dogs, 'who knew that death was
nigh,' mingled with the wail of the bagpipe and the soughing of the
wind; and, like a dream, I see before me still the apartment hung
with white, and all its furniture shrouded in the same cold, dreary,
livery; the coffin lid bearing a vessel which contained a little
salt, and all the doors left wide open, to give free passage to the
departing spirit, which old superstition still averred was hovering
near its earthly tenement; the low-moaned songs, or the deep and
earnest lamentations of Mhari, Minnie, and other women of the glen;
the cold, stiff, and conventional prayer by the parish minister; the
wine and whisky, cake and cheese served round before 'the lifting,'
and the slow, solemn march of _Gil Chroisd_ (the servant of Christ),
which Ewen Oig and Gillespie Ruadh wailed forth on their great
mountain-pipes, as they headed the funeral procession, which departed
about sunrise for the burial-place of our tribe.
The morning dawned on murky clouds of red and amber hue, piled in
masses above Ben Ora, around whose rocky crest the ascending mist was
wreathed like a mighty cymar. The sun arose, but gloomy, pale, and
watery; and, to me, all nature seemed to wear the livery of gloom and
woe.
The day was as dreary as our errand was mournful, and slowly the
procession, which was formed by the whole male population of the
glen, in number about a hundred men and boys, the aged supporting
themselves on their staffs, and leading their grandchildren by the
hand, wound over the hills, communing together on the virtues of the
deceased, and of that olden time, to which a falling people ever look
fondly back, as a faded woman to the days of her beauty--as the aged
to the days of their youth.
All the funeral arrangements were conducted in the modern, rather
than the ancient, Highland fashion. Old Sergeant Ian Mac Raonuil,
who had served with my father in the Black Watch, had the charge of
marshalling the procession, and at certain distances on the road he
regularly cried 'halt-relief,' when four fresh men hastened forward
to bear the coffin, which was carried for four miles on the shoulders
of our people, until we reached the place of interment, on the shore
of a great salt loch, or arm of the sea.
The day was still lowering; the sounding sea of the stormy Hebrides
dashed its waves on the echoing beach; the eternal mist, like a
mighty shroud, rolled along the drenched hills and dripping heather;
and through it, as through a veil, the joyless sun, shorn of his
rays, seemed at times to hang in mid air, like an obscured lamp. Our
hearts were heavy indeed. Even the Lowland Scots are peculiarly
liable to be impressed by the appearance of nature at all times;
then, at such a time of sorrow and foreboding, how much more so were
we, who were bred among the stupendous scenery of the North, and by
our race and habits were the creatures of strong and gloomy
imaginations! And then the slow, sad, and wailing march of _Gil
Chroisd_; how mournfully it rang between the silent mountains, and
woke the echoes of that lonely shore, where the long-legged heron, or
the gigantic sea-horse, were brooding on the slippery rocks, and
where the wiry Scottish pines cast their shadow on the breakers!
At a place named Coil-chro, or the Wood-of-hazel-nuts, a turn of the
path, as it wound over the headland, brought us in view of a
gentleman and two ladies on horseback, attended by a smart mounted
servant, clad in a grey surtout, and accoutred with a leather girdle,
laced hat, and black cockade. The gentleman dismounted, and with
much politeness and good feeling, in imitation of the local custom,
remained on foot with head uncovered while the procession passed by.
At a glance I recognized Captain Clavering in this polite stranger,
and under the broad hats of the ladies the soft features of his
bright-eyed sister and the gentle Miss Everingham. It was at this
moment that old Mac Raonuil cried 'halt-relief!' and while a change
took place in the bearers, Laura, whose eyes were full of tears,
brought her horse close to me, and holding out her gloved hand,
pressed and patted mine with great frankness and kindly sympathy.
'Heaven help you, poor Mr. Mac Innon,' she said; 'we all deplore your
bereavement, and feel only remorse and shame for the severity with
which my angry papa----but what can _I_ do?'
I kissed her hand, and she did not withdraw it; while the beautiful
expression that filled her eyes, to which her half-drooping lids lent
a wonderful sweetness, made my heart swell with tenderness and
gratitude; for human sympathy was doubly valuable, and hers was
doubly dear to me at a time so terrible; but again the shrill notes
of the wild pipe struck up--again the solemn procession went forward,
and a turn of the road hid Laura from my view--yet her eyes seemed
before me still, and her voice was lingering in my car.
A half mile further on brought us to the ancient burial-ground; it
was circular and surrounded by a low ruined wall of rough dry stones,
as it had once been a Druidical circle. Here the grass grew with
peculiar richness and rankness, for the dead of more than two
thousand years lay there. Old stones, graven with quaint runes, lay
half sunk, amid the moss and nettles, like the Celtic cross that
marked where the Christianized Scot had laid his dust in the same
grave with his pagan fathers, who had worshipped the God of Day and
the Spirit of Loda. Close by stood an old chapel of the Kuldei,
dedicated to St. Colme, the Abbot of Iona. It had been a ruin since
the Spaniards, under the loyal and noble Marquis of Tullibardine, had
landed in Glensheil, and fought the Government troops early in the
last century; but a vaulted corner of this venerable fane was still
used as a chapel by the poor Catholic Gael of the district. Here a
rough deal table served them for an altar; a rough crucifix, and six
candles, in clay holders, stood thereon, with a few garlands of
freshly-gathered wild flowers, while heather was spread before it for
those who chose to kneel. Near it was a miserable hut, or wigwam,
where Father Raoul Beg Mac Donuil (_i.e._, Little Father Ronald, the
son of Donald), a priest from the Scottish College at Valladolid,
dwelt in prayer, penury, and misery; for among the poor clansmen of
the impoverished and almost desolate West, the labours of the
Catholic clergy are indeed the labour of love and self-denial.
Three Mac Innons had been Abbots of Iona, and one of them built this
chapel. In ancient times, when one of the house of Glen Ora died, a
grave was found in the morning ready dug; but by whose hands no
mortal knew--for none had ever dared to watch so said old tradition;
but even this mysterious sexton had left the country, unable perhaps,
as Callum Dhu affirmed, to breathe the air that was infected by
factors, gangers, and rural police.
Before entering the burying-ground we performed the deasuil, and went
round it _with the sun_. The people insisted on this, and I had no
wish or will but theirs; besides, the Celt is a great stickler for
ancient customs. The parish minister permitted Father Raoul to say a
prayer at the grave, for she who was gone had ever been kind to him,
as a priest of that faith in which her forefathers had lived and
died; and it is a noble feature in the Highland character, that
neither priestcraft, rancour, nor bigotry could ever warp or sever
the kindly ties of blood and clanship.
The Place of Sleep, or, as some still named it as in the Druid days,
The Place of the Stones, was one of those old yew-shaded graveyards
which still remain in many a desolate glen, to mark where our
expatriated people were wont to lay their dead. Here we lowered her
into the narrow house.
A little shovelling, a little batting of sods, every stroke on which
went home to my aching heart, an uncovering of heads--a little time,
and all was over. I felt more than ever alone in the world--for a
recollection was all that remained to me of my mother--my last
relative on this side of that remorseless grave.
The minister patted me on the shoulder--the old priest shook me
kindly by the hand, and led me away. In vain did they tell me, in
hackneyed phrase, that those whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth; my
rebellious spirit spurned the stereotyped idea. I felt myself a
beggar and a lonely outcast--that all was over now, that every human
tie which bound me to my home (but had I now a home?) was torn
asunder for ever!
Omens of evil, such as serve to feed the superstitious mind, and to
make a deep impression on a people so filled with poetry and wild
fancies as our unlettered Gael, had not been wanting, as forerunners
of these calamities; and these omens had been duly remarked by the
aged dwellers in our glen, as the sure forerunners of direful events.
In the preceding winter, when the country was covered by snow,
Gillespie Ruadh and others averred, that early one morning they
discovered marks of the feet or talons of a gigantic bird, each
impression being at least twenty yards apart. These tremendous
footmarks were traced across the glen, and over Ben Ora, from the
loch to the sea shore, where all trace of them was lost in the
flowing tide. On hearing of this marvel, I hurried to the spot, but
a fresh fall of snow had obliterated these strange marks, which were
declared to indicate a departure of our people towards the western
sea.
Moreover of late, the white stag had been frequently seen, and had
even ventured to approach the lights in our cottage windows.
This animal, which the most expert of our foresters had failed to
slay, was a tall, powerful, and gigantic stag, with antlers of
remarkable size and beauty--royal antlers--_i.e._ having three points
on each horn. These proud appendages it _never_ cast; at least none
had ever been found. According to the unvarying story of the
hunters, stalkers, and keepers, it was known to have been in
existence for more than two hundred and fifty years; for Lachlan
Mohr's father, Torquil Mac Innon, who was slain by an arrow at the
battle of Benrinnes (excuse this antiquarianism, good reader, but
your Welshmen, Celts and Irishmen, are full of such old memories),
wounded it in the right ear, the half of which he shot away.
Thereafter a fleet and fierce, but stately white stag, minus an ear,
had roved, and was now affirmed to be roving, in the woods of Glen
Ora.
If this was indeed the same that Torquil covered with his long
Spanish arquebus, it must have rivalled those of Juvenal, or the
hawks of Ælian, which lived for seven hundred years. Be this as it
may, if on the shores of Lochtreig there was a white stag which never
died, why should there not be another on the shores of Loch Ora? this
was deemed unanswerable.
The swift white stag which now haunted the woods of the Mac Innons
was certainly (as I had often seen by my telescope) minus the ear
which tradition alleged old Torquil shot away; and this miraculous
animal was affirmed to be the same which had passed the tent of
Lachlan in the night before he was slain at Worcester, and which
appeared before the calamities of Culloden. It had been visible
often of late, and the poor unlettered Gael of the glen spoke of it
in whispers one to another as a certain warning of the total ruin
about to overtake them.