<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX.</h2>
<div class="blockquot">
<p><span class="firstword">Highland</span> ferries and coaches. The charms of Iona. How
to see Staffa. The Outer Hebrides. Stones of Callernish.
St. Kilda. Sound of Harris. The Cave-massacre in Eigg.
Skeleton from a clan fight still unburied in Jura. The hermit
of Jura. Peculiar charms of the Western Isles. Influence
of the clergy on the cheerfulness of the Highlanders. Disappearance
of Highland customs. Dispersing of clans from
their original districts. Dying out of Gaelic; advantages of
knowing some Gaelic; difficulties of the language.</p>
</div>
<p class="in0"><span class="firstword">In</span> continuation of the Highland reminiscences
contained in the last chapter, reference may
here be made to some further characteristics
of the Western Isles, and to a few of the
more marked changes which, during the last
half century, have affected the Highlands as a
whole.</p>
<p>Fifty years ago Highland ferries were much
more used than at the present day, when
railways and steamers have so greatly reduced
the number of stage-coaches and post-horses.
These little pieces of navigation across rivers,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">240</span>
estuaries, and sea-lochs, afforded ample scope
for certain Celtic idiosyncrasies. The ferryman
could, as occasion served, contract his knowledge
of English, and on one pretext or another
contrive to exact more than the legal or reasonable
fare, remaining imperturbably insensible
to the complaints and remonstrances of the
passengers. An illustrative story is told by
Dr. Norman Macleod in his charming <cite>Reminiscences
of a Highland Parish</cite>. A Highland
friend of his who had been so long absent in
India that he had lost the accent, but not the
language of his native region, had reached
one of these ferries on his way home, and
asked one of the boatmen in English what
the charge was. The question being repeated
in Gaelic by the man to his elder comrade,
the answer came back at once in the same
language, ‘Ask the Sassenach ten shillings.’
‘He says,’ explained the interpreter to the
supposed Englishmen, ‘he is sorry he cannot
do it under twenty shillings, and that’s cheap.’
No reply was made to this extortion at the
moment, but as the boat sailed across, the
gentleman spoke to the men in good Gaelic.
Whereupon, instead of taking shame to himself
for his attempted cheat, the spokesman
turned the tables on the traveller: ‘I am<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">241</span>
ashamed of you,’ he said, ‘I am, indeed, for
I see you are ashamed of your country; och,
och, to pretend to me that you were an
Englishman! You deserve to pay <em>forty</em> shillings—but
the ferry, is only five!’</p>
<div class="sidenote">HIGHLAND FERRYMEN</div>
<p>On another occasion, when a sea-loch had
to be crossed where strong currents swung the
ferry-boat round and some manoeuvring with
the oars was required, the chief ferryman kept
saying, ‘Furich, Donald,’ to the one assistant,
and ‘Furich, Angus,’ to the other. At the
other side of the loch the passenger paid the
fare and then said to the ferryman, ‘Now, I’ll
give you another shilling if you will tell me
what you mean by “Furich, furich,” which I
have heard you say so often in the passage
across. It must surely have many different
meanings.’ The coin was duly pocketed and
the Highlander thus deliberately explained:
‘Ah, it’s ta English of ta Gaelic “furich” ’at
you wass wantin’ to know. Well, I’ll tell you;
it’s meanin’ “Wait,” “Stop”; och ay, it means
“Howld on,” “Niver do the day what you can
by any possibeelity put off till to-morrow.”’</p>
<p>I was once crossing in an open rowing boat
from Skye to Raasay, propelled by two men,
a younger Highlander, who sat nearest to me,
and an elderly man on the bench beyond.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">242</span>
The latter was dressed in a kilt, and with his
unkempt locks and rugged features, made a
singularly picturesque figure. My neighbour
caught my eye now and then fixed on his
comrade, and at last he broke silence with a
question:</p>
<p>‘You’re looking at Sandy, sir, I see?’</p>
<p>‘Yes, he is well worth looking at. He must
be an old man, though he seems to pull his
oar well still.’</p>
<p>‘Ay, I’m sure, he’s an auld man noo. But
ye wass hearin’ o’ Sandy afore?’</p>
<p>‘No, I don’t think I have ever seen or heard
of him before. What about him?’</p>
<p>‘D’ye mean, sir, railly noo, that you never
heard tell o’ Sandy o’ the Braes?’</p>
<p>‘No, really, I never did. What is he famous
for?’</p>
<p>‘Ochan! Ochan! wass ye never kennin’
aboot his medal?’</p>
<p>‘Medal! no, so he is an old soldier is he?
What battle was he at?’</p>
<p>‘Sodger! He’s never been at ony battles,
for he wass never oot o’ Skye and the islands.’</p>
<p>‘But how did he come to get a medal, then?’</p>
<p>‘Just to think that ye wass never hearin’ o’
that! Weel, ye see, there’s some Society in
Embro, I wass thinkin’ they call it the “Heeland<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">243</span>
Society,” and they gied Sandy a medal, for
he wass never wearin’ onythin’ but a kilt all
his days.’</p>
<div class="sidenote">HIGHLAND STAGE-COACHMEN</div>
<p>Besides the ferrymen, the drivers of the old
Highland coaches included some quaint characters,
who have disappeared with the vehicles
which they drove, and occasionally capsized.
Half a century ago the coach that ran between
Lochgoilhead and St. Catherine’s through the
pass known as ‘Hell’s Glen’ was driven by
a facetious fellow, one of whose delights was
to make fun at the expense of his English
passengers. One day when he had brought
the coach to the top of the pass and halted
the horses, he got down, remarking to an
English lady who sat on the box seat beside
him, and on whom the brunt of his sarcasms
had fallen, that if now this place had been
in England, he would doubtless have to
search a long time before he could find a
bit of old leather to stick into the drag for
the run down hill. Looking under a stone
he pulled out an old shoe, which of course
he had placed there on a previous journey,
and which he now held up as a proof of
the great superiority of Scotland. Some
weeks afterwards, a barrel arrived addressed
to him. As he was not accustomed to such<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">244</span>
presents, he opened it with not a little excitement.
Pulling out some straw he saw a large
paper parcel inside, and after removing a
succession of coverings, came at last upon a
small packet carefully sealed. He felt sure it
must be something of great value from the
pains that had been taken to protect it. So
he opened it with trembling hands and found
that it contained—a pair of old shoes, with
the compliments of the lady whom he had
made his butt.</p>
<p>Among the Western Isles two of small size
have attained a distinguished celebrity—Staffa
and Iona. Three times a week in the summer
season, a large and miscellaneous crowd is
disembarked upon each of them from Macbrayne’s
steamboat, which, starting from Oban
in the morning, makes the round of Mull, and
returns in the evening. If any one desires
that the spell of these two islets should fall
fully upon him, let him avoid that way of
seeing them. They should each be visited in
quietude, and with ample time to enjoy them.
There is a ferry from the Mull shore to Iona,
and in the Sound a stout boat or smack may
usually be obtained for the voyage to Staffa.</p>
<div class="sidenote">IONA</div>
<p>I once spent a delightful week in Iona,
where a comfortable inn serves as excellent<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">245</span>
headquarters for the stay. There was a copy
there of Reeve’s edition of Adamnan’s <cite>Life
of Saint Columba</cite>. Reading the volume where
it was written, and amidst the very localities
which it describes, and where the saint lived
and died, one gets so thoroughly into the
spirit of the place, the present seems to fade
so far away, and the past to shine out again
so clearly, that as one traces the faint lines
of the old monastic enclosure, the mill-stream
and the tracks which the monks must have
followed in their errands over the island, one
would hardly be surprised to meet the famous
white horse and even the gentle Columba himself.
But, apart from its overpowering historic
interest, Iona has the charm of most exquisite
beauty and variety in its topography. Its
western coast, rugged and irregular, has been
cut into bays, clefts, and headlands by the
full surge of the open Atlantic. Its eastern
side is flanked by the broad, smooth, calm
Sound, which, where it catches the reflection
of a cloudless sky, rivals the Mediterranean
in the depth of its blue; while towards the
north, where the water shallows over acres of
white shell-sand, it glistens with the green of
an emerald. Then, as if to form a fitting
background to this blaze of colour, the granite<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">246</span>
of the opposite shores of Mull glows with a
warm pink hue as if it were ever catching
the reflection of a gorgeous sunset. For
wealth and variety of tints, I know of no spot
of the same size to equal this isle of the
saints.</p>
<div class="sidenote">STAFFA</div>
<p>If Iona seems to be profaned by a crowd
of gaping tourists (I always crossed to the
west side of the island on steamboat days),
Staffa, on other grounds, no less requires
solitude and leisure. The famous cave is
undoubtedly the most striking, but there are
other caverns well worthy of examination.
The whole coast of the island indeed is full of
interest, from the point of view both of scenery
and of geology. It combines on a small scale
the general type of the cliffs of Mull and
Skye, with this advantage that, as the rocks
shelve down into deep water, they can be
approached quite closely. My first visit was
made in a smack, which I found anchored at
Bunessan, in Mull, and from which I got a
boat and a couple of men, who pulled me
slowly round the whole of the shore, stopping
at every point which interested either myself
or my crew. My eyes were intent on the
forms and structure of the cliffs; theirs were
directed to the ledges where they saw any<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">247</span>
young cormorants crowded. They scrambled
up the slippery faces of rock, and seizing
the birds, which were not yet able to fly,
pitched them into the bottom of the boat.
These captures, however, were not made
without some loss of blood to the huntsmen,
for the birds, though they had not gained
the use of their wings, knew how to wield
their beaks with good effect. I was told that
young cormorants make excellent hare-soup,
and for this use the men took them. A less
legitimate cause of stoppage was found in the
desire to pull up the lobster creels, of which
we saw the corks floating on the surface of
the water. Several pots were examined, and
I am sorry to say that, in spite of a mild
protest on my part against this act of piracy
on the open sea, some of the best of their
contents were abstracted. The boatmen could
not understand why I should decline to share
in the spoil. Two or three years ago I
landed on Staffa with the captain and officers
and a few of the crew of the Admiralty surveying
vessel, ‘Research.’ Some forty years had
intervened between the two landings. I found
the place to be no longer in its primitive
state of wild nature. Ropes and railings and
steps had been placed for the comfort and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">248</span>
convenience of the summer crowd—a laudable
object, no doubt, but I prefer to remember
these cliffs when they showed no trace of the
presence of the nineteenth century tourist.</p>
<p>From the west side of Skye the chain of the
Outer Hebrides can be seen in one long line of
blue hills rising out of the sea at a distance
of some five and twenty miles. The outlines
of these hills had long been familiar to me
before I had an opportunity of actually visiting
them. In later years, thanks to the hospitality
of my friend Mr. Henry Evans, of Ascog, I
have made many delightful cruises among
them in his steam yacht ‘Aster,’ of 250 tons,
and have been enabled to sail</p>
<div class="poetry-container pw30">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">Round the moist marge of each cold Hebrid isle.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<div class="sidenote">STANDING STONES OF CALLERNISH</div>
<p>One of his favourite anchorages has been
Loch Roag, on the west side of Lewis, where
the typical scenery of these islands is well displayed—a
hummocky surface of rounded rocky
knolls, separated by innumerable lakelets and
boggy or peaty hollows, or green crofter-holdings,
the land projecting seawards in many
little promontories, and the sea sprinkled with
islets. On one of the cruises, we landed and
examined with some care the famous stones of
Callernish—the most numerous group of standing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">249</span>
stones in the British Islands. Seen from the
sea on a grey misty day, they look like a company
of stoled carlines met in council. On a
near view, they are found to be disposed in
the figure of a cross and circle, the longer
limb of the cross being directed about ten
degrees east of north. The monoliths consist
of between 40 and 50 slabs of flaggy gneiss,
the largest being 17 to 18 feet in height.
It was interesting to observe that after the
purpose for which they were erected had perhaps
been forgotten, boggy vegetation began to
spread over the ground and form a layer of
peat, which, in the course of centuries, increased
to a depth of six feet or more; the lower portions
of the upright monoliths were thus buried
in the peat. The late proprietor had this vegetable
growth removed, so as to lay bare the
original surface of the ground; but the upper
limit of the turbary could still be traced in
the bleached aspect of that lower part of the
stones which had been covered by the peat,
the organic acids of the decaying vegetation
having removed much of the colouring material
of the gneiss. How long this accumulation
of peat took to form must be matter for
conjecture.</p>
<p>Loch Roag makes a convenient starting point<span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">250</span>
for St. Kilda, to which I have several times
crossed in the ‘Aster.’ From the higher eminences
around this loch the top of St. Kilda
may be seen in clear weather, the distance
being not more than about 50 miles. But it is
the open Atlantic which lies between, and the
anchorage of St. Kilda is not good, there being
only one available bay, from which, however, a
vessel had better at once depart if the wind
should shift into the south-east. On one of our
visits we were fortunate in finding the weather
calm and sunny, so that it was possible to pull in
an open boat round the base of the cliffs. And
such cliffs and crests! It is as if a part of the
mountain group of Skye had been set down in
mid-ocean—the same purple-black rocks as in
the Cuillin Hills, split into similar clefts, and
shooting up into the same type of buttresses,
recesses, obelisks, and pinnacles, and in the lofty
hill of Conacher, the conical forms and pale
tints of the Red Hills. But it is the bird life
which most fascinates a visitor. In the nesting
season, the air is alive with wings and with all
the varied cries of northern sea-fowl, while
every ledge and cornice of the precipices has
its feathered occupants. Each species keeps to
its own part of the cliff. The puffins swarm in
the crannies below, while higher up come the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">251</span>
guillemots, razor-bills, and kittiwakes. The
gannets breed on the smaller islets of the
group. We could watch the sure-footed natives
making their way along ledges which,
seen from below, seemed impracticable even
to goats. These men, however, from early
boyhood</p>
<div class="poetry-container pw25">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">Along th’ Atlantic rock, undreading, climb,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And of its eggs despoil the solan’s nest.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<div class="sidenote">ST. KILDA</div>
<p>In ascending one of the crags on the west
side of St. Kilda I was fortunate enough to
come, unperceived, within a few yards of some
fulmars, and had a good look at these most
characteristic birds of this island. They yield
a strongly odoriferous musky oil, of which the
natives make much use, and of which every
one of them smells. In passing between
the main island and Boreray, we sailed
under a vast circle of those majestic birds,
the gannets, wheeling and diving into the
sea all around us. After swallowing their
catch they bent their wings upward to rejoin
the circle, and make a fresh swoop into the
deep. While watching this magnificent meteor-like
bird-play, we were surprised by the
appearance of three whales, parents and son,
which slowly made their way underneath the
swarm of gannets. It seemed as if the backs<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">252</span>
of these huge animals could hardly escape
being transfixed by some of the crowd of descending
bills, but we could trace their leisurely
and unmolested course by the columns of spray
which they blew out into the air every time
they came up to breathe.</p>
<p>One of the most curious sea-inlets in the
Outer Hebrides is the passage known as the
Sound of Harris—a tortuous channel between
the Long Island and North Uist, strewn with
islets and rocks, and giving a passage to
powerful tides. The navigation of this Sound
is extremely intricate, and needs good weather
and daylight. On one of my cruises to St.
Kilda the open sea had been rather rough, but
once inside the archipelago, the water became
rapidly smooth, showing only the swirl and
foam of the tidal currents that sweep to and
fro between the Minch and the Atlantic. At
the eastern end of the Sound stands the nearly
perfect ancient church of Rodil—an interesting
relic of the ecclesiastical architecture which
followed that of the Celtic church.</p>
<div class="sidenote">WEST HIGHLAND CASTLES</div>
<p>As one moves about among the Western
Highlands and Isles, now so peaceful, and in
many places so sparsely peopled, it is difficult
to realise the conditions of life there two or
three centuries ago, when the population was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">253</span>
not only more numerous, but was subdivided
into clans, often at feud with each other. Of
these unhappy times many strikingly picturesque
memorials remain in the castles perched
on crags and knolls all along the shores. Most
of these buildings were obviously meant mainly
for defence, but some suggest that the chiefs
who erected them sought convenient places
from which to attack their neighbours, or to
sally forth against passing vessels. Each of
them, strongly constructed of local stone, and
of lime which must often have been brought
from a distance, might have seemed designed
to be</p>
<div class="poetry-container pw25">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent2">A forted residence ’gainst the tooth of time</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And razure of oblivion.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="in0">But almost without exception they are now in
ruins. The tourist who would try to picture to
himself what these fortalices meant, should sail
through the Sound of Mull and note the succession
of them on either side, from Duart at
the one end to Mingarry at the other. Dunvegan,
in Skye, the ancient stronghold of the
Macleods, which still remains in good preservation
and inhabited, affords an idea of the aspect
of the more important of these strengths in old
times. But many of them were little more
than square keeps, strong enough, however, to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">254</span>
withstand sudden assault, and even to endure a
siege, as long as provisions held out.</p>
<p>Other memorials of ancient strife and bloodshed,
less conspicuous than the castles, but
even more impressive, may here and there be
found, which bring the brutal realities of
savagedom vividly before the eyes. Within
my own recollection, Professor Macpherson,
then proprietor of Eigg, gathered together
the skulls and scattered bones in the cave on
that island where some 200 Macdonalds, men,
women, and children, were smothered alive by
an invading band of Macleods, who kindled
brushwood against the cave-mouth. For nearly
three hundred years these ghastly relics of
humanity had lain unburied where the victims
fell, and might be kicked and crushed by the
careless feet of any inquisitive visitor. Even
now, although every care has been taken to
remove them, stray vestiges of the massacre
may perchance still be found on the rough
dank floor of the dark cavern. From the
mouldering straw and heath I picked up,
many years ago, the finger-bone of a child.</p>
<div class="sidenote">AN UNBURIED SKELETON</div>
<p>The tragic fate of the Macdonalds of
Eigg is a well-known event. But here and
there one comes upon relics of unchronicled
slaughters. The most impressive of these<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">255</span>
which I have ever met with is to be found
on the west side of Jura. In a cruise round
this island in the ‘Aster’ with Mr. Evans,
we were accompanied by Miss Campbell of
Jura, who, in the course of a talk about clan-battles
in the Highlands, referred to the last
raid that had been made on Jura, where,
according to tradition, a party of Macleans had
landed and were opposed by Campbells. She
added that the skeleton of one of the Macleans
who was slain lies on the moor still. On my
expressing some incredulity as to this last
statement, she assured me that it was true, and
that I might verify it with my own eyes. So
the yacht was turned into a little indentation
of the coast, at the head of which stood a
shepherd’s cottage. We landed from the long
boat, and the shepherd, recognising the party,
came down to meet us. Miss Campbell asked
him where the skeleton was, and he pointed
to an overhanging piece of rock about a
hundred yards from where we were standing.
On reaching this spot, we found a few rough
stones lying at the foot of the low crag.
These the man, stooping down, gently removed,
and below them lay the bleached
bones. We took up the skull, which was
well formed and must have belonged to a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">256</span>
full-grown man. A piece of bone about the
size of half-a-crown had, evidently by the sweep
of a claymore, been sliced off the top of the
skull, leaving a clean, smooth cut. This
wound, however, had not been considered
enough, for the head had been cleft by a
subsequent stroke of the weapon, and there
was the gash in the bone, as sharply defined
as on the day the deed was done. We gently
replaced the bones, with the stones above
them, and there they remain as a memorial
of ‘battles long ago.’<SPAN name="FNanchor_24" href="#Footnote_24" class="fnanchor">24</SPAN></p>
<div class="sidenote">LEGENDS IN JURA</div>
<p>The west side of Jura is pierced by many
caves, which were worn by the sea at a remote
period when the land stood somewhat lower
than it does now. At the far end of one of
these caves a human skull is said to lie. This
grim relic has more than once been removed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">257</span>
and buried, but always in some mysterious
manner finds its way back again. Nothing
appears to be known of its history, and nobody
likes to say much about it. If it exists at
all, its return to its cavern may be due to a
superstitious feeling on the part of the natives,
some one of whom secretly transfers it back
to what is regarded as its rightful resting-place.
These Jura caves are the scenes of certain
weird legends where a black dog, a phantom
hand, and a company of ghostly women perform
some wonderful feats.<SPAN name="FNanchor_25" href="#Footnote_25" class="fnanchor">25</SPAN></p>
<p>When I first visited the island in 1860, the
proprietor of Jura was a keen deer-stalker, and
used to live for a day or two at a time in one
of these caves, when his sport took him over
to that side of the island. On one occasion
a party of ladies from an English yacht, then
at anchor in the inlet, had landed, and in
passing the mouth of the cave had noticed the
laird inside, whom they took to be a hermit,
retired from the vanities of this world. Pitying
his forlorn condition and the necessarily scanty
supply of food which he could scrape together
in so wild a place, they, on their return to
the yacht, very kindly made up a basket of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">258</span>
provisions and sent it ashore for his sustenance.
Next morning, before the anchor was weighed,
a boat came alongside with a gamekeeper, who
had brought a haunch of venison for the owners
of the yacht, with the thanks and compliments
of Campbell, of Jura.</p>
<div class="sidenote">CHARM OF THE WEST HIGHLANDS</div>
<p>I cannot pass from the subject of these
Western Isles and the adjacent part of the
mainland without a reference to their indescribable
charm, and an expression of my own
profound indebtedness to them for many of
the happiest hours of my life. To appreciate
that charm one must live for a while amidst
the scenery, and learn to know its infinite diversity
of aspect under the changing moods of
the sky. The tourist who is conveyed through
this scenery in the swift steamer on a grey,
rainy day, naturally inveighs against the climate,
and carries away with him only a recollection
of dank fog through which the blurred
bases of the nearer hills could now and then
be seen. Nor, even if he is favoured with the
finest weather when, under a cloudless heaven,
every island may stand out sharply in the
clear air, and every mountain, corrie, and glen
on the mainland may be traced from the edge
of the crisp blue sea up to the far crests and
peaks, can he realise on such a day how different<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">259</span>
these same scenes appear when the atmospheric
vapour begins to show its kaleidoscopic
transformations. Having sailed along a good
part of the coast of Europe, including Norway
and the Aegean Sea, I am convinced, that for
variety of form, the west coast of Scotland is
unsurpassed on the Continent, while for manifold
range and brilliance of colour it has no
equal. One who has passed a long enough
time amidst this scenery, more especially if he
has made his home upon the water, sailing
across firth and sound, threading the narrows
of the kyles, and passing from island to island,
can watch how the very forms of the hills
seem to vary from hour to hour as the atmospheric
conditions change. Features that were
unobserved in the full blaze of sunlight come
out one by one, pencilled into prominence by
the radiant glow of their colour, as the cloud-shadows
fall behind them. In the early morning,
when the sun climbs above the Invernessshire
and Argyleshire mountains and the mists
ascend in white wreaths from the valleys, there
is presented to the eye a vast and varied
panorama, comprising the highest and most
broken ground in the British Isles, rising
straight out of the Atlantic. In the evening,
when the sun sets behind the islands, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">260</span>
the hills, transfigured by the mingled magic
of sunlight, vapour, rain and cloud, glow
with such luminous hues as almost to be lost
in the glories of the heaven, one feels that
surely ‘earth has not anything to show more
fair.’</p>
<p>Wandering through these scenes, one’s mind
comes to be filled with a succession of vivid
pictures printed so indelibly on the memory
that, even after long years,</p>
<div class="poetry-container pw20">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">In vacant or in pensive mood,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">They flash upon that inward eye</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Which is the bliss of solitude.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="in0">Among these mental impressions some stand
out with especial prominence in my own
memory. Such is a sunset seen from the top
of the lighthouse on Cape Wrath when, above
the far ocean-horizon, there rose a mass of
cloud, piled up into the semblance of mountains
and valleys, with sleeping lakes and bosky
woods, castle-crowned crags and one fair
city with its streets and stately buildings,
its steeples and spires. The late Professor
Renard of Ghent, had accompanied me to that
far north-western headland, and we amused
ourselves naming the various parts of the
topography of this gorgeous aerial Atlantis.
Another memorable sunset was seen from the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">261</span>
Observatory on the top of Ben Nevis, when
the chain of the Outer Hebrides, at a distance
of a hundred miles, stretched like a strip of
sapphire against a pale golden sky. Next
morning a white mist spread all over the lower
hills like a wide sea, with the higher peaks
rising like islets above its level surface.
Through all these memories of landscape there
runs, as a tender undertone, the recollection of
the human interest of the scenes. One’s mind
recalls the fading relics of ancient paganism,
the devoted labours of the Celtic saints who
first brought the rudiments of civilisation to
these shores, the coming of the vikings from
the northern seas, the feuds and massacres of
the clans. The landscapes seem to be vocal
with the pathos of Celtic legend and song,
and with the romance of later literature,</p>
<div class="poetry-container pw25">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">In each low wind methinks a spirit calls,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And more than echoes talk along the walls.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<div class="sidenote">ORIGIN OF HIGHLAND DEMURENESS</div>
<p>The demureness of the Scottish Highlander
appears to have been in large measure developed
during last century, and especially
since the Disruption of the National Church
and the domination of the Free Kirk. At
the time of the Reformation and for many
generations afterwards, he was wont on Sunday
to play games—throwing the stone, tossing the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">262</span>
caber, shinty, foot-races, horse-races, together
with music and dance. It was formerly usual
for him to be able to play on some musical
instrument; in older times on the harp and in
later days on the pipes, the fiddle, or at least
the Jew’s harp. Writing in 1773 Mrs. Grant
of Laggan averred that in the Great Glen
‘there is a musician in every house, and a
poet in every hamlet.’ In 1811 she could
still say, ‘there are few houses in the Highlands
where there is not a violin.’<SPAN name="FNanchor_26" href="#Footnote_26" class="fnanchor">26</SPAN> Whereever
there was a good story-teller, or one
who could recite the old poems, songs, tales,
legends, and histories of former times, the
neighbours would gather round him in the
evenings and listen for hours to his narratives.
These customs continued in practice until the
early part of last century, and some of them
still sparingly survive among the Catholic
islands of the Hebrides. But the Presbyterian
clergy in later times have waged ceaseless
war against them. ‘The good ministers
and the good elders preached against them
and went among the people and besought
them to forsake their follies and to return to
wisdom. They made the people break and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">263</span>
burn their pipes and fiddles. If there was a
foolish man here and there who demurred, the
good ministers and the good elders themselves
broke and burnt their instruments, saying</p>
<div class="poetry-container pw35">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">Better is the small fire that warms on the little day of peace</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Than the big fire that burns on the great day of wrath.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="in0">The people have forsaken their follies and
their Sabbath-breaking, and there is no pipe
and no fiddle here now.’<SPAN name="FNanchor_27" href="#Footnote_27" class="fnanchor">27</SPAN></p>
<div class="sidenote">CLERICAL RAIDS AGAINST FIDDLES</div>
<p>The same sympathetic observer from whose
pages these words are taken has given the
following illustrative example of the clerical
methods: ‘A famous violin-player died in
the island of Eigg a few years ago. He was
known for his old-style playing and his old-world
airs, which died with him. A preacher
denounced him, saying, “Thou art down there
behind the door, thou miserable man with thy
grey hair, playing thine old fiddle, with the
cold hand without, and the devil’s fire within.”
His family pressed the man to burn his fiddle<span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">264</span>
and never to play again. A pedlar came
round and offered ten shillings for the violin.
The instrument had been made by a pupil
of Stradivarius, and was famed for its tone.
“It was not at all the thing that was got for
it,” said the old man, “that grieved my heart
so sorely, but the parting with it! the parting
with it! and that I myself gave the best cow
in my father’s fold for it when I was young.”
The voice of the old man faltered, and the
tear fell. He was never seen to smile again.’<SPAN name="FNanchor_28" href="#Footnote_28" class="fnanchor">28</SPAN>
Taught to think their ancient tales foolish
and their music and dancing sinful, the people
have gradually lost much of the gaiety which
with other branches of the Celtic race they
once possessed.</p>
<div class="sidenote">HIGHLAND SONGS</div>
<p>One who was familiar with the Highlands in
the middle of last century will be struck with
the further decay or disappearance of various
customs which even then were evidently fading
out of use. Of these vanished characteristics,
one of the most distinctive, whose loss is
most regrettable, was the practice, once universal,
of singing Gaelic songs during operations
that required a number of men or women,
working together, to keep time in their movements.
This picturesque usage appears to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">265</span>
have died out on the mainland, though it
still survives among the Catholic islands of
the Outer Hebrides. There were many such
songs, each having a marked rhythm, to which
it was easy to adjust the motions of the limbs.
I have already referred to the boat-songs that
kept the rowers in time. Besides these,
there were songs for reaping and other labour
in the field. Indoors, too, each kind of work,
wherein two or more persons had to move in
unison, had its music. Thus when two women
grind corn with the quern or handmill, as they
still do in some of the Outer Isles, they move
to the rhythm of a monotonous chant. When
they thicken (wauk) homespun cloth, they
keep themselves in time by singing—a practice
which may also still be heard among the
Catholic parts of the Hebrides. I have only
once seen the quern in use, but when I first
visited Skye, the songs still continued to be
sung, though not as accompaniments to concerted
movement. In some of the Outer
Hebrides milking-songs are still in use, and
the cows are said to be so fond of them that
in places they will not give their milk without
them, nor occasionally without their favourite
airs being sung to them.<SPAN name="FNanchor_29" href="#Footnote_29" class="fnanchor">29</SPAN> There are likewise<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">266</span>
herding-songs sung when the flocks are sent
out to the pasture, which, unlike most of the
Gaelic music, are joyous ditties appropriate to
what was once, over all the Highlands, one of
the happiest times of the year.</p>
<p>A notable change among the cottages and
houses in the Highlands during the last fifty
years is to be seen in the disappearance of
some of the old forms of illumination, consequent
on the introduction of mineral oil.
Candles of course remain, but in former days
a common source of light was obtained from
the trunks of pine-trees dug out of the peat
mosses. The wood of these trunks, being
highly resinous, burnt with a bright though
smoky flame. Split into long rods it made
good torches, or if broken up into laths and
splinters, it furnished a ready light when kindled
among the embers of a peat-fire. If a
bright light was wanted, the piece of wood
was held upright with the lighted end at the
bottom, when the flame rapidly spread upward.
If, on the other hand, it was desired
to make a less vivid light last as long as
possible, the position of the wood was reversed.
Metal stands were made to hold
these pine-splinters, the simplest form consisting
merely of a slim upright rod of iron<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">267</span>
fastened below into a block of stone, and
furnished with a movable arm which slid up
and down, and was furnished at the end
with a clip that would hold the wood at any
angle desired. In Morayshire, these stands
were known as ‘puir men.’ A few years ago,
Mr. James Linn, of the Geological Survey,
secured from the farms and cots of that district
an interesting collection of these objects
which had been thrown aside and neglected,
after they were superseded by cheap oil-lamps.
This collection has since found a
place in the Museum of National Antiquities
at Edinburgh.</p>
<div class="sidenote">DISPERSION OF THE CLANS</div>
<p>Another old Highland characteristic which
has been constantly waning since 1745 has
had its rate of diminution greatly accelerated
since railways and steamboats were multiplied,—the
localisation of clansmen in their
own original territories. It is true that the
clan name may still be found predominant
there. In Strathspey, for instance, most
families in the Grantown district are Grants;
Mackays prevail in the Rae country, Campbells
in Argyleshire, Mackinnons in Strath, and
Macleods in the north of Skye. But in all
these old clan districts there is a yearly increasing
intermixture of other Highland<span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">268</span>
names, together with many from the lowlands.</p>
<p>The application of the clan name Macintosh
to a waterproof, has sometimes given rise to
odd mistakes, real or invented, as where an
Englishman, who had got out at one of the
stations on the Callander and Oban railway,
is reported to have come back to the carriage
from which he had descended, and into which
four or five stalwart natives had meanwhile
mounted, whom he asked, ‘Did you see a
black Macintosh here?’ ‘Na,’ was the answer,
‘we’re a’ red Macgregors.’</p>
<p>But unquestionably the most momentous of
all the changes which have come upon the
people of the Highlands is the gradual, but
inevitable dwindling of their native spoken
language. Ever since the barriers against the
free intercourse of Celt and Saxon were broken
down, Gaelic has been undergoing a slow
process of corruption, more especially in those
districts where that intercourse is most active.
English words, phrases, and idioms are
gradually supplanting their Gaelic equivalents,
until the spoken tongue has become in some
districts a mongrel compound of the two languages.
One may still meet with natives who
know, or at least say that they know, no<span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">269</span>
English. ‘Cha n-eil Beurla acom, I have
no English,’ is sometimes a convenient cover
for escaping from troublesome questions. But,
unless among the more remote parishes and
outer islands, the younger generation can
generally speak English, at least sufficiently
well for cursory conversation.</p>
<div class="sidenote">GAELIC TOPOGRAPHICAL NAMES</div>
<p>It is much to be regretted that the Sassenach
hardly ever takes the trouble to learn even a
smattering of Gaelic. Apart from the pleasure
and usefulness of obtaining a firmer hold on
the good will of the natives, some little knowledge
of the language provides the traveller
with an endless source of interest in the
meaning and origin of the place-names of the
Highlands, which are eminently descriptive,
and often point to conditions of landscape, of
human occupation, of vegetation and of animal
life very different from those that appear
to-day. The old Gaels were singularly felicitous
and poetical, as well as wonderfully profuse,
in their application of topographical
names. In my early wanderings over Skye,
I used to be astonished to find that every
little hummock and hollow had a recognised
name, not to be found on any map, yet well
known to the inhabitants, who by means of
these names could indicate precisely the route<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">270</span>
to be followed across a trackless moorland
or a rough mountain range. Even if no
attempt may be made to speak the language,
enough acquaintance with it may
easily be acquired for the purpose of interpreting
a large number of place-names. The
same descriptive term will be found continually
recurring, with endless varying suffixes
and affixes of local significance.</p>
<p>To speak Gaelic, however, without making
slips in the pronunciation is difficult. Some
of the sounds are hard for Saxon tongues to
accomplish, and unless they are accurately
given, the uneducated peasant has often
too little imagination to divine the word
that is intended. Thus, a lady whom I
knew on the west side of Cantyre, told
me that when she first came to live there,
being a stranger to Highland manners and
customs, she was desirous at every turn,
to increase her knowledge of them. One
day she asked her cook, a thorough Highlander,
‘Kate, what is a philabeg?’ ‘A
what, mam!’ ‘A philabeg; I know it’s a part
of a man’s Highland dress.’ ‘Och, mam, I
wass never hearin’ of it at all.’ Some time
afterwards, having meanwhile ascertained what
the word signifies, she happened to come into<span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">271</span>
the kitchen when a Highlander in full costume
was standing there. ‘Oh Kate, I asked
you not long ago to tell me what is a philabeg,
and you said you had never heard of
it. There’s a philabeg,’ said she, pointing to
the man’s kilt. ‘That, mam! of course, I
know that very well, I’m sure. If you’ll said
pheelabeg, I would be knowin’ at once what
you wass askin’ about. I’ve knew what is
a pheelabeg ever since I wass born.’</p>
<div class="sidenote">DIFFICULTIES OF GAELIC</div>
<p>It seems hardly possible for a lowlander, unless
he begins early in life and has abundant
practice, to lose all ‘taste of the English’
in his Gaelic talk. Thus a pre-Disruption
minister with whom I was well acquainted in
Argyleshire, and who was not a native Celt,
but had learnt Gaelic in his youth, made
mistakes in the language up to the end of
his long life. One of his co-presbyters so
highly appreciated humour that some of the
stories he told of my old friend were suspected
to be more or less touched up by the narrator.
And many were the stories thus circulated
through the Synod of Argyle. One of them,
I remember, referred to a Gaelic sermon of
the minister’s in which he meant to tell his
hearers that they were all <i xml:lang="gd" lang="gd">peacach caillte</i>, that
is, lost sinners; but as pronounced by him<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">272</span>
the words sounded like <em>pucach saillte</em>, which
means ‘salted cuddies’ or coal-fish. On
another occasion, being in a hurry to start
from a distant inn, he called the waiting-maid,
wishing to desire her to have the
saddle put to his horse. The Gaelic word
for a saddle is <i xml:lang="gd" lang="gd">Diollaidich</i>, and he got the
first half of it only, which makes a word with
a very different meaning, so that what he did
say was, ‘put the devil (<i xml:lang="gd" lang="gd">diabhol</i>) on the horse.’</p>
<p>Professor Blackie, who threw himself with
all the ardour of his enthusiastic nature into
the study of Gaelic, laid the Highlands and
all Highlanders under a debt of gratitude
to him for his untiring labours on their
behalf. He gained an accurate grammatical
knowledge of the language, and a considerable
acquaintance with its literature, but he
never properly acquired the pronunciation.
During a visit I once paid to him at his
picturesque home on the hillside near Oban,
we crossed over to Kerrera. After rambling
along the western and southern shores
of that island, the Professor said he would
like to call on a farmer’s wife who was
a friend of his. Accordingly we made our
way to the house, where he saluted her in
Gaelic. The conversation proceeded for a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">273</span>
little while in that tongue, but at last the
good lady exclaimed, ‘Oh, Professor, if you
would speak English I would understand you.’</p>
<div class="sidenote">EXPERIENCES IN GAELIC</div>
<p>In my early rambles over Skye, I found
that ‘a little Gaelic is a dangerous thing.’
I had sufficient acquaintance with the language
to be able to ask my way, but had made no
attempt to ‘drink deep’ at the Celtic spring.
On one occasion when passing a night in a
crofter’s cottage, I could make out that the
conversation which the inmates were carrying
on, related to myself and my doings. In a
thoughtless moment I made a remark in
Gaelic. It had no reference to the subject
of their talk, but it had the effect of putting
an end to that talk, and of turning a battery
of Gaelic questions on me. In vain I protested
that I had no Gaelic. This they good
humouredly refused to believe, repeating again
and again, ‘Cha Gaelig gu leor, you have
Gaelic enough, but you don’t like to speak it.’</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">274</span></p>
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