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- margin-bottom: .1em; - visibility: hidden; - color: white; - width: .01em; - display: none; - } - - .poem-container {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%;} - .poem {display: block;} - .poem .stanza {page-break-inside: avoid;} - - .transnote { - page-break-inside: avoid; - margin-left: 2%; - margin-right: 2%; - margin-top: 1em; - margin-bottom: 1em; - padding: .5em; - } -} - </style> - </head> - -<body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Sketch-Book of the North, by George Eyre-Todd - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Sketch-Book of the North - -Author: George Eyre-Todd - -Illustrator: A. S. Boyd - A. Monro - S. Reid - Harrington Mann - -Release Date: January 31, 2017 [EBook #54083] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SKETCH-BOOK OF THE NORTH *** - - - - -Produced by Cathy Maxam, Charlie Howard, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<h1><span class="smcap">Sketch-Book of the North</span></h1> - -<div class="newpage p4 ad"> -<p class="center larger"><i>OTHER WORKS BY GEORGE EYRE-TODD.</i></p> -<hr class="narrow" /> - -<p class="p2 in0 in4 sans bold"> -Byways of the Scottish Border.<br /> -Anne of Argyle.<br /> -Vignettes of the North.<br /> -Four Months of Bohemia.<br /> -Scotland Picturesque and Traditional. -</p> - -<p class="p2 center"><i>Also, Edited by the same</i>,</p> - -<p class="in0 bold"> -<span class="sans">The Abbotsford Series of Scottish Poets.</span> 7 Vols.<br /> -<span class="sans">Ancient Scots Ballads, with their Traditional Airs.</span> -</p> -</div> - -<div id="i_frontis" class="newpage p4 figcenter" style="max-width: 22.8125em;"><img src="images/i_004.jpg" width="365" height="600" alt="" /></div> - -<hr /> - -<p class="newpage p4 center vspace xxlarge"> -<span class="gesperrt bold"><span class="bb">SKETCH</span>-BOOK</span><br /> -<span class="xxsmall">OF THE</span><br /> -<span class="gesperrt bold">NORTH</span></p> - -<p class="p2 center vspace large wspace"><span class="small">BY</span><br /> -GEORGE EYRE-TODD</p> - -<p class="p2 center small vspace wspace">ILLUSTRATED BY A. S. BOYD, A. MONRO, S. REID<br /> -AND HARRINGTON MANN</p> - -<p class="p2 center wspace"><i>Fifth Thousand</i></p> - -<p class="p2 center vspace wspace">EDINBURGH AND LONDON<br /> -<span class="larger">OLIPHANT, ANDERSON & FERRIER</span><br /> -1903 -</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">v</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS</h2> -</div> - -<table id="toc" summary="Contents"> - <tr class="small"> - <td> </td> - <td class="tdr">PAGE</td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Roman Road</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#hdr_1">1</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Black Douglas</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#hdr_2">8</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">In the Shadow of St Giles’</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#hdr_3">16</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Weaving Village</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#hdr_4">23</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Where the Clans Fell</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#hdr_5">30</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Tam o’ Shanter’s Ride</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#hdr_6">37</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">An Old Tulip Garden</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#hdr_7">45</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">By the Blasted Heath</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#hdr_8">52</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Among the Galloway Becks</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#hdr_9">59</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">In Kilt and Plaid</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#hdr_10">66</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">At the Foot of Ben Ledi</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#hdr_11">74</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Cadzow Forest</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#hdr_12">81</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Fisher Town</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#hdr_13">88</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Loch-side Sunday</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#hdr_14">95</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Glen of Gloom</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#hdr_15">103</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Across Bute</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#hdr_16">110</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">With a Cast of Flies</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#hdr_17">118</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">From a Field-Gate</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#hdr_18">125</a><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_vi">vi</a></span></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">School-Days</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#hdr_19">133</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Loch-side Strath</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#hdr_20">140</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Highland Reel</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#hdr_21">147</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">An Arran Ride</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#hdr_22">154</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">By a Western Firth</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#hdr_23">161</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">An Island Picnic</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#hdr_24">168</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Tennis in the North</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#hdr_25">176</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Through the Pass</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#hdr_26">183</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Highland Morning</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#hdr_27">190</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Till Death us Part</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#hdr_28">198</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Forest Wedding</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#hdr_29">205</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Loch Lomond Ice-bound</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#hdr_30">212</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Hallowmas Eve</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#hdr_31">220</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Hogmanay</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#hdr_32">228</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_vii">vii</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2><a id="ILLUSTRATIONS"></a>ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> -</div> - -<table id="loi" summary="Illustrations"> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Signal of Death</span> (<i>see <a href="#Page_10">p. 10</a></i>)</td> - <td class="tdl"><i>A. Monro</i></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#i_frontis"><i>Frontispiece</i></a></td></tr> - <tr class="smaller"> - <td> </td> - <td> </td> - <td class="tdr"><i>facing page</i></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Thoughts of Home</span></td> - <td class="tdl"><i>A. Monro</i></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_4">4</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Web Returned</span></td> - <td class="tdl"><i>A. S. Boyd</i></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_28">28</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Death of Keppoch</span></td> - <td class="tdl"><i>Harrington Mann</i></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_32">32</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">On the Blasted Heath</span></td> - <td class="tdl"><i>A. Monro</i></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_58">58</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Jeanie</span></td> - <td class="tdl"><i>A. S. Boyd</i></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_60">60</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Throwing the Hammer</span></td> - <td class="tdl"><i>A. S. Boyd</i></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_72">72</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Massacre of Glencoe</span></td> - <td class="tdl"><i>A. Monro</i></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_108">108</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Gentle Art</span></td> - <td class="tdl"><i>S. Reid</i></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_120">120</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Forbidden Waters</span></td> - <td class="tdl"><i>S. Reid</i></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_136">136</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Murray’s Curse</span></td> - <td class="tdl"><i>A. Monro</i></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_144">144</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Archie</span></td> - <td class="tdl"><i>A. S. Boyd</i></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_170">170</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl">“<span class="smcap">Serve!</span>”</td> - <td class="tdl"><i>S. Reid</i></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_180">180</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Last Hour</span></td> - <td class="tdl"><i>A. S. Boyd</i></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_204">204</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Seven Miles of Ice</span></td> - <td class="tdl"><i>S. Reid</i></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_216">216</a></td></tr> - <tr> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Trongate of St Mungo</span></td> - <td class="tdl"><i>S. Reid</i></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ip_232">232</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_1">1</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="hdr_1">A ROMAN ROAD.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap b"><span class="smcap1">Still</span> and soft with the mild radiance of -early spring the afternoon sunshine sleeps -upon the rich country, moor and woodland and -meadow, that stretches away southward towards -the Border. The top of a ruined tower far off -rises grey amid the shadowy woods, and a river, -like a shining serpent, gleams in blue windings -through the russet valley-land, while the smoke -of an ancient Border town hangs in the distance, -like an amber haze, above the side of its narrow -strath. Northward, too, league upon league, -sweep the rich pasture-lands of another river -valley. The red roofs of more than one peaceful -hamlet glow warm there among the bowering -road-avenues of ancient trees. And afar at the -foot of the purple mountain to the west lies the -grey sequestered abbey of the Bruce.</p> - -<p>North and south upon that rich landscape -history marks with a crimson stain the field of -many a battle; and though peace and silence<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_2">2</a></span> -sleep upon it to-day in the sunshine, hardly is -there hamlet or meadow in sight whose name does -not recall some struggle of bygone times. Across -these hills a hundred and forty years ago Prince -Charles Edward led the last raid of the clans, and -before his time the battlefields of Douglas and -Percy, of Cumberland and Liddesdale, carry the -mind back into the mists of antiquity, out of which -looms the sullen splendour of more classic arms.</p> - -<p>Here, straight as a swan-flight along the ridge -of the watershed, commanding the country for -miles upon either side, still runs the ancient -highway of Imperial Rome. From the golden -milestone of Augustus in the Capitol, in a line -scarce broken by the blue straits of the sea, -ran hither the path of that ancient Power. Of -old, along these far-stretching arteries came -pulsing in tidal waves the iron blood of the -stern heart beating far away in the south. -From the wooded valleys below, the awed -inhabitants doubtless long ago looked up and -wondered, as the dark masses of the legions -came rolling along these hills.</p> - -<p>Tide after tide, like the rising sea, they rolled -to break upon the Grampian barriers of the -North. Here rode Agricola, his face set towards<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_3">3</a></span> -the dark and mist-wrapt mountains beyond the -Forth, eager to add by their conquest the word -“Britannicus” to his name. Here by his side, it -is probable, rode the courtly Tacitus, his son-in-law, -to describe to future ages the Scotland of -that time, “lashed,” as he knew it, “by the -billows of a prodigious sea.” Southward here, -stern and intent, once sped the swift couriers -bearing to Rome tidings of that great battle at -Mons Grampus, where the bodies of ten thousand -Caledonians slain barred the northward march of -the Roman general. Southward, again, along -this road it is almost certain has passed the -majesty of a Roman Emperor himself. For in -the year 211 the Emperor Severus, ill and angry, -leaving fifty thousand dead among the unsubdued -mountains of the North, was borne out of Scotland -by the remnant of his army, to die of chagrin -at York. And here, long ago, by his flickering -watch-fire at night, the Roman sentinel, perhaps, -has let his thoughts wander again sadly to his -home by the yellow Tiber two thousand miles -away, to the vine-clad cot where the dark-eyed -sister of his boyhood, the little Livia or Tessa, -would be ripening now like the olives, with no -one to care for and protect her.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_4">4</a></span></p> - -<div id="ip_4" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 30.8125em;"><img src="images/i_015.jpg" width="493" height="600" alt="" /></div> - -<p>Fifteen hundred years ago, however, the last -yellow-haired captives had been carried south to -whet the wonder of the populace in the triumph -of a Roman general. Fifteen hundred years ago -the power of the Imperial city had begun to -wane, and the tide of her conquest ebbed along -these hills. The eagles of the empire swept -southward to defend their own eyrie upon the -Palatine, and here, along the highways they had -made, died the tramp of the departing legions. -The tides of later wars, it is true, have flowed -and ebbed across the Border. Saxon and Norman, -both in turn, have set their faces towards the -North. But later nations kept lower paths, and, -untrodden here along the hill-tops, like the great -Roman Empire itself, this chariot-way of the -Cæsars has looked down upon them all. Forsaken, -indeed, and altogether lonely it is now. -Torn by the rains of fifteen centuries, and overgrown -with the tangle of a thousand years, the -roadway that rang to the hoofs of Agricola is -haunted to-day by the timid hare, while overhead, -where the sun glittered once on the golden eagles -of the legions, grey wood-doves flutter now among -the trees. But, strongly marked by its moss-grown -ramparts, it still bears witness to the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_5">5</a></span> -might of its makers, and, affording no text for -the sad <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">Sic transit gloria mundi</i>, it remains a -Roman defiance to time, like the defiance of all -true greatness—<i xml:lang="la" lang="la">Non omnis moriar</i>.</p> - -<p>Greater benefits than these roads of stone did -the Roman bring to the lands he conquered. -The tread of the victorious legions it was that -broke the dark slumber of Europe, and in the -onward march of the western nations the footsteps -of the Cæsars echo yet upon the earth. -Rome, it is true, ploughed her empire with the -sword, but in the furrows she sowed the seeds of -her own greatness; and these seeds since then -have grown to many a stately tree. Fallen, it -may be, is the splendour of the “city upon seven -hills”; but east and north and west of her rise -the younger empires of her sons. Augustus from -his gilded Capitol no longer rules the world, and -the gleam of the steel-clad legions no longer -flashes along these old forsaken highways among -the hills; but the earth is listening yet, spell-bound, -to the strains of the Latin lyre, and -wherever to this hour there is eloquence in the -west, there flourishes the living glory of the -Roman tongue.</p> - -<p>To-day, with the coming of spring in the air,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_6">6</a></span> -there are symbols enough on every hand of the -great Past that is <em>not</em> dead. The bole of the -giant beech-tree here, it is true, has itself long -since ceased to put forth leaves; but, springing -upward from its strength, a hundred branches are -spreading aloft the promise of the budding year. -The dry brown spires of foxglove that stand six -feet high in the coppice near, dropped months -ago their purple splendours; but thick already -about their roots the green tufts of their seedlings -are pushing up through rich mould and warm -leaf-drifts of bygone autumn to fill the place anon -with tenfold glory. From the gnarled roots of -the ancient thorn-hedge hangs many a yellow -tress of withered fern; yet the life of the fallen -fronds is, even now, stirring underground, and -from the brown knobs there before long will rise -the greenery of another year. Already, here and -there, in sunny nooks, a spray of the prickly -whin has burst into blossom of bright gold. A -little longer, and the mossy crannies of the ruined -dyke will be purple with the dim wood-violet. -And soon, in the steep corner of the immemorial -pasture that runs up there under the edge of the -wood, the deep sward will be tufted with creamy -clusters of the pale primrose.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_7">7</a></span> -A pleasant spot it is to linger in, even on this -early spring day, for the sunshine falls warm in -the mossy hollow of the road, and rampart and -thicket overhead are a shelter from the wind. -Resting on the dry branch of a fallen pine, one -can gaze away southward over the landscape -that the Romans saw; and, fingering through -a pocket volume of some old Augustan singer, -it is possible to realise something of the iron -thought that stirred them to become masters of -the world.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_8">8</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="hdr_2">THE BLACK DOUGLAS.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">Under</span> the great eastern oriel at Melrose, -where the high altar of the abbey once -stood, lies buried the heart of King Robert the -Bruce. Elsewhere, far off at Dunfermline, in -Fife, the body of the Scots King was entombed. -Some seventy years ago, when workmen in that -ancient Scottish capital were repairing the ruined -church, they came upon a marble monument, -broken and defaced. Digging below, amid the -mould of the sepulchre, they found the skeleton -of a tall man. Fragments of cloth-of-gold lay -about it, and the breast-bone had been sawn -through; and by these signs the workmen knew -that they had found the resting-place of the -King. There, as one who was present has said, -after the silence and darkness of five centuries, -was seen the head that had planned and changed -the destinies of Scotland; there lay the dry bone -of the arm that on the eve of Bannockburn -had at one blow slain the fierce De Bohun.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_9">9</a></span> -But the Bruce’s heart, embalmed and cased -in silver, bearing its own strange romantic -story, lies apart in the Border Abbey. Around -the place of its rest, in that fallen and mouldering -fane, lie the race that took from the heart -their armorial cognisance—the lords of the great -house of Douglas.</p> - -<p>Hot and stirring was the Douglas blood, and -hardly a battlefield of the Middle Ages in Scotland -but was stained with some of its best. -Derived far back amid the mists of antiquity, -none could tell how the race arose, and it was -wont to be a boast with the house that none -could point to its “first mean man.” There is -a tower in Yarrow by the Douglas (<em>dhu glas</em>, -black water) Burn which is said to have been -the stronghold of “the Good Lord James”; and -amid the fastnesses of Cairntable in Lanark -there is another Douglas Water and Douglas -Castle. From one of these, no doubt, in ancient -Scots fashion, the family took its name; but -when that happened, and what the story was -of its early days, must remain a tale untold. -The house’s mediæval greatness began, however, -with the rise of Robert the Bruce, and from -that time onwards its deeds mark with stain or<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_10">10</a></span> -blazon every page of Scottish history. Lords -of the broad Scottish Border, east and west, -their hands were sometimes stronger than the -King’s. At one time a Douglas could ride to -the field with twenty thousand spears at his -back, and the gallop of the Douglas steeds -sometimes was terrible alike on the causeway -of Edinburgh and on the moorland marches of -Northumberland. Douglas Earls and Knights -fought as leaders through all the wars of David -Bruce. A dead Douglas in 1388 won the famous -fight with Hotspur on the moonlit field of Otterbourne. -At Shrewsbury, in the days of Robert -III., Henry IV. of England himself ran close to -being hewn in pieces by the Earl of Douglas; -and for gallantry on the battlefields of France -this same great Earl was invested by the French -King with the Dukedom of Touraine. The fame -of Scottish chivalry for three hundred years was -blown abroad under the Douglas name; for -courtesies and blows alike were exchanged by -the race on many battlefields besides those of -the northern Borderland. Not that dark deeds -are lacking in their history. Dark deeds belonged -to their times. But in the tilting-yard or on the -tented field were to be met no fairer foes. Nor<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_11">11</a></span> -was their heroism all of the sword-and-buckler -order, or confined to one sex. The finest thing -recorded of the race, after all, was done by a -woman. On that dark February night in 1437, -when James I. was murdered in the Blackfriars -Abbey at Perth, when the noise and clashing -was heard as of men in armour, and the torches -of the coming assassins in the garden below cast -up great flashes of light against the windows of -the King’s chamber, was it not a Catherine -Douglas who, for lack of a bolt, thrust her own -fair arm into the staples of the door?</p> - -<p>The fortunes of the family culminated in the -reign of James II. Whatever its origin had -been, in that reign the race had attained an -eminence more dazzling, perhaps, than that of -any subject before or since. Earls of Douglas -and Wigton, Lords of Bothwell, Galloway, and -Annandale, Dukes of Touraine, Lords of Longueville, -and Marshals of France, they had inter-married -more than once with the Scottish Royal -House itself. Members of the family also held -the Earldoms of Angus, Ormond, and Moray. -What wonder that they lifted haughty heads, -and began to look askance at the Royal power? -Then it was that the Stuart King stooped to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_12">12</a></span> -treachery, and then was done the darkest deed -that ever sullied the Stuart name.</p> - -<p>Already, in the boyhood of James, a youthful -Earl of Douglas and his brother had been -betrayed and slain by the King’s Ministers. -For this transaction, however, the King was in -no way to blame. The young Earl was his -guest in the Castle of Edinburgh, and when at -the treacherous feast the black bull’s head, the -sign of death, was placed upon their table, James -had wept piteously and begged hard for the lives -of his friends. It was later, when another Earl -was lord upon the Border, that the King made -murder his resource. For this act, it must be -said, James had strong provocation. Douglas -had been honoured by him, had been made -Lieutenant-General of the Kingdom, and had -abused that honour. He had flouted the King’s -authority, and slain the King’s friends, and, -having been commanded by letter to deliver up -to James’s representative the person of a subject -unjustly imprisoned by him, he delivered him -up “wanting the head.” Finally, with two great -Earls of the North, he had entered into an open -league against the King. All this, however, cannot -palliate the King’s resource, cannot absolve<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_13">13</a></span> -the tragic scene in that little supper-chamber in -the Castle of Stirling. There the great Earl was -under the protection of the King’s hospitality, -when James, bursting into rage at his taunts -and at his refusal to abandon the treasonous -compact, suddenly cried, “By Heaven, my Lord, -if you will not break the league, this shall!” -and, drawing his dagger, stabbed Douglas to -the heart.</p> - -<p>This deed brought the family fortunes to -a climax, and for three years Scotland was -blackened by the raging of the Douglas Wars. -From Berwick to Inverness the country was -wasted by the struggles of the partisans. Stirling -and Elgin were burned, and, amid famine and -pestilence, the troubles of the wars of Edward -seemed come again on Scotland: so great had -grown the power of these Border lords. At last, -however, the King and the Earl came face to -face. Each led an army of forty thousand men, -and only the small river Carron ran between -them. By the combat of the morrow, it seemed, -would be known whether James Stuart or James -Douglas should wear the Scottish crown. But -the Earl’s heart was seen to fail, and on the -morrow, when he awoke, he found his camp<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_14">14</a></span> -deserted. Of all his host of the previous day -not a hundred followers remained. Nothing was -left him but flight; and, turning his back, as a -Douglas had never done before, he made his -way to England. Twenty years later, having -been captured by one of his own vassals in a -petty skirmish on the Border, he was sent to -end his days as a monk in the Fifeshire Abbey -of Lindores.</p> - -<p>Thus ended the great line of the Earls of -Douglas, a race whose history for three hundred -years had been the history of Scotland, and -whose foot had twice, at least, been set upon -the step even of the throne. From the house’s -latter days of turbulence and ambition there is -pleasure in turning back to those earlier years -when the Good Lord James rode at the Bruce’s -saddle-bow, and the patriotism of groaning Scotland -rallied round the coupled names of Douglas -and the King. No later deed can dim the -lustre of those years, and nothing in history can -outshine the last scene in the life of the Knight -who strove to carry the Bruce’s heart to the -Holy Land. Himself hemmed round by the -Moors on that Spanish plain, in his effort, it is -said, to succour a friend, the Earl took from<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_15">15</a></span> -his neck the casket containing the King’s heart. -“Pass first in fight,” he cried, “as thou wert -wont to do! Douglas will follow thee, or die!” -Then, throwing the casket far among the enemy, -he rushed forward to the place where it fell, and -was there slain. Well would it have been for -the race of Douglas had they ever remained true -as that ancestor to the service of their King!</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_16">16</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="hdr_3">IN THE SHADOW OF ST GILES’.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">Night</span> in Edinburgh! The traveller may -have seen the sun set over the lagoons -of Venice; he may have watched the moon rise -behind the Acropolis of Athens; but he has -seen nothing finer or more inspiring than is -shown him by the sparkle of the frosty stars in -this grey metropolis of Scotland. From the -terraced pavement of Princes Street, that unmatched -boulevard of the modern city, looking -across the dark chasm where once surged the -waters of the North Loch, he sees the form of -the Old Town rise, from Holyrood Palace low -in the eastern meadows to the castled rock high -at the western end, a dark mass all against the -southern sky. Yellow lines of light mark the -modern bridges spanning the abyss below, and -windows still glowing—dim loopholes in the -perilously high old houses beyond—bespeak the -inhabitants there not yet all asleep. But these -are forgotten in the witchery of the sight, when<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_17">17</a></span> -the clouds part, and the silvery starlight is -shaken down upon the ancient city; when behind -the broken sky-line of roofs and gables the clear -moon comes up, and hangs, a lustrous jewel, -among the pinnacles of St Giles’.</p> - -<p>Nor is it only the magic of the sight that -stirs strange pulses in the blood. Standing at -night in the Roman Coliseum, it seems still -possible to hear majestic echoes of an older -world. But the Scotsman under the shadow of -“high Dunedin” is moved, as nowhere else, by -memories of old glory and old sorrow. Here to -a Scottish heart the past comes back. Here -sighed the fatal sweetness of Rizzio’s lute. Here -rang the wild clan-music of Lochiel. Among -these old walls, however, something more is to -be remembered than the deeds of high fame. -Ever and again, it is true, amid the gloom of -half-forgotten centuries, there is caught the glitter -of some historic pageant. Out of the silence -about the Cathedral one seems to catch the -chime of fuming censers and the roll of coronation -litanies, with, perchance, the sonorous accents -of a Gavin Douglas, poet-bishop of Dunkeld; and -one thrills again to hear the boom of the Castle -cannon as the Fourth James rides gallantly away<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_18">18</a></span> -to his death. But behind all this a more tender -interest touches the heart. What of the real -inner life of those centuries bygone—the loves and -sorrows, burning once, and poignant as ours are -to-day, which have passed out of sight among -the years, and been forgotten? Of some of -these, indeed, Sir Walter Scott has written the -story on the dark curtain of the past with a pen -of fire. But for countless others there is not -even the poor consolation of a recorded name. -Occasionally, however, amid the seething of -history, or in some half-remembered old song, a -reference occurs, and a glimpse all too brief is -had into some tender and mournful story. And -so one sees that, behind the glitter of a Stuart -chivalry, of brave and splendid deeds before the -world, sometimes there lay a shadow, the sigh of -a breaking heart, the stain of unavailing tears.</p> - -<p>Who knows the early history of that Lady of -Loch Leven, mother of the Regent Murray? -Grimly enough she is painted by Scott in her -old age as the keeper of Queen Mary. Yet -assuredly once she was lovely and young, and -had strange beatings of heart as she listened to -the whispers of her Royal lover, that all too -gallant James V. What was their parting like,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_19">19</a></span> -when the parting came? Was there the last -touch of regretful hands, a remorseful caress -from the royal lips, a passionate farewell? Or -was there only the cruel news by alien mouths -that her place was filled by another, that she -had been forsaken? No one can tell us now.</p> - -<p>Then what of the Lady Anne Campbell of -Argyle, at one time betrothed to Charles II.? -The youthful Prince, aged twenty, had been -crowned gorgeously, after the ancient manner of -the Scottish Kings, at Scone. But King only in -name, with England still under the iron rule of -Cromwell, and only a faction in Scotland devoted -to his cause, his immediate fortunes were entirely -in the hands of the Scottish leader, the crafty, -covenanting Marquis of Argyle. Reaching ever -higher in ambition, and dazzled by the weird -vision of the race of MacCallum More mounting -the throne, Argyle proposed that Charles -should marry his daughter. Needy and reckless, -and eager to attach Argyle to the Royalist cause -by the golden bands of hope, the King pretended -consent. Alas for the Lady Anne! What maiden -could keep still her heart when wooed by so -royal a lover? For wooing there must have -been, to keep up the pretence of betrothal, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_20">20</a></span> -how was the maiden to know that those words -and looks, and, it may have been, those warmer -caresses, were all no more than a diplomacy? -And when the crash came, with Cromwell’s defeat -of the covenanting army at Dunbar, and the -revelation that she had given up her all and -had been deceived—how bitter, how cruel the -discovery! The contemporary Kirkton relates -circumstantially that “so grievous was the disappointment -to the young lady, that of a gallant -young gentlewoman, she lost her spirit, and turned -absolutely distracted.”</p> - -<p>Then there is a pitiful little song, unprinted -and all but forgotten,<a id="FNanchor_A" href="#Footnote_A" class="fnanchor">A</a> sung to a quavering, -pathetic old tune, and relating in quaint ballad -fashion something of the story of one Jeanie -Cameron, an adherent of Prince Charles Edward -in the rebellion of 1745. It narrates how the -maiden, having fallen sick, not without a suspicion -of its being heart-sickness, and all cures -of the leeches failing, was prescribed “ae bricht -blink o’ the Young Pretender.” So she sate her -down and wrote the Prince “a very long letter, -stating who were his friends and who were his -<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_21">21</a></span>foes.” This letter she had closed, and was just -“sealing with a ring,” when, as used to happen -in ballad story, “ope flew the door, and in came -her King.” Poor young lady!—</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She prayed to the saints and angels to defend her,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And sank i’ the arms o’ the Young Pretender.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Rare, oh, rare! bonnie Jeanie Cameron!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="in0">Nor is this pretty romance merely an invention -of the poet’s brain. One of the family by whom -the song has been preserved happened, it seems, -in the latter part of last century, to be buying -snuff in a shop in Edinburgh, when a beggar -came in. Nothing was said before the stranger; -but the shopkeeper, as if it were an accustomed -dole, handed the beggar a groat. Afterwards, -in reply to a remark of his customer as to the -delicacy of the beggar’s hand which had received -the coin, the shopkeeper revealed the fact that -the recipient of his charity was no man, but a -woman, and no other than Jeanie Cameron, a -follower of the Chevalier. Her story, so far as -he knew it, was sad enough. She had followed -the Prince to France, hoping, no doubt, poor -thing! to resume there something of the place -she had believed herself to hold in his affections. -Alas! it was only to find herself, like so many<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_22">22</a></span> -others, forgotten, cast off, an encumbrance to a -broken man. And then, with who can tell how -heavy a heart, she made her way home, only to -discover that her family had shut their door -upon her, and cut her adrift. So, for these -many years, she had wandered about forlorn and -lonely, supported by a few charitable bourgeois -in the streets of Edinburgh—she who could look -back upon the day when she had loved and -been loved by a Stuart Prince.<a id="FNanchor_B" href="#Footnote_B" class="fnanchor">B</a></p> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_A" href="#FNanchor_A" class="fnanchor">A</a> It has now been included in “Ancient Scots Ballads with -their Traditional Airs.” Glasgow: Bayley & Ferguson, 1894.</p> - -<p><a id="Footnote_B" href="#FNanchor_B" class="fnanchor">B</a> This account of the latter days of “Mrs Jean Cameron” finds -corroboration in a footnote to the second volume of Chambers’s -“Traditions of Edinburgh.”</p></div> - -<p>Such are some of the stories which find no -place in history, but whose consciousness sheds -a tragic and tender interest about this grey old -capital of the North. Who will say that they -are not as well worth thought as the trumpetings -of herald pursuivants and the clash of -warlike arms?</p> -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_23">23</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="hdr_4">A WEAVING VILLAGE.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap b"><span class="smcap1">Out</span> of the way, in this quiet hollow of the -Ayrshire hills, something remains yet of -the life of a hundred years ago. Elsewhere the -puffing of steam may have taken the place of -toil by hand, but here in the long summer days, -from morning till night, the click-clack of the -looms is still to be heard, and within every second -window up the length of the village street, the -dusty frames are to be seen moving regularly -to and fro. Pots of geranium and fuchsia are -set sometimes in these windows, and through the -narrow doorways the cottage gardens can be seen -behind, carefully kept, and ablaze just now with -wallflower borders and pansies. Sadly, however, -is the place decayed from its prosperity of old. -Little traffic comes now to the wide, empty street. -The carrier’s waggon is an object of interest when -it puts in an appearance. The baker’s van may -be the only vehicle of an afternoon; and twice -a week only comes the flesher’s cart. Butcher<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_24">24</a></span> -meat, it is to be feared, is but seldom seen on -some of the village tables; and, when work is -more than usually scarce, many must put up with -but “muslin-broth.” Here and there a roofless -ruin, breaking the regular line of dwellings, tells -of a decaying industry. In the sunny inn-door -at the head of the village the brown retriever -may rouse himself, once in the afternoon, to -inspect the credentials of some vagrant terrier; -and, but for the faint click-clack of the looms -all day, and the appearance, once in a while, of -a woman with a pair of stoups to draw water at -the village well, the place might seem asleep.</p> - -<p>Yet a hearty trade once throve on the spot. -Every house had its loom going, sometimes two; -and there was always work in plenty. Weavers’ -wives could go to kirk then in black-beaded -bonnets and flowered Paisley shawls, and the -Relief Kirk minister got his stipend of eighty -pounds a year nearly always paid. In those -times the carrier’s cart used to have business in -the village every day; merchants from Glasgow -came bidding against each other for work in a -hurry; and four of the weavers at once have -been known to have sons at college studying -for the ministry. Those were the days when the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_25">25</a></span> -village kept a watchful eye upon the religious -and political movements of the country. Before -the Stamp Duty was removed from newspapers, -the weavers subscribed in clubs and took out -their weekly sheet, which was passed from -shop to shop, read and digested, and thoroughly -threshed out in the door-step debates, when a -knot of neighbours would gather between the -spells of work. In this way the great Reform -Bill was fully discussed and settled here long -before it passed the House of Commons; and -the absorbing question of the Disruption, which -gave birth to the Free Church, was thoroughly -argued and thought out on its merits.</p> - -<p>True to the traditions of their craft, of course, -most of the weavers were the reddest of Radicals, -and the progress of the Chartist movement excited -the keenest interest among them. The work at -the looms was to a great extent mechanical, and -while they pushed the treadles and pulled the -shuttles to and fro, the weavers had time to -think; and shrewd thinkers and able debaters -many of them became, ready at the hustings -with questions on the Corn Laws, the freeing of -the slaves, and the Irish grievances, which were -apt to put a political candidate to some trouble.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_26">26</a></span> -He had not their advantage of the daily -“argufying” and the Saturday night debates at -the village inn. There was a tradition that in -the room where this club met, the poet Burns -had once spent an evening, and the fact lent an -additional zest to his song, which they never -tired of quoting,—“A man’s a man for a’ that.”</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A king can mak’ a belted knight,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A marquis, duke, and a’ that;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But an honest man’s aboon his might,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Guid faith he maunna fa’ that.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="in0">The industry of the village has died hard. Amid -decaying trade the weavers kept to their looms, -and many a pinch was suffered before one after -another laid down his shuttle. Their feelings -are not difficult to understand. As boys they -had played about the village well. As young -men they had wandered with their sweethearts—that -delicious time—down the woodland roads -around. Memories had grown about them and -their old homes during the long years of work. -In the kirkyard not far off lay the ashes of -mother or wife or child. But the merchants had -ceased to come to the village, and it was a -weary walk for the poor weavers to carry their -webs all the way to Glasgow, to hawk them<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_27">27</a></span> -from warehouse to warehouse, and sometimes to -have the choice at last of accepting a ruinous -price for them, or of taking them home again.</p> - -<p>It was after a bootless errand of this sort that -old John Gilmour was returning to the village -one night in late October some forty-three years -back. Honest soul, through all his straits he -had never owed a neighbour a penny. That -night, however, his affairs had come to a critical -pass, and the morrow held a black look-out for -him. His web was still on his back, not an -offer having been got for it in town, though he -knew the workmanship to be his best. Upon its -sale he had depended to pay for the winter’s -coals, and the necessaries of the morrow; for on -the day previous the last of his carefully guarded -savings had been spent. Moreover, his wife and -he were growing old, and could hardly look -forward to increased energy for work. And he -was bringing home bad news. Their second son -(the eldest had run away to sea eleven years -before) had broken down in his attempt to teach, -and, at the same time, push his way through -the Divinity Hall, and had been ordered by the -doctor to stop work for the winter altogether. -How was the old man to break all this disastrous<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_28">28</a></span> -news to his wife? The web was heavy, but his -heart was heavier.</p> - -<p>He had reached the fork of the road close by -the old disused graveyard of the parish, and was -thinking a little bitterly of the reward that -remained to him from his long life of hard work, -and of how quiet and far from care those were -who lay on the other side of the low dyke under -the green sod, when a hackney carriage came -up behind, and the driver stopped to ask the way -to ——.</p> - -<p>“Keep the left road,” said the old man, and -was resuming his walk, when a bearded face -appeared at the carriage window.</p> - -<p>“That seems a heavy bundle you are carrying. -Are you going my way?”</p> - -<p>Once inside, the old weaver found his companion -looking at him intently.</p> - -<p>“You have had a long walk this day, surely? -Have you no son to carry so heavy a load for -you?”</p> - -<p>Ay, he had two sons, Gilmour said: but one -was lost at sea, and the other was struggling at -college.</p> - -<p>“You live alone, then?” asked the questioner, -tremulously.</p> - -<div id="ip_28" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 25.75em;"><img src="images/i_041.jpg" width="412" height="600" alt="" /></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_29">29</a></span> -No, thank God! he had a kind wife at home, -who had been his consolation through many a -dark hour.</p> - -<p>“Thank God!” echoed the younger man.</p> - -<p>The carriage rolled on and entered the village. -The weaver pointed to his house, and they stopped -there. The stranger helped him out with his web, -and entered the house with him.</p> - -<p>“It’s just the web back, guidwife,” he said. -“But dinna look sae queer like. I’se warrant I’ll -sell it the morn. An’ here’s a gentleman has -helpit me on the road. Hae ye onything i’ the -hoose to offer him?”</p> - -<p>But the wife was not thinking of the web or -the distress of the morrow. Her eyes were on -the stranger, and the corners of her lips were -twitching curiously. He had not spoken, but as -he removed his hat she sprang towards him.</p> - -<p>“It’s Willie!” she cried; “it’s Willie!” And -her arms were about his neck, and, half laughing -and half crying, she buried her face on his -breast.</p> - -<p>It was Willie. He was the first who came back -to the village from the gold-fields of Ballarat.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_30">30</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="hdr_5">WHERE THE CLANS FELL.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">What</span> richer picture could the eye desire -than this sunlit glory of harvest colour -amid the Highland mountains? The narrow -sea-loch itself below gleams blue as melted -sapphire under the radiant and stainless sky; -around it, on the rising slopes, the corn-fields, -rough with fruitful stooks, spread their yellow -ripeness in the sun; amid them shine patches -of fresh soft green where the second clover has -been cut; while above hang the sheltering woods, -like dark brown shadows; and, over all, the -surrounding hills, bloom-spread as for a banquet -of the gods, raise their purple stain against the -blue. Only far off, above the dim mountains of -amethyst in the North, lies a white argosy of -clouds, like some convoy of home-bound India-men -becalmed on a summer sea.</p> - -<p>There has been no sound for an hour but the -whisper of the warm autumn wind that the farmer -loves for winnowing his grain, the drone of a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_31">31</a></span> -velvety bee sometimes in the blue depth of a -hare-bell, and the crackle of the black broom-pods -bursting in the heat. The furry brown -rabbits that pop prudently out of sight in the -mossy bank are silent as shadows; the red -squirrel that runs along the dyke top and disappears -up a tree makes no chatter; and even -the shy speckled mavis that bobs bright-eyed -across the path is voiceless, for among the birds -this is the silent month.</p> - -<p>Less and less, as the narrow road rises through -the fir woods, grows the bit of blue loch seen -far behind under the branches, and the little -clachan in the warm hollow over the brow of -the hill is shut from the world on every side by -the deep and silent forests of fragrant pine. -Wayside flowers are seeding on the time-darkened -thatch of these sequestered dwellings. There, -with branches of narrow pods, the wallflower -clings; and the spikes of the field-mustard ripen -beside the golden bullets of the ox-eyed daisy. -On a chair at the door of one of the cottages -an ancient granny is sunning herself, counting -with feeble fingers the stitches on her glancing -knitting wires. A frail old body she is, set here, -neat and comfortable, by some loving hand, to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_32">32</a></span> -enjoy, it may be, the sunshine of her last autumn -on earth. Withered and wrinkled are her old -cheeks with the cares of many a winter, and it -seems difficult to recall the day when she was a -ripe-lipped, merry reaper in the corn-fields; but -under her clean, white mutch the grey old eyes -are undimmed yet as they watch, heedful and -lovingly, the movements of the little maid tottering -about her knee. Where are her thoughts as -she sits there alone, hour after hour, in the silent -sunshine? Is she back in the dusk among the -sweet-scented hay-ricks, listening with fluttering -heart to the whispers of her rustic lover? Is it -a sunny doorway where she sits crooning for -happiness over the baby on her knee? the little -one that is all her own—and his. Or is it a -winter night as she kneels in the flickering light -by the bedside, feeling the rough, loving hand -relax its grasp, while she sees the shadow pass -across the wistful face, and knows with breaking -heart that she is alone? These are the peaceful -scenes of peasant life; alas, that they should ever -be darkened by the shadow of the sword!</p> - -<div id="ip_32" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 29.4375em;"><img src="images/i_047.jpg" width="471" height="600" alt="" /></div> - -<p>Granny can speak no English, or she might -have something to say of the great disaster that -befell the clans on the moor close by in her<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_33">33</a></span> -father’s time. For not far beyond the little -clachan the road emerges on the open heath, and -there, where the paths cross, lies the great, grey -boulder on which the terrible duke stood to -survey the field just before the battle. Not even -then was he aware how nearly his birthday -carousals of the night before, at Nairn, had been -surprised and turned into another slaughter of -Prestonpans. So perilously sometimes does the -sword of Damocles tremble over an unconscious -head. His troops, well rested and provisioned, -were fresh as that April morning itself, while the -poor clansmen in the boggy hollow to the right, -divided in their councils, and famishing for treacherous -lack of bread, were exhausted by the -fruitless twenty-four mile surprise march of the -night. Yet they came on, these clansmen, half -an hour later, like lions; plunging through the -bog, sword in hand, in the face of the regulars’ -terrific blaze of musketry, cutting Cumberland’s -first line to pieces, and rushing on the second -line to be blown to atoms at sword’s length.</p> - -<p>The yellow corn is being shorn to-day where -the clans were mowed down then. Here was -spilt the best blood of the Highlands. Close by, -the brave Keppoch, crying out as he charged alone<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_34">34</a></span> -before the eyes of his immovable Macdonalds -that the children of his tribe had forsaken him, -threw his sword in the air as a bullet went -into his heart. Wounded, at the tall tree to the -west fell Cameron of Lochiel; and in the little -valley beyond, the defeated Prince Charles, as he -fled, paused a moment to bid his army a bitter -farewell. The road here at the corn-field’s edge -dips a little yet, where the fatal bog once lay, -and ten yards to the left still springs the Dead -Men’s Well, to which so many poor fellows -crawled during the awful succeeding night to -allay the tortures of their thirst before they died. -Here the gigantic MacGillivray, leader that day -of the clan M’Intosh, fell dead as, with his last -strength, he bore to the spring a little wounded -boy whom he had heard at his side moaning -for water.</p> - -<p>A better fate the bravery of these men deserved, -misguided though they might be; for the victors -gave no quarter to wounded or prisoners, and the -soul shudders yet at thought of the horrors that -followed the battle. It was not enough that disabled -men should be clubbed and shot, and barns -full of them burned to ashes; but to this day in -many a quiet glen lie the remains of hamlets<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_35">35</a></span> -ruined in cold blood, and tales are told of the -dark vengeance taken by the victorious soldiery -upon defenceless women, little children, and old -men. Well was it, perhaps, for those who had -fallen that they lay here at rest under the -heather—they could not know the cruel fate of -wife or child. To other lips was left the wail -for “Drummossie; oh, Drummossie!” At rest -they were, these hot and valiant hearts, plaided -and plumed as warriors wish to lie, in their long -bivouac under the open heaven. Not the first -nor the last of their race, either, were they to -fall, scarred with the wounds of war; for, less -than a mile away, under the lichened cairns of -Clava, do not the ashes rest of the chiefs their -ancestors, slain in some long-forgotten battle of -the past, and waiting, like these, for the sound -of the last <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">réveille</i>?</p> - -<p>Here, on each side of the road, can still be -made out the trenches where the dead were -buried, according to their tartans it is said; and, -while the rest of the moor is purple with heather, -these sunken places alone are green. On the -edge of the corn-field rises a stone, inscribed -“Field of the English; they were buried here”; -and at the end of each trench on the moor stands<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_36">36</a></span> -a rude slab bearing the name of its tribe. A -singular pathos attends two of these stones, on -which is written, not M’Intosh or Stewart or -Fraser, but “Mixed Clans.”</p> - -<p>Round the oval moorland of the battle rise -thick fir-woods now, dark and mournful. Sometimes -the winds of the equinox, as they roar -through these, recall the deadly rolling musketry -of long ago. But the air to-day scarcely whispers -in the tree-tops, and sunshine and silence sleep -upon the resting-place of the gallant dead. Only -some fair, white-clad girls, who have come up -from Inverness to read the battle inscription on -the great boulder-cairn, are plucking a spray of -heather from the Camerons’ grave.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_37">37</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="hdr_6">TAM O’ SHANTER’S RIDE.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">Never</span> is a man more conscious of his -manhood than when, with bridle in hand -and a good horse under him, he takes the road -at a gallop. As his steed stretches out and the -hoof-beats quicken, as the milestones fly past and -the cool air rushes in his face, he casts care to -the winds, his pulse beats stronger, he rejoices to -breathe and to live. The pride and the pleasure -of this experience have ever appealed to the poets, -and the ringing of horse-hoofs echoes through -the verse of all ages—in the warrior chants of -Israel; through the sounding Virgilian lines; to -the reverberating rhythm of the “Ride from Ghent -to Aix.” But the maddest, most riotous gallop -of all is, perhaps, that of the grey mare Meg and -her master from Ayr to the Shanter farm.</p> - -<p>Burns was never more fortunate in his -subject than when thus fulfilling his promise of -providing a legend for “Alloway’s auld haunted -kirk.” He did not, it is true, with the nice precision<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_38">38</a></span> -of the Augustan laureate, trim his verse -to a mechanical imitation of sound; but the wild -rush and deftness of the movement of the poem, -the quick succession of humour on pathos, scene -upon scene, the ludicrous, the startling, the horrible, -carry away the breath, and suggest more vividly -than any mere measuring rhythm the mad daring -of that midnight ride.</p> - -<p>There is a little, old-fashioned, deep-thatched -inn still standing where the street leads southwards -out of Ayr. Under its low, brown-raftered -roof it is yet easy to imagine how the veritable -hero, Tam, may have sat with his cronies “fast -by the ingle, bleezing finely,” while “the night -drave on wi’ sangs and clatter,” and the storm -outside hurled itself fruitlessly against the little -deep-set window. It would need all the liquor -he had imbibed to fortify the carouser for that -fourteen-mile ride into Carrick. A midnight -hurricane of rain and wind would be no pleasant -encounter on that lonely road, to say nothing of -the eerie spots to be passed, and at least one -point more than a trifle dangerous. But Tam -o’ Shanter was a stout Ayrshire farmer, and, -moreover, he was accustomed to face worse -ragings than those of the elements; so it may<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_39">39</a></span> -be supposed that, when he had hiccupped a last -goodbye to his friends, and, leaving the warm -lights of the inn streaming into the street behind -him, galloped off into the blackness of the night, -it was with no stronger regret than that he must -go so soon. Half a mile to his right, as he -bucketed southward along the narrow road, he -could hear the ocean thundering its diapason on -the broad beach of sand, and at the places where -he crossed the open country its spray would -strike his cheek and fly inland with the foam -from Maggie’s bit. Sometimes, when the way -lay through belts of beech and oak woods, the -branches would roar and shriek overhead as they -strove with maniac arms against the tempest.</p> - -<p>The old road to Maybole, and that which -Tam o’ Shanter took, ran a little nearer the -sea than the one which did duty in Burns’ -time, and still serves its purpose; and about a -mile out of Ayr it crosses the small stream at -the ford where “in the snaw the chapman -smoored.” Here, on the newer road, a curious -adventure is said to have befallen the poet’s -father. There was formerly no bridge across -this stream; and the legend runs that William -Burnes, a few hours before the birth of his son,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_40">40</a></span> -in riding to Ayr for an attendant, found the -water much swollen, and was requested by an -old woman on the farther side to carry her -across. Notwithstanding his haste he did this; -and a little later, on returning home with the -attendant, he was surprised to find the woman -seated by his own fireside. It is said that when -the child was born it was placed in the gipsy’s -lap, and she, glancing into its palm, made a -prophecy which the poet has turned in one of -his <span class="locked">verses:—</span></p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He’ll hae misfortunes great and sma’,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But aye a heart aboon them a’;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He’ll be a credit till us a’—<br /></span> -<span class="i4">We’ll a’ be prood o’ Robin.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="in0">If all gipsy predictions were as well fulfilled as -this concerning the poet, the dark-skinned race -assuredly would be far sought and courted.</p> - -<p>A few strides beyond the stream his grey mare -had to carry Tam past a dark, uncanny spot—“the -cairn whare hunters fand the murdered -bairn.” It was covered then with trees, and one -of them still stands marking the place. To the -left of the old road here, and hard by the newer -highway, lies the humble cottage, of one storey, -where Robert Burns was born. It has been<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_41">41</a></span> -considerably altered since then, having been used -until recently as an alehouse, and further accommodation -having been added at either end. But -enough of the interior remains untouched to allow -of its original aspect being realised. The house -is the usual “but and ben,” built of natural stones -and clay, and neatly whitewashed and thatched. -In the “but,” the apartment to the left on entering -from the road, there is little alteration; and -it was here, in the recessed bed in the wall, that -the poet first saw light. The plain deal dresser, -with dish-rack above, remains the same, and the -small, square, deep-set window still looks out -behind, over the fields his father cultivated. An -old mahogany press with drawers still stands next -the bed; the floor is paved with irregular flags; -and the open fireplace, with roomy, projecting -chimney, occupies the gable. An extra door has -been driven through the south-east corner to allow -the profane crowd to pass through, and a larger -window has been opened towards the road that -they may see to scratch their names in the -visitors’ book; but the rest of the apartment, -towards the back, is little changed, if at all, since -the eventful night when “Januar’ winds blew -hansel in on Robin.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_42">42</a></span> -The hour of his ride was too dark, however, for -the galloping farmer to see so far over the fields. -A weirder sight was in store for him.</p> - -<p>A few hundred yards farther on, when, by a -well which is still flowing, he had passed the -thorn, now vanished, where “Mungo’s mither -hanged hersel,” just as the road plunged down -along the woody banks of Doon, there, a little -to his left,</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i4">glimmering through the groaning trees<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Kirk Alloway seemed in a bleeze.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="in0">The grey walls of the little kirk are standing -yet among the graves, though the last rafters -of the ruined roof were carried off long since to -be carved into mementos. The tombs of Lord -Alloway’s family occupy one end of the interior, -and a partition wall has been built dividing off -that portion, but otherwise the place remains -unchanged. The bell still hangs above the -eastern gable, and under it remains the little -window with a thick mullion, the “winnock -bunker” in which the astonished farmer, sitting -on his mare, and looking through another -opening in the side wall, saw the queer musician -ensconced.</p> - -<p>A more eerie spot on a stormy night could<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_43">43</a></span> -hardly be imagined, the trees shrieking and -groaning around, the Doon roaring in the darkness -far below, while the thunder crashed overhead, -and the lurid glare of lightning ever and again -lit up the ruin. But with the unearthly accessories -of warlocks and witches, corpse-lights and open -coffins, with the screech of the pipes, and grotesque -contortions of the dancers, the place must pass -comparison in horror. Yet, inspired by “bold -John Barleycorn,” the farmer stared eagerly in -on the revels, till, fairly forgetting himself in the -height of his admiration, he must shout out “Weel -dune, Cutty Sark!” Then, in a moment, as every -reader is aware, the lights went out, the pipes -stopped, and the wrathful revellers streamed after -him like angry bees. A few bounds of his mare -down that narrow, winding, and rather dangerous -road would carry Tam to the bridge, and the -clatter of terrified Maggie’s hoofs as she plunged -off desperately through the trees seems to echo -in the hollow way yet. All the world knows -how she carried her master in safety across the -keystone of the bridge at the cost of her own -grey tail. The feat was no easy one, for the -single arch (still spanning the river there) was -high and steep and narrow.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_44">44</a></span> -Beyond the Doon the old road rises inland, -bowered high with ash and saugh trees, to the -open country; and Tam, pale and sober no -doubt, but breathing freer, had still twelve long -miles before him to the far side of Kirkoswald -in Carrick, where sat his <span class="locked">wife—</span></p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Gathering her brows like gathering storm,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_45">45</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="hdr_7">AN OLD TULIP GARDEN.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap a"><span class="smcap1">A</span> quiet, sunny nook in the hollow it is, -this square old garden with its gravelled -walks and high stone walls; a sheltered retreat -left peaceful here, under the overhanging woods, -when the stream of the world’s traffic turned off -into another channel. The grey stone house, -separated from the garden by a thick privet -hedge and moss-grown court, is the last dwelling -at this end of the quiet market-town, and, with -its slate roof and substantial double storey, is of -a class greatly superior to its neighbours, whose -warm red tiles are just visible over the walls. -It stands where the old road to Edinburgh dipped -to cross a little stream, and, in the bygone driving -days, the stage-coach, after rattling out of the -town, and down the steep road here, between -the white, tile-roofed houses, when it crossed the -bridge opposite the door, began to ascend through -deep, embowering woods. But a more direct<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_46">46</a></span> -highway to the capital was opened many a year -ago; just beyond the bridge a wall was built -across the road; and the grey house with its -garden was left secluded in the sunny hollow. -The rapid crescendo of the coach-guard’s horn -no longer wakens the echoes of the place, and -the striking of the clock every hour in the town -steeple is the only sound that reaches the spot -from the outside world.</p> - -<p>The hot sun beats on the garden here all day, -from the hour in the morning when it gets above -the grand old beeches of the wood, till it sets -away beyond the steeple of the town. But in -the hottest hours it is always refreshing to look -over the weather-stained tiles of the long low -toolhouse at the mossy green of the hill that -rises there, cool and shaded, under the trees. -Now and then a bull, of the herd that feeds in -the glades of the wood, comes down that shaded -bank, whisking his tawny sides with an angry -tail to keep off the pestering flies, and his deep -bellow reverberates in the hollow. In the early -morning, too, before the dewy freshness has left -the air, the sweet mellow pipe of the mavis, and -the fuller notes of the blackbird, float across from -these green depths, and ever and again throughout<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_47">47</a></span> -the day the clear whistle of some chaffinch comes -from behind the leaves.</p> - -<p>Standing among the deep box edgings and -gravelled paths, it is not difficult to recall the -place’s glory of forty years ago—the glory upon -which the ancient plum-trees, blossoming yet -against the sunny walls, looked down. To the -eye of Thought time and space obstruct no -clouds, and in the atmosphere of Memory the -gardens of the past bloom for us always.</p> - -<p>Forty years ago! It is the day of the fashion -for Dutch bulbs, when fabulous prices were paid -for an unusually “fancy” specimen, and in this -garden some of the finest of them are grown. -The tulips are in flower, and the long narrow -beds which, with scant space between, fill the -entire middle of the garden, are ablaze with the -glory of their bloom. Queenly flowers they are -and tall, each one with a gentle pedigree—for -nothing common or unknown has entrance here—and -crimson, white, and yellow—the velvet petals -of some almost black—striped with rare and -exquisite markings, they raise to the sun their -large chaste chalices. The perfection of shape -is theirs, as they rise from the midst of their -green, lance-like leaves; no amorous breeze ever<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_48">48</a></span> -invades the spot to dishevel their array or filch -their treasures; and the precious golden dust -lies in the deep heart of each, untouched as yet -save by the sunshine and the bee. When the -noonday heat becomes too strong, awnings will be -spread above the beds, for with the fierce glare, -the petals would open out and the pollen fall -before the delicate task of crossing had been done.</p> - -<p>But see! through the gate in the privet hedge -there enters as fair a sight. Ladies in creamy -flowered muslins and soft Indian silks, shading -their eyes from the sun with tiny parasols, pink -and white and green,—grand dames of the county, -and grander from a distance; gentlemen in blue -swallow-tailed coats and white pantaloons—gallants -escorting their ladies, and connoisseurs -to examine the flowers—all, conducted by the -owner, list-book in hand, advance into the garden -and move along the beds.</p> - -<p>To that owner—an old man with white hair, -clear grey eyes, and the memory of their youthful -red remaining in his cheeks—this is the gala -time of the year. Next month the beds of -ranunculus will bloom, and pinks and carnations -will follow; but the tulips are his most famous -flowers, and, for the few days while they are in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_49">49</a></span> -perfection, he leads about, with his old-world -courtesy, replying to a question here, giving a -name or a pedigree there, a constant succession -of visitors. These are his hours of triumph. -For eleven months he has gone about his beloved -pursuit, mixing loams and leaf-moulds and earths, -sorting, drying, and planting the bulbs, and tending -their growth with his own hand—for to whose -else could he trust the work?—and now his toil -has blossomed, and its worth is acknowledged. -Plants envied by peers, plants not to be bought, -are there, and he looks into the heart of each -tenderly, for he knows it a child of his own.</p> - -<p>Presently he leads his visitors back into the -house, across the mossy stones of the court where, -under glass frames, thousands of auricula have -just passed their bloom, and up the railed stair -to the sunny door in the house-side. He leads -them into the shady dining-room, with its -furniture of dark old bees-waxed mahogany, -where there is a slight refreshment of wine and -cake—rare old Madeira, and cake, rich with eggs -and Indian spice, made by his daughter’s own -hand. Jars and glasses are filled with sweet-smelling -flowers, and the breath of the new-blown -summer comes in through the open doors.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_50">50</a></span> -The warm sunlight through the brown linen -blind finds its way across the room, and falls -with subdued radiance on the middle picture on -the opposite wall. The dark eyes, bright cheeks, -and cherry mouth were those of the old man’s -wife—the wife of his youth. She died while the -smile was yet on her lip, and the tear of sympathy -in her eye; for she was the friend of all, and -remains yet a tender memory among the neighbouring -poor. The old man is never seen to -look upon that picture; but on Sundays for -hours he sits in reverie by his open Bible here -in the room alone. In a velvet case in the -corner press lies a silver medal. It was pinned -to his breast by the Third George on a great -day at Windsor long ago. For the old man, -peacefully ending his years here among the -flowers, in his youth served the king, and fought, -as a naval officer, through the French and Spanish -wars. As he goes quietly about, alone, among -his garden beds, perchance he hears again sometimes -the hoarse word of command, the quick -tread of the men, and the deep roar of the -heavy guns as his ship goes into action. The -smoke of these battles rolled leeward long -ago, and their glory and their wounds are alike<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_51">51</a></span> -forgotten. In that press, too, lies the wonderful -ebony flute, with its marvellous confusion of silver -keys, upon which he used to take pleasure in -recalling the stirring airs of the fleet. It has -played its last tune; the keys are untouched -now, and it is laid past, warped by age, to be -fingered by its old master no more.</p> - -<p>But his guests rise to leave, and, receiving with -antique grace their courtly acknowledgments, he -attends the ladies across the stone-paved hall to -their carriages.</p> - -<p>Forty years ago! The old man since then has -himself been carried across that hall to his long -home, and no more do grand dames visit the -high-walled garden. But the trees whisper yet -above it; the warmth of summer beats on the -gravelled walks; and the flowers, lovely as of -old in their immortal youth, still open their stainless -petals to the sun.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_52">52</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="hdr_8">BY THE BLASTED HEATH.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">The</span> barometer has fallen somewhat since last -night, and there are ominous clouds looming -here and there in the west; but the sky remains -clear blue overhead, the white road is dry and -dazzling, and the sun as hot as could be wished. -Out to the eastward the way turns along the -top of the quaint fisher town, with its narrow -lanes and throng of low thatched roofs, till at -a sudden dip the little bridge crosses the river. -Sweet Nairn! The river has given its name to -the town. A hundred and forty years have -passed since these clear waters, wimpling now -in the sun, brought down from the western -moors the life-blood of many a wounded Highlander -fallen on dark Culloden. The sunny -waters keep a memory still of the flight of the -last Prince Charles.</p> - -<p>Like a crow-flight eastward the road runs -straight, having on the left, beyond the rabbit -warren, the silver sand-beach and the sea, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_53">53</a></span> -on the right the fertile farm-lands and the farther -woods. The white line glistening on the horizon -far along the coast to the east, is a glimpse of -the treacherous hillocks of the Culbin shifting -sands. They are shining now like silver in the -calm forenoon; but, as if restless under an eternal -ban, they keep for ever moving, and, when stirred -by the strong sea-wind, they are wont yet to rise -and rush and overwhelm, like the dust-storm of -the Sahara. For two hundred years a goodly -mansion and a broad estate have lain buried -beneath those wastes, and what was once called -the Garden of Moray is nothing now but a -desolate sea of sand. They say that a few -years ago an apple-tree of the ancient manor -orchard was laid bare for some months by a -drift, that it blossomed and bore fruit, and again -mysteriously disappeared. Curious visitors, too, -can still see, in the open spaces where the black -earth of the ancient fields is exposed, the regular -ridges and furrows as they were left by the flying -farmers; and the ruts of cart-wheels two hundred -years old are yet to be traced in the long-hidden -soil. Flint arrowheads, bronze pins and ornaments, -iron fish-hooks and spear-points, as well -as numerous nails, and sometimes an ancient<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_54">54</a></span> -coin, are to be picked up about the mouldered -sites of long-buried villages; but the mansion of -Kinnaird, the only stone house on the estate, -lies yet beneath a mighty sandhill, as it was -hidden by the historic storm which in three days -overwhelmed nineteen farms, altered by five miles -the course of a river, and blotted out a prosperous -country-side. Pray Heaven that yonder -terrible white line by the sea may not rise again -some night on its tempest wings to carry that -ruin farther!</p> - -<p>Over the firth, looking backward as the highway -at lasts bends inland, the red cliffs of Cromarty -show their long line in the sun, and, with the -yellow harvest-fields above them, hardly fulfil -sufficiently the ancient name of the “Black Isle.” -Not a sail is to be seen on the open firth, only -the far-stretching waters, under the sunny sky, -bicker with the “many-twinkling smile of ocean.” -Here, though, two miles out of Nairn, where the -many-ricked farmhouses lie snug among their -new-shorn fields, the road rises into the trim -village of Auldearn.</p> - -<p>Neat as possible are the little gardens before -the cottages, bright yet with late autumn flowers. -Yellow marigolds glisten within the low fences<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_55">55</a></span> -beside dark velvety calceolarias and creamy -stocks; while the crimson flowers of tropeolum -cover the cottage walls up to the thatch, and -some pale monthly roses still bloom about -the windows. A peaceful spot it is to-day, -yet a spot with a past and a grim tale of a -hundred years before Culloden. Here it was -that in 1645 Montrose, fighting gallantly for the -First Charles, drove back into utter rout the -army of the covenanting Parliament. On the -left, among sheepfolds and dry-dyke inclosures, -lay his right wing with the royal standard; -nearer, to the right, with their backs to the hill, -stood the rest of his array with the cavalry; and -here in the village street, between the two wings, -his few guns deceived the enemy with a show of -force. It was from the church tower, up there -in front, that Montrose surveyed the position; -and below, in the little churchyard and church -itself, lie many of those who fell in the battle. -They are all at peace now, the eastern Marquis -and the western, Montrose and Argyle: long ago -they fought out their last great feud, and departed.</p> - -<p>The country about has always been a famous -place for witches, and doubtless the three who -fired Macbeth with his fatal ambition belonged<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_56">56</a></span> -to Auldearn. Three miles beyond the village -the road runs across the Hardmuir, and there it -was that the awful meeting took place. The -moor is planted now with pines, and the railway -runs at less than a mile’s distance; but even -when the road is flooded with sunshine, there -hangs a gloom among the trees, and a strange -feeling of eeriness comes upon the intruder in -the solitude. On the left a gate opens into -the wood, and the witches’ hillock lies at some -distance out of sight.</p> - -<p>Utterly silent the place is! Not a breath of -air is moving, and the atmosphere has become -close and sultry. There is no path, for few -people follow their curiosity so far. Dry ditches -and stumps of old trees make the walking -difficult; withered branches of pine crackle -suddenly sometimes under tread; and here and -there the fleshy finger of a fungus catches the -eye at a tree root.</p> - -<p>And here rises the hillock. On its bald and -blasted summit, in the lurid corpse-light, according -to the old story,</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The weird sisters, hand in hand,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Posters of the sea and land,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thus do go about, about,<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> -<p class="in0"><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_57">57</a></span> -when Macbeth, approaching the spot with Banquo, -after victory in the west over Macdonald of the -Isles, exclaims:</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">So foul and fair a day I have not seen!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="in0">and the hags, suddenly confronting the general, -greet him with the triple hail of Glamis, Cawdor, -and King.</p> - -<p>The blasted hillock was indeed a fit spot for -such a scene. Not a blade of grass grows upon -it; the withered needles and cones of the pines -lie about, wan and lifeless and yellow; and on -one side, where the witches emptied their horrid -caldron, and the contents ran down the slope, -the earth remains bare, and scorched, and black. -Even the trees themselves which grow on the -hillock appear of a different sort from those on -the heath around.</p> - -<p>Antiquaries set the scene of fulfilment of the -witches infernal promptings—Macbeth’s murder -of King Duncan—variously at Inverness, Glamis, -and Bothgofuane, a smithy near Forres. Popular -tradition, however, points to Cawdor, and less -than seven miles from the fatal heath the -Thane’s great moated keep frowns yet among -its woods.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_58">58</a></span> -But what is this? The air has grown suddenly -dark; the gloom becomes oppressive; and -in the close heat it is almost possible to imagine -a smell of sulphur. A flash of lightning, a rush -of wind among the tree-tops, and a terrible crash -of thunder just overhead! A moment’s silence, -a sound as if all the pines were shaking their -branches together, a deluging downpour of rain, -and the storm has burst. The spirits of the air -are abroad, and the evil genius of the place is -awake in demoniac fury. The tempest waxes -terrific. The awful gloom among the trees is lit -up by flash after flash of lightning; the cannon -of thunder burst in all directions; and the rain -pours in torrents. The ghastly hags might well -revisit the scene of their orgies at such a moment.</p> - -<div id="ip_58" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 26.6875em;"><img src="images/i_075.jpg" width="427" height="600" alt="" /></div> - -<p>It is enough. The powers of the air have conquered. -It is hardly safe, and by no means -pleasant, to remain among the pines in such a -storm. So farewell to the deserted spot, and a -bee-line for the open country. To make up for -the wetting, it is consoling to think that few -enthusiasts have beheld so realistic a representation -of the third scene of Macbeth.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_59">59</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="hdr_9">AMONG THE GALLOWAY BECKS.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">It</span> rained heavily at intervals all night, and, -though it has cleared a little since day-break, -there is not a patch of blue to be seen -yet in the sky, and the torn skirts of the clouds -are still trailing low among the hills. The day -can hardly brighten now before twelve o’clock, -and as the woods, at anyrate, will be rain-laden -and weeping for hours, the walk through “fair -Kirkconnel Lea” is not to be thought of. The -lawn, too, is out of condition for tennis. But -see! the burn, brown with peat and flecked with -foam, is running like ale under the bridge, and -though the spate is too heavy for much hope of -catching trout down here, there will be good -sport for the trouble higher up among the -moorland becks. Bring out the fishing-baskets, -therefore, some small Stewart tacklings, and a -canister of bait. Put up, too, a substantial -sandwich and a flask; for the air among the hills -is keen, and the mists are sometimes chilly.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_60">60</a></span> -Wet and heavy the roads are, and there will -be more rain yet, for the pools in the ruts are -not clear. The slender larch on the edge of the -wood has put on a greener kirtle in the night, -and stands forward like a young bride glad amid -her tears. If a glint of sunshine came to kiss -her there, she would glitter with a hundred rain-jewels. -The still, heavy air is aromatic with the -scent of the pines. By the wayside the ripening -oats are bending their graceful heads after the -rain, like Danae, with their golden burden, while -the warrior hosts of the barley beyond hold their -spiky crests white and erect.</p> - -<p>The long, springing step natural on the heather -shortens the road to the hills; and already a -tempting burn or two have been crossed by the -way. But nothing can be done without rods; -and these have first to be called for at the -shepherd’s.</p> - -<div id="ip_60" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 26.5625em;"><img src="images/i_079.jpg" width="425" height="600" alt="" /></div> - -<p>A quiet, far-off place it is, this shieling upon -the moors, with the drone of bees about, and the -bleating of sheep. The shepherd himself is away -to the “big house” about some “hogs,” but his -wife, a weather-grey woman of sixty, with rough -hospitable hands and kindly eyes, says that -“maybe Jeanie will tak’ a rod to the becks.”<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_61">61</a></span> -Jeanie, by her dark glance, is pleased with the -liberty; and indeed this lithe, handsome girl of -fifteen will not be the least pleasant of guides, -with her hair like the raven’s wing, and on her -clear features the thoughtful look of the hills.</p> - -<p>Here are the rods, straight ash saplings of -convenient length, with thin brown lines.</p> - -<p>“Ye’ll come back and tak’ a cup o’ tea; and -dinna stay up there if it rains,” says the goodwife, -by way of parting.</p> - -<p>Jeanie is frank and interesting in speech, -with a gentle breeding little to be expected in -so lonely a place. She has the step of a deer, -and seems to know every tuft of grass upon the -hills. There is not so much heather in Galloway -as in the West Highlands. A long grey bent -takes its place, and on mossy ground the white -tufts of the cotton grass appear.</p> - -<p>But here is a chance for a trial cast. A small -burn comes down a side glen, and, just before it -joins the main stream, runs foaming into a deeper -pool. Keep well back from the bank, impale a -tempting worm on the hook, and drop it in just -where the water runs over the stones. Let the line -go: the current carries it at once into the pool. -There! The bait is held. Strike quickly down<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_62">62</a></span> -stream: the trout all swim against the current. -But it is not a fish; the hook has only caught -on a stone. Disentangle it, and try again. This -time there is no mistaking the wriggle at the -end of the rod; with a jerk the hungry nibbler is -whipped into the air, and alights among the grass, -a dozen yards from his native pool. A plump -little fish he proves, his pretty brown sides spotted -with scarlet, as he gasps and kicks on <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">terra firma</i>.</p> - -<p>Not another trout, however, can be tempted to -bite in that eddy; the fish are too well fed by -the spate, or too timid. “There will be more to -catch,” says Jeanie, “higher up the becks.” She -is right. Perhaps the trout in these narrow -streamlets are less sophisticated than their kind -lower down, for in rivulets so narrow as almost -to be hidden by the bent-grass there seem plenty -of fish eager to take the bait. These are darker -in colour than the trout in the river, taking their -shade from the peat, and though small, of course, -averaging about a quarter of a pound in weight, -are plump, and make merry enough rivalry in -the whipping of them out.</p> - -<p>But the mists droop lower overhead, and a -small smirring rain has been falling for some -time; so, as Jeanie, at least, has a fair basketful,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_63">63</a></span> -it will be best to put up the lines, discuss a -sandwich under the shelter of the birches close -by, and hold a council of war.</p> - -<p>Desolate and silent are these grey hillsides. -Hardly a sheep is to be seen; the far-off cry of -the curlew is the only sound heard; and as the -white mists come down and shroud the mountains, -there is an eerie, solemn feeling, as at the near -presence of the Infinite. Something, however, -must be done. The rain is every moment coming -down more heavily, and the small leaves of the -birches afford but scant protection. Off, then; -home as fast as possible! The mountain maid -knows a shorter way over the hill; and lightly -and swiftly she leads the Indian file along the -narrow sheep-path. On the moor, amid the grey -mist and rain, appear the stone walls of a lonely -sheepfold; and just below, in the channel of the -beck, lies the deep pool, swirling now with peaty -water and foam, where every year they wash the -flocks.</p> - -<p>The shepherd’s wife appears at her door. Her -goodman is home. A great peat fire is glowing -on the warm hearth, and she is “masking the -tea.” “Ye’ll find a basin of soft water in the -little bedroom there, and ye’ll change ye’re coats<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_64">64</a></span> -and socks, and get them dried,” says the kindly -woman.</p> - -<p>This is real hospitality. The rough coats and -thick dry socks bespeak warm-hearted thoughtfulness; -and a wash in clean water after the -discomforts of fishing is no mean luxury. The -small, low-raftered bedroom, with quaintly-papered -walls, and little window looking out upon the -moors, is comfortably furnished; and the stone-floored -kitchen, clean and bright and warm, with -geraniums flowering in the window, has as pleasant -a fireside seat as could be desired. Why should -ambition seek more than this, and why are so -many hopeless hearts cooped up in the squalid -city?</p> - -<p>Here comes Jeanie down from the “loft,” looking -fresher and prettier than ever in her dry -wincey dress, with a little bit of blue ribbon at -the throat. The tea is ready; her mother has -fried some of the trout, and the snowy table is -loaded with thick white scones, thin oatmeal cakes, -home-made bramble jelly, and the freshest butter. -Kings may be blest; but what hungry man needs -more than this? The shepherd, too, is well-read, -for does not Steele and Addison’s “Spectator” -stand there on the shelf, along with Sir Walter<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_65">65</a></span> -Scott, Robert Burns, and the Bible? With fare -like this for body and mind, man may indeed -become “the noblest work of God.”</p> - -<p>But an hour has passed, too quickly; the rain -has cleared at last, and away to the south and -west the clouds are lifting in the sunset. Yonder, -under the clear green sky, glistens the treacherous -silver of the Solway, and as far again beyond it -in the evening light rises the dark side of Skiddaw, -in Cumberland. The gravel at the door -lies glistening after the shower, the yellow marigolds -in the little plot are bright and opening, -and the moorland air is perfumed with mint -and bog-myrtle. A hearty handshake, then, -from the shepherd, a warm pressing to return -soon from his goodwife, a pleasant smile from -Jeanie, and the road must be taken down hill -with a swinging step.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_66">66</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="hdr_10">IN KILT AND PLAID.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap al"><span class="smcap1">All</span> dust has been swept from the causeways -by the clear wind from the firth, as if in -preparation for this great gala-day of the North. -Unusual stir and movement fill the streets of the -quiet Highland town, and the bright sunshine -glitters everywhere on jewelled dirk and brooch -and skeandhu. The clean pavements are ringing -far and near with the quick, light step of the -Highlander, and, from the number of tartans to -be seen, it might almost be thought that the -Fiery Cross was abroad, as in days of old, for -the gathering of the clans.</p> - -<p>Sad enough are the memories here of the last -war summons of the chiefs. High-hearted, indeed, -was the town on the morning when the clans -marched forth under “Bonnie Prince Charlie” -to do battle for the Stuart cause. But before -an April day had passed, the gates received -again, flying from fatal Culloden, the remnants -of the broken chivalry of the North, and the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_67">67</a></span> -streets themselves shook under the thunder of -the Lowland guns.</p> - -<p>The wounds of the past, however, are healed, -the feuds are forgotten, and the clouds of that -bygone sorrow have been blown away by the -winds of time. A lighter occasion now has -brought gaiety to the town, and the heroes -of the hour go decked with no ominous white -cockade. Already in the distance the wild -playing of the pipes can be heard, and at the -sound the kilted clansmen hurry faster along -the streets; for the business of the day is on -the greensward, and the hill folk, gentle and -simple, are gathering from far and near to witness -the Highland games.</p> - -<p>A fair and appropriate scene is the tourney-ground, -with the mountains looking down upon -it, purple and silent—the Olympus of the North. -The eager crowd gathers thick already, like bees, -round the barricade. Little knots of friends there, -from glens among the hills, discuss the chances -of their village hero. Many a swarthy mountaineer -is to be seen, of pure Celtic blood, clear -eyed and clean limbed, from far-off mountain -clachan. Gamekeepers and ghillies there are, -without number, in gala-day garb. And the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_68">68</a></span> -townspeople themselves appear in crowds. On -every side is to be heard the emotional Gaelic of -the hills, beside the sweet English speech for which -the town is famous, and only sometimes one -catches the broader accent of a Lowland tongue.</p> - -<p>The lists have just been cleared, and the -“chieftain” of the day has gathered his henchmen -around him. The games are about to -begin.</p> - -<p>Yonder go the pipers, half a dozen of them, -their ribbons and tartans streaming on the wind. -Featly they step together to the quick tune of -the shrill mountain march they are playing. -Deftly they turn in a body at the boundary, -and brightly the cairngorms of their broad silver -shoulder-brooches flash all at once in the sun. -No wonder it is that the Highlander has the -tread of a prince, accustomed as he is to the -spring of the heather beneath his feet, and to -music like that in the air. The Highland garb, -too, can hardly fail to be picturesque when it is -worn by stalwart fellows like these.</p> - -<p>The programme of the games is very full, and -several competitions are therefore carried on at -the same time. Here a dozen fleet youths speed -past on the half-mile racecourse. Some lithe<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_69">69</a></span> -ghillies yonder are doing hop, step, and leap to -an astonishing distance. And, farther off, five -brawny fellows are preparing to “put” the heavy -ball. Out of the tent close by come some sinewy -men, well stripped for the encounter, to try a bout -of wrestling. A pair at a time, they wind their -strong arms about each other, and each strains and -heaves to give his rival a fall. One man scowls, -and another smiles as he picks himself up after -his overthrow—the sympathy of the crowd goes -largely by these signs. Most, however, display the -greatest good-humour, and every one must obey -the ruling of the umpire. Gradually the two -stoutest and heaviest men overcome the rest; and -at last, the only champions remaining, they stand -up to engage each other. The grey-headed man -has some joke to make as he hitches up his belt -before closing, and the bystanders laugh heartily -at his pleasantry; but his opponent evidently looks -upon the contest too seriously for that. Hither -and thither they stagger in “the grips,” the back -of each as rigid as a plank at an angle of forty-five -degrees. More than once they loosen hold -for a breath, and again grasp each other, till at -last, by dint of sheer strength, the grey-headed -wrestler draws the younger man to himself, and,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_70">70</a></span> -with a sudden toss, throws him clear upon the -ground.</p> - -<p>The slim youths at the pole-vaulting look like -white swallows as they swing high into the air -on their long staves to clear the bar; and a roar -of applause from the far end of the lists, where -the dogged “tug of war” has been going on, -tells that one of the teams of heavy fellows straining -at the rope has been hauled over the brink -into the dividing ditch. The brawny giants who -were throwing the axle a little while ago are -just now breathing themselves, and will be tossing -the mighty caber by and by. And ever and -anon throughout the day there float upon the -breeze the wild strains of the competing pipers—pibrochs -and strathspeys and “hurricanes of -Highland reels.”</p> - -<p>Meanwhile the grand pavilion has filled. Lord -and lady, earl and marquis and duke are there. -And beside these are others, heads of families, -who count their chieftainship, it may be, through -ten centuries, and who are to be called neither -esquire nor lord, but just —— of that Ilk. Chiefs -by right of blood, they need no other title than -their name.</p> - -<p>The presence of so much that is noble and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_71">71</a></span> -illustrious lends a feudal interest to the games, -and imports to the rivalry something of that -desire to appear well in the eyes of the chief -which was once so powerful an influence in the -Highlands. The young ghillie here, who has out-stripped -all but one competitor at throwing the -hammer, feels the stimulus of this. He knows -not only that his sweetheart’s eyes are bent -eagerly upon him from the barrier at hand, but -that he has a chance of distinguishing himself -before his master and “her ladyship,” who are -watching from under the awning yonder. So he -breathes on his hands, takes a firm grasp of the -long ash handle, and, vigorously whirling the -heavy iron ball round his head, sends it with -all his strength across the lists. How far -has it gone? They chalk the distance up on -a board—95½ feet. There is a clapping of -hands from the crowd, and a waving of white -kerchiefs from the pavilion. He is sure of -winning now, and the shy, pretty face at the -barrier flushes with innocent pride. Is he not -<em>her</em> hero?</p> - -<p>There, on the low platform before the judges, -go the dancers, two after two. They are trimly -dressed for the performance, and wear the thin,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_72">72</a></span> -low-heeled Highland shoes, while the breasts of -some of them are fairly panoplied in gold and -silver medals won at former contests. Mostly -young lads, it is wonderful how neatly they -perform every step, turning featly with now one -arm in the air and now the other. Cleverly -they go through the famous sword dance over -crossed claymores, and in the wild whirl of the -Reel o’ Tulloch seem to reach the acme of the -art.</p> - -<div id="ip_72" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 37.5em;"><img src="images/i_093.jpg" width="600" height="486" alt="" /></div> - -<p>But in the friendly rivalry of skill and strength -the day wears on. The races in sacks and over -obstacles, as well as the somewhat rough “bumping -in the ring,” have all been decided; the “best -dressed Highlander” has received his meed of -applause; and the sun at last dips down behind -the hills. Presently, as the mountain-sides beyond -the river are growing grey, and their shadows -gather upon the lists, the spectators melt by -degrees from the barricades, and in a slow stream -move back into the town. By and by the -Assembly Rooms will be lit up, and carriages -will begin to arrive with fair freights for the -great Caledonian Ball. But, long before that, -the upland roads will be covered with pedestrians -and small mountain conveyances with family<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_73">73</a></span> -parties—simple folk, all pleased heartily with -their long day’s enjoyment, and wending their -way to far-off homes among the glens, where -they will talk for another twelvemonth of the -great feats done at the gathering here by Duncan -or Fergus or Hamish.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_74">74</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="hdr_11">AT THE FOOT OF BEN LEDI.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap b"><span class="smcap1">Sit</span> here in the stern of the boat, and let her -drift out on the glassy waters of the loch. -After the long sultry heat of the day it is refreshing -to let one’s fingers trail in these cool waters, -and to watch the reflection of the hills above -darkening in the crystal depths below. Happy -just now must be the speckled trout that dwell -in the loch’s clear depths; and when the fiery-flowering -sun rolls ablaze in the zenith there are -few mortals who will not envy the cool green -domain of the salmon king. But now that the -sunset has died away upon the hills, like “the -watch-fires of departing angels,” a breath of air -begins mysteriously to stir along the shore, and -from the undergrowth about the streamlet that -runs close by into the loch, blackbird and water-ousel -send forth more liquid pipings. The -cuckoos, that all day long have been calling to -each other across loch and strath, now with a -more restful “chuck! chu-chu, chu, chuck!” are<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_75">75</a></span> -flitting, grey flakes, from coppice to coppice, -preparatory to settling for the night The grouse-cocks’ -challenge, “kibeck, kibeck, kibeck!” can -still be heard from their tourney-ground on the -moraine at the moor’s edge; and from the heath -above still comes the silvery “whorl-whorl-whorl” -of the whaup. These sounds can be heard far -off in the stillness of the dusk.</p> - -<p>But listen to this mighty beating of the waters, -and look yonder! From the shadow of the -hazels on the loch’s margin comes the royal bird -of Juno, pursuing his mate. In his eager haste -he has left the water, and with outstretched -neck, beating air and loch into foam with his -silver wings, he rushes after her. She, with the -tantalising coyness of her sex, has also risen from -the water, and, streaming across the loch, keeps -undiminished the distance between herself and -her pursuer. At this, finding his efforts vain, he -gives up the chase, subsiding upon the surface -with a force which sends the foam-waves curling -high about his breast. Disdainfully he turns his -back upon the fair, and, without once inclining -his proud black beak in her direction, makes -steadily for the shore. This, however, does not -please the lady. She turns, looks after her inconstant<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_76">76</a></span> -lover, and, meeting with no response, -begins slowly to sail in his direction. Suddenly -again at this, with snowy pinions erect, neck -curved gallantly back, and the calm waters foaming -round his breast, he surges after her, ploughing -up the loch into shining furrows. Again the coy -dame flees, again and again the same amorous -manœuvres are gone through, and when night -itself falls, the splendid birds will still be dallying -over their long-certain courtship. No plebeian -affair is the mating of these imperial denizens of -the loch. Seldom do mortals witness even this -wooing of the swans.</p> - -<p>More commonplace, though not, perhaps, less -happy, are the three brown ducks and their -attentive drake, which having, one after another, -splashed themselves methodically on the flat stone -by the margin of the loch, now swim off in a -string for home. Young trout are making silver -circles in the water as they leap at flies under -the grassy bank; and the keen-winged little -swallows that skim the surface, sometimes tip the -glassy wave with foot or wing.</p> - -<p>Before the daylight fades there are beautiful -colours to be seen on shore. The fresh young -reeds that rise at hand like a green mist out of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_77">77</a></span> -the water deepen to a purple tint nearer the -margin. The march dyke that comes down to -the shallows is covered with the red chain-mail -of a small-leaved ivy; and the gean-tree beside it, -that a week or two ago raised into the blue sky -creamy coral-branches of blossom, still retains -something of its fragile loveliness. On the stony -meadow beyond, the golden whinflower is fading -now, but is being replaced by the paler yellow -splendour of the broom. The rich blush-purple -of some heathy banks betrays the delicate blossom -of the blaeberry, and patches of brown show -where the young bracken are uncurling their -rusty tips.</p> - -<p>And silent and fair on the mountain descends -the shadowy veil of night. Darkening high up -there against the sapphire heaven, the dome-topped -hill, keeping watch with the stars, has -treasured for twenty centuries strange memories -of an older world. Whether or not, in the earth’s -green spring, it served as a spot of offering for -some primeval race, no man now can tell. But -long before the infant Christ drew breath among the -far-off Jewish hills, grave Druid priests ascended -here to offer worship to their Unknown God. -On the holy Beltane eve, the First of May, the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_78">78</a></span> -concourse gathered from near and far, and as the -sun, the divine sign-manual set in the heavens, -arose out of the east, they welcomed his rising -with an offering of fire. From sea to sea across -dim Scotland, from the storm-cloven peaks of -Arran to the sentinel dome of the Bass, could -be seen this mountain summit; and from every -side the awed inhabitants, as they looked up and -beheld the clear fire-jewel glittering on Ben Ledi’s -brow, knew that Heaven had once more favoured -them with the sacred gift of flame. For the -light on the mountain-top, like the altar fires of -the Chaldean seers on the hills of the East of old, -was understood to be kindled by the hand of -God; every hearth in the land had been quenched, -and the people waited for the new Bal-tein, or -Baal-fire from Heaven, for another year.</p> - -<p>Rude these people may have been—though -that is by no means certain,—but few races on -earth have had a nobler place of worship than -this altar-mountain, which they called the Hill -of God.</p> - -<p>The climber on Ben Ledi to-day passes, near -the summit, the scene of a sad, more modern -story. On the shoulder of the mountain lies a -small, dark tarn. It is but a few yards in width,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_79">79</a></span> -yet once it acted a part in a terrible tragedy. -Amid the snows of winter, and under a leaden -heaven, a funeral party was crossing the ridge, -when there was a crash; the slow wail of the -pipes changed into a shriek of terror, and a -hundred mourners, with the dead they were -carrying, sank in the icy waters to rise no more. -That single moment sufficed to leave sixty women -husbandless in Glen Finglas below. No tablet -on that wind-swept moor records the half-forgotten -disaster; only the eerie lapping of the lochlet’s -waves fills the discoverer with strange foreboding; -and at dusk, it is said, the lonely ptarmigan may -be seen, like souls of the departed, haunting the -fatal spot.</p> - -<p>On a knoll at the mountain foot, where the -Leny leaves Loch Lubnaig, lies the little Highland -burial-place to which the clansmen were -bearing their dead comrade. Only a low stone -wall now remains round the few quiet graves; -but here once stood the chapel of St Bride, -and from the Gothic arch of its doorway Scott, -in his “Lady of the Lake,” describes the issuing -of a blithesome rout, gay with pipe-music and -laughter, when the dripping messenger of -Roderick Dhu rushed up and thrust into the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_80">80</a></span> -hand of the new-made groom the Fiery Cross -of the <span class="locked">Macgregors—</span></p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="iq">“The muster place is Lanrick mead;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Speed forth the signal! Norman, speed!”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="in0">Well did the poet paint the parting of bride and -groom; and to-day on the mossy stones of the -little burial-place are to be read the wistful words -of many who have bid each other since then a -last good-bye. Surely the arcana of earth’s -divinest happiness is only opened by the golden -key of love. Sweet, indeed, must be that companionship -which unclasps not with resignation -even when sunset is fading upon the hills of -life, and the shadows are coming in regretful -eyes, but would fain stretch forth its yearnings -through the pathways of a Hereafter. Simple -and lacking excitement may be the lives of the -folk who dwell under these hills, but something -of the sublime surely is latent in hearts whose -hopes extend beyond a time when heaven and -earth shall have passed away.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_81">81</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="hdr_12">CADZOW FOREST.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">High</span> on the edge of the crumbling cliff here, -like the grey eyrie of some keen-winged -falcon, hangs the ruined keep of Cadzow. Bowered -and all but hidden by the leafy luxuriance of -“the oak and the ash and the bonnie ivy-tree,” -with the Evan roaring down its rocky bed far -below at the foot of the sheer precipice, there is -enough left of this ancestral home of the Hamiltons -to give some idea of its ancient strength. Perched -where it was unassailable on one side save by foes -who had the gift of wings; on the other hand, the -deep moss-grown moat and the massive remains -of thick walls tell how secure a refuge it gave to -its possessors. Secluded, too, in the depths of the -old Caledonian forest, the fastness had endless -facilities for secret communication and for safe -hiding in case of necessity, and the deeds of its -owners need have been subject to the curiosity of -prying eye. Who can tell what captives have<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_82">82</a></span> -languished in the dungeons into which now, at -places through the broken arch, the sunshine -makes its way? Birds have built their nests, and -twitter joyously about their callow young, where -once only the sighs of the prisoner were heard -and the iron clank of his chain. Alas! he had -not the linnet’s wing to fly out and speed away -along these sunny woodland paths.</p> - -<p>But not vindictive above their peers were the -chiefs of the ancient race that held these baronies. -Rather has the gleam of romance come here to -lighten the records of their gloomy age. For it -was within these walls, tradition says, that Queen -Mary found an asylum upon the night following -that of her escape from Loch Leven Castle—a -tradition the more likely to be true since the -Hamilton Palace of that day was but a rude -square tower. And it is easy to imagine how -in that sweet May morning, the second of her -new-born liberty and of her fresh-reviving hopes, -the eyes of the fair unfortunate Queen may have -filled with tears of happiness as she gazed from -this casement forth upon the green waving forests -and the silver Evan in its gorge below, and heard -in the courtyard and the woods behind the tramp -of horses and the ring of arms. Alas! whatever<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_83">83</a></span> -her frailties, she suffered sorely for them. There -are few perhaps whose errors lie so much at the -door of circumstance. From the Rout of Solway, -which heralded her birth, to the last sad scene -at Fotheringay, her life was a walk of tears; and -the student of her reign is tempted to think that -had she been a less lovable woman she might -have been a more successful queen. That was -the last gleam of sunshine in her life, the eleven -days between Loch Leven and Langside. Short -was the respite, but it must have been sweet, and -doubtless these Hamiltons made chivalrous hosts. -They fought for her gallantly at anyrate, if in -vain, for they were the foremost to rush against -her enemies’ spears in the steep narrow lane at -Langside.</p> - -<p>And at last she rode away from this place, -surrounded by a brave little troop of nobles, their -armour glancing in the sun as they caracoled off -along these grassy forest glades. Then amid the -restored quiet, only the whisper of the woods -about them and the murmur of the river far -below, the women waited here, listening. Presently, -sudden and ominous, they heard a sound -in the distance—cannonading near Glasgow, ten -miles away. The Queen had been intercepted<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_84">84</a></span> -on her journey to Dunbarton. There was not -much of the sound, and it died feebly.</p> - -<p>Hours afterwards, anxious waiting hours, down -these forest avenues, slowly, with drooping crest -and broken spear, came riding the lord of the -castle, haggard, and almost alone. For of the -gallant gentlemen who had followed him to Langside -many had fallen upon the field, and the -rest were scattered and fleeing for their lives.</p> - -<p>What sorrowings then for those who would never -return must there have been within these walls—what -aching hearts for those who had escaped! -The smoke of the houses in Clydesdale, fired by -the victorious army of the Regent, could almost -be seen from here; and day after day news came -of friends taken and friends in flight, until it was -whispered that the Queen herself was a prisoner -in the hands of the English Warden. A weary -and anxious time it must have been; but the -danger passed, and the hour of reprisal came.</p> - -<p>Through these woods, according to the tradition -preserved by Sir Walter Scott, on a January -afternoon less than two years after the battle of -Langside, a hunting-party was returning to the -castle. Amid the fast-falling shadows of the -winter day they were bringing home their quarry—<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_85">85</a></span>the -wild bull whose race still roams these glades; -and the guests and huntsmen were making -merry over the success of their sport. There -was the jingle, too, of hawk-bells, and the bark -of hounds in leash. But their lord rode in front, -silent, with clenched hand and clouded brow. -He had not forgotten the misfortune that had -befallen his house, and news of a fresh insult -had but lately quickened his anger over it. The -estate of one of his kinsmen, Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh, -had been confiscated to a favourite of -the Regent, and the new possessor, it was said, -had used his power with such severity, in turning -out Bothwellhaugh’s wife and new-born infant on -a freezing night, that the poor lady had become -furiously mad. Brooding darkly and bitterly on -these evils, the chief was drawing near the castle, -when there was suddenly heard approaching the -heavy gallop of a horse, and in another moment -Bothwellhaugh sprang to the earth before him. -His face was wild and pale, and his steed, -bespattered with foam and blood, drooped its -head in exhaustion. Vengeance swift and dire -had fallen upon the Regent, and, twenty miles -away, in Linlithgow Palace, the birthplace of -the sister he had dethroned, he lay dying. It<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_86">86</a></span> -is for a higher Judge than man to say whether -his death was that of a martyr or of a miscreant; -but at the time there were not wanting those -who held that Bothwellhaugh satisfied with one -blow his own private feud and the wrath of -heaven over the distresses of the Queen. The -brass matchlock, curiously enough a rude sort -of rifle, with which the deed was done, lies yet -in the palace of the Hamiltons.</p> - -<p>Three hundred years ago and more it all -happened, and the moss grows dark and velvety -now on the ruined bridge over which once rang -the hoofs of Queen Mary’s steed; but the grey -and broken walls, silent amid the warm summer -sunshine, recall these memories of the past. -There could be no sweeter spot to linger near. -Foamy branches of hawthorn in spring fill the -air here with their fragrance; and in the woodland -aisles lie fair beds of speedwell, blue as -miniature lakes. Under the dry, crumbling banks, -too, among tufts of delicate fern, are to be seen -the misty, purple-flowering nettle and the soft -green shoots of brier. Overhead, in summer -luxuriance, spread the broad, palm-like fronds of -the chestnut; close by, the soft greenery of the -beech lets the tinted sunshine through; and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_87">87</a></span> -amid them rises the dark and sombre pine. But, -venerable above all, on these rolling forest lands, -the shattered girth of many an ancient oak still -witnesses to an age that may have seen the rites -of the Druids. Monarchs of the primeval wilds, -these gigantic trees, garlanded now with the -green leaf of another year, need acres each for -the spread of their mighty roots; while as withies -in comparison appear the cedars of a century.</p> - -<p>And down these forest avenues, the home of -his sires from immemorial time, where his hoof -sinks deep in the primeval sward, and there is -no rival to answer his hoarse bellow of defiance, -comes the lordly Caledonian bull. Never yet has -the race been tamed, and the cream-white hide -and black muzzle, horn, and hoof bespeak the -strain of its ancient blood. There is a popular -belief, indeed, that when the white cattle become -extinct the house of Hamilton will pass away. -Here, then, in the forgotten solitude, where seldom -along the grassy woodland ways comes the foot -of the human wanderer, the mountain bull keeps -guard with his herd over the scene of that old -and sorrowful story.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_88">88</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="hdr_13">A FISHER TOWN.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap b"><span class="smcap1">Keen</span> and strong, and steady to-night in the -gathering dusk, the wind is coming up the -firth out of the east. Darkling clouds roll low -along the sky, and, before the breeze, the waves -in their unnumbered hosts, like dark hussars -white-crested, ride past to break upon the beach-sands -yonder inland at Fort George. The full, -deep gale brings with it out of the shadowy east -the health of a hundred tumbling seas, and sets -the glad life dancing in lip, and eye, and heart; -while the music of the rushing waves, like the -drums of far-off armies, stirs the soul with the -daring of great purposes. Little need, therefore, -is there to pity the fisher women and children -far out at the ebb-tide edge gathering bait among -the reefs. Clear are their eyes as the sea-pools -over which they bend, and while sun and wind -have made their skins brown as the wet sand -itself, many a drawing-room beauty would give<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_89">89</a></span> -her diamonds for such a wealth of raven hair. -Even at this distance the happy voices of the -children, a pleasant murmur, speak of free and -simple hearts. Sport on, happy children! Rejoice -in your brown brood, simple mothers! Not yours -are the pale cheek and the wasted form, the lifeless -eye and the languid step. Sometimes, it -may be, when the winds rise and the waves -come thundering upon the beach, there are -anxious hours for you because of husband or -father tossing out there somewhere in the darkness; -sometimes, alas! a sore heart and many -tears when the little knot of sad and silent men -come up from the beach and lay gently upon -its pillow the pale wet face that will speak to -you no more. But yours, at least, are not the -fetid atmosphere of cities and their weary miles -of pavement; for you the smile of Heaven is not -veiled by a sin-black pall of smoke; and when -the dark angel does come to your humble -dwellings, and the last “Good-byes!” have to -be said, it is not amid the heartless roar and -the squalor of city streets, but amid the sweet, -salt smell, and listening to the strange and -solemn “calling” of the sea.</p> - -<p>A race by themselves are these fisher-folk,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_90">90</a></span> -mixing little with the people of the upper town, -and keeping very much by customs of their -own. Danish, very likely, or Norse, in origin, -their blood remains all but as pure yet as it -was when their forefathers landed on these -shores. Seven miles to the eastward along the -coast, where the white sand-line gleams on the -horizon, in places exposed by the shifting dunes, -are still to be found the remains of villages -which belonged to the ancestors of these folk, -and by these remains—bronze pins, fish-hooks, -broken pottery, and shell heaps—it seems clear -that the ancient villagers lived very much the -same life as is lived here to-day. Only, of late -years the steamship and the School Board have -made some invasions upon traditional ideas.</p> - -<p>At hand, spread on the bent-grass to dry, and -brown as seaweed itself, lie miles of fishing-nets, -with their rows of worn cork floats; for the -herring fishery of the season is over, the west -coast boats have gone home through the Canal, -and the gear is being laid by for the winter. -In the end of April it will be wanted again -for the Loch Fyne fishing, but it will be the -end of June before the herring nets are used -on the east coast again. The good woman<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_91">91</a></span> -coming up the shore below with her creel and -pail of bait—mussels, sand-worms, and silver-gleaming -needle-fish—is going now to bait for the -later white-fishing the “long lines,” with their -hundreds of hooks, which her husband and his -sons will take out to set before daylight. To-morrow -morning, when the boat comes home, -she will have to fill her creel with the haddocks, -and sell them along the country-side; or perhaps -the fish will be bought at auction by the curers, -to be smoked with the smoke of fragrant fir-cones -into succulent, appetising “speldings.”</p> - -<p>The quay-head in the morning, when the fish -auction is going on, makes a characteristic sight, -and displays the only occasion on which anything -like business wakens in the quiet place.</p> - -<p>The boats have come in with the running tide, -and lie moored to great iron rings in the landing-place. -Curious names they have, mostly double—the -“Elspat and Ann,” or the “Ann and Margaret”—probably -to represent the wives or sweethearts -of two partners. In the boats themselves lie -together heaps of lines, ropes, and sails, with fish -gleaming here and there among them; while the -quay is littered with oars and spars and cables, -enough to make walking a fine art. The fish<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_92">92</a></span> -have been lifted out of each boat by its crew, -and when the women have divided them into -glittering heaps—a heap for each man and one -for the boat—the skipper sells the boat’s heap, -and its price settles that of the others. Here -the shrewd bargaining power of the fisher-folk -comes out, trained, as it is, by the narrow path -they tread between means and ends; while here -the women who have no man’s hand to bring -them home the harvest of the deep contrive to -find their bread by buying the fish they will -afterwards retail. The whole transaction is primitive -in the extreme, but one that sufficiently serves -its purpose.</p> - -<p>A life of which this is the busiest scene may -appear monotonous to the dweller in cities, but -again and again there come hours of stern -excitement which prove the manhood of the -race. There have been times when every boat -of the fishing fleet as it came rushing ashore -had to be caught, at peril of life and limb, -breast-deep in the furious surf, and landed safely -with its occupants. Yet men are ever most -plentiful when the work is most dangerous, and -never yet has the lifeboat lacked a crew.</p> - -<p>Once, indeed, a few years ago it happened that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_93">93</a></span> -the men, all but one or two, were away at the -fishing, when word was brought that a Norwegian -timber-ship was going to pieces on the treacherous -shifting sands yonder, seven miles away. A -tremendous surf was beating upon the beach, -and the lifeboat coxswain and crew were riding -the storm out, cabled to their herring-nets somewhere -in the North Sea. In the upper town, -however, there was visiting his brother just then -the captain of an East Indiaman, home upon -holiday, and the message was handed to him -as he sat at breakfast. In half an hour, sailor-like, -he had the lifeboat out, manned with a -scratch crew of volunteers, and run down the -beach. Then began the difficulty and peril. By -strong and willing hands the boat was run out -into the surf, but again and again she was caught -by a huge wave and driven back. Three-quarters -of an hour’s hard rowing it took to pull her out -to the fourth sea. A little longer, and she hoisted -her sail, and went plunging off into the howling -wilderness of waters.</p> - -<p>Would she accomplish her mission? Would -she and the brave hearts on board her ever -themselves come back? Old men and fishers’ -wives watched her from the quay-head till she<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_94">94</a></span> -disappeared among the waves, and then they -waited, anxious and fearful.</p> - -<p>The day passed without tidings of her, and at -last night began to fall. The anxiety of the -watchers had become intense, when suddenly some -one caught a glimpse of white bows gleaming far -out over the waves. There she was, clearly now, -coming like a sea-bird through the driving spray. -Who could tell whether she had won or lost -lives? Presently her thwarts were seen black -with men. She had accomplished her mission; -but the question yet remained—how were they -to be landed? Alas! all might yet be lost in -the terrible surf. There was a strong hand at -the helm, however; the full tide had covered -the bar, and, with a single swoop, she shot -into the harbour, every man safe, amid the wild -huzzas of the waiting throng.</p> - -<p>One glad heart there was too full for words. -Among the ringing cheers, as the crowd made -way for its hero, she could only in silence take -her husband’s arm. It was the captain’s wife.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_95">95</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="hdr_14">A LOCH-SIDE SUNDAY.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap a"><span class="smcap1">A</span> quarter to twelve. How quiet it is! -Only the mellow note of a mavis sometimes -in the oak woods, and the clear, high treble -of a shilfa, break on the stillness. The tinkle of -the little village smithy, down among the trees, -is silent. It is the Day of Rest. There was a -shower of rain in the early morning; it has laid -the dust, and left the road firm and cool to the -tread. Everything is refreshed: wild rosebuds, -red and white, are everywhere opening after the -shower; the yellow broom-blossom is softer and -brighter; the delicate forget-me-nots have a -lovelier blue; and beyond, in the shady spaces -of the woods, the foxgloves raise their spires of -drooping bells. The rain, too, has brought out -afresh every wayside scent; the new-cut clover -there in the meadow, the flowerless sweetbrier -and clambering yellow honeysuckle here in the -hedge, all fill the air with fragrance. The tide is -out, almost at full ebb, and from the stony beach<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_96">96</a></span> -below sometimes the gentle swaying of the air -brings up faintly the fresh smell of seaweed. The -sun is very warm, and the last of the clouds, -floating far up in the sky, are melting into the -blue. The air is clear yet, though, and on the -other side of the loch the sheep—small white -dots—can be quite well seen feeding high up on -the green patches of the mountain. A little later -the heather will begin to bloom on these brown -hillsides, and the mighty Bens, seated yonder on -their rugged thrones, will put on their imperial -purple. The loch lying calm below reflects -perfectly every detail of the opposite hills—shrub -and heather and shieling! Even the white gull, -circling slowly a yard above the water, casts its -image on the glassy mirror. Out on the open -firth, too, beyond the low-lying points at the -mouth of the loch, the sea, like cloth-of-silver, -glistens in the sun.</p> - -<p>Hark! the bell on the roof of the little kirk -among the trees has begun to ring, and already, in -groups of two and three, the people are coming -along the loch-side and down the road from the -hills. These early arrivals mostly travel a long -way to attend the service. From quiet farmhouses -in lonely straths, and solitary shielings on<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_97">97</a></span> -the upland moors, some of the simple-hearted -folk have wended for hours. Here are heavy-footed -shepherds, shaggy-bearded and keen-eyed, -in rough mountain tweed and flat Balmoral -bonnets, grasping their long hazel staves, and -accompanied, more than one of them, by a faithful -old collie. There are comely lasses, of sun-browned -pleasant features, and soft hill speech, -in sober straw hats, strong boots, and serviceable -dresses of homespun, with, perhaps, a keepsake -kerchief in the bosom for a bit of colour. Over -high stiles, across uneven stepping-stones, and -through rugged glens of birch and rowan, they -have made their way to attend the kirk. Farmers -from ten and twelve miles distance come jogging -in with their wives and daughters in primitive -two-wheeled conveyances, built for strength, and -drawn by shaggy little Highland horses. Here, -too, come the people from the village—bent old -women, their wrinkled faces hidden under snowy -linen mutches, carrying in their hands, with the -long-treasured Bible, a sprig of southernwood -and sweetwilliam to smell at during sermon; -the big-bearded, big-handed blacksmith, looking -wonderfully clean for once; the lithe, sallow-faced -tailor; and the widow who keeps the store. All<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_98">98</a></span> -linger in the sunny graveyard among the moss-grown -stones, and while the beadle in the porch -keeps ringing the bell, greetings are exchanged -among friends who meet here once a week from -distant ends of the parish. The gamekeeper has -a word to say to the piermaster, the school-mistress -comes up talking with the housekeeper -from the castle, the old men exchange snuff-boxes -with solemn nods, and young M’Kenzie, who is -expecting to be made the Duke’s forester, takes -the opportunity of getting near and whispering -something of interest to the blacksmith’s pretty -daughter.</p> - -<p>Presently, however, they all move into the kirk, -dropping their “collection” as they pass, upon -the plate in the porch, where two deacons stand -to watch it. Inside, all is very still, though a -swallow that has flown in and skims about the -roof gives an occasional chirrup, and the regular -rhythm of the bell is faintly heard. The doors -remain open, yet the sunshine, falling in on the -yellow walls, makes the air very warm, and -through the clear lattice windows the cattle in the -glebe close by can be seen whisking the flies from -their sides under the larches. The old precentor -has just come in from the vestry with his list of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_99">99</a></span> -the psalm-tunes, and in his seat under the pulpit, -is polishing his spectacles by way of preparation.</p> - -<p>At last the bell stops: there follows a tramp, -tramp of heavy feet, and the youth of the -parish, who by immemorial custom have been -hanging about outside till the last moment, file -solemnly down the aisles to their seats. The -beadle carries in Bible and psalm-book, and, after -a moment’s pause, the minister, in ample black -gown and white neck-bands, reverently enters and -ascends the pulpit.</p> - -<p>All is perfectly still for a minute while he -bows his head; and then in a low tremulous -voice he reads the verses of the rhymed psalm -that is to be sung. The precentor leads off the -singing, for there is no organ, and as he beats -time with his tuning-fork, the praise that ascends, -if not perhaps of perfect harmony, is at least -sincere. More is felt by these simple folk than -is apparent on the surface. Associations of many -sorts influence them in the place. Pulpit and -pew have been occupied and passed from father -to son for generations; memories of the past -and hopes of the future alike gather here, and -the place is sacred to them all. The grey-haired -minister, standing where his father once stood<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_100">100</a></span> -hears rising about him, with the praise of the -child lips he has baptized, the quavering voices -of those who were young when he was young; -and his thoughts are of years gone by. The -young forester in the raftered “loft” listens to -the singing of a sweet voice in the choir, and his -eyes grow bright with the hope and strength -of days to come. The youthful look forward; -the aged look back; and both feelings are an -inspiration of worship.</p> - -<p>When the minister has read and prayed—a -solemn extempore prayer—and they have sung -again, the sermon, the principal part of the -service, begins. The opening of the discourse is -like the peaceful morning hour of summer. It -is the calm, dispassionate statement of truth. -Has this no effect? Their minds must be moved -by fear. Cloud after cloud rolls up into the sky: -the preacher is marshalling the battalions of his -argument. Darker and darker they become. No -ray of hope can pierce that leaden heaven. All -deepens to the gloom of despair. Joy has fled: -the twitter of little birds is still. There comes -a sharp question—a flash of lightning; then, in -a thunder-roll of denunciation, argument after -argument overwhelms the sinner: the clouds are<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_101">101</a></span> -rent, earth trembles, rain falls. Are the hearers -not awed? They must be stirred by gratitude. -The thunders cease, the storm sweeps past, the -clear light of hope shines again upon earth; a -lark flutters up into the sky, and the last clouds -of fear are melted afar into the rugged gold of -sunset. The sermon is ended. Those who were -not moved by reason, awed by terror, or inspired -by hope, have been thrilled by the earnestness of -the preacher. The old have listened with reverent, -downcast looks, shaking their bent heads ever -and again in solemn conviction; while the young -have sat with earnest eyes riveted on the minister. -The discourse has continued without a break for -three-quarters of an hour, and when it is over, -the hushed stillness lasts for more than a minute. -The final prayer is short, condensing and putting -in practical form the aspirations of the sermon, -not neglecting, either, to stir pity “for all we love, -the poor, the sad, the sinful.” A “paraphrase” -is sung with renewed fervour, and a solemn -benediction ends the service.</p> - -<p>Slowly the congregation melts out of the kirk. -It has been very close inside, and the faint air -moving out of doors is most refreshing. The -tide is flowing in now with a gentle ripple on<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_102">102</a></span> -the beach, and the little boat at anchor off-shore -has drifted round with the current. The sun is -striking the west side of the mossy tombstones, -the shadows of the trees have shifted on the -grass, and all traces of the morning shower have -disappeared. The people linger yet a little about -the graveyard to talk over points of the sermon. -Presently the minister comes out of the vestry, -and, stopping here and there to say a kindly -word to some of the old folk, who are pleased -by the attention, passes across the glebe to the -pleasant white manse resting, with deep eaves, -among its fuchsias and rose-trees.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_103">103</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="hdr_15">THE GLEN OF GLOOM.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap b"><span class="smcap1">Silence</span> falls upon the gay deck of the -floating palace, as, with quickly pulsing -paddles, she throbs on amid the solitude of -these dark waters under the mountains. Far -away to the south behind, like silver in the -sunshine, lies the open sea chased by the wind; -but above the narrowing channel in front the -rugged Bens, sombre and vast, frown down upon -the invader. Purple-apparelled these Bens are -now, like allied kings asleep after their battles -with the storm-giants of the North. For -the black waves in winter leap here savagely, -and gnash their gleaming teeth against the -mountain-sides; the storm-winds roar in anger -as they buffet the iron breasts of their captors; -and the silent frost strains with his strong -embrace to crack the great ribs of the Titans. -But the everlasting hills live on, and the sunshine -kisses them again and the summer rain -weeps upon their scars, while their children, the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_104">104</a></span> -dwellers about their feet, look up and learn to -love them for their memories with a love strong -as life itself. Many a Highland heart failed -long ago on the march through the Egyptian -desert when the pipes wailed out “Lochaber no -more.” These are the great mountains of Lochaber -rising huge against the sky in front; and -even the gay tourist, here on the sunny deck, -feels a silence gather about his heart as he -is borne on under their shadows. The young -bride by the companion-way nestles closer to her -husband as, with grave blue eyes, she gazes -upon the solemn loneliness of the hills.</p> - -<p>But listen! Do you hear? Wild and sweet -in the distance over the water comes the sound. -It is the pipes, and they are playing “Flora -Macdonald’s Lament.” Yonder, down near the -shore—you can make them out through the glass—a -shooting party has picnicked, and they have -brought the piper with them. How the colour -deepens on the cheek of the old Highland -gentleman here at the sound! He is just -returning from many years’ residence abroad, -and for the last hour, leaning over the deck-rail, -he has been feasting his heart upon the -sight of the mountains. “There is no music<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_105">105</a></span> -like that music,” he exclaims, “over the water -and among the hills.” To a Highlander, indeed, -the sound of the pipes is full of many memories, -like “the sough of the south wind in the trees” -of an autumn night. The folk on deck who -are from the south will know something of it -now perhaps. Yesterday, no doubt, some of -them supposed the ragged vagabond who strutted -and blew on a pier-head as the steamer passed, -a specimen of the pibroch-players. They should -see a chief’s own hereditary piper march on the -castle terrace, cairngorm and silver gleaming about -him, ribbons streaming on the wind, and tartans -afloat!</p> - -<p>And the steamer draws in to the little wooden -pier under the mountain, where the horses are -waiting. A quiet and peaceful spot it is, with -the clear green waves washing in among the -shining, clinging mussels, to break upon the dark -blue shingle. Only twice a day is the peaceful -murmur of these waters broken upon by the -coming of the great palace steamers, when there -is a momentary stir and excitement, the gleam -of white dresses as visitors come ashore, and the -getting of the few mail-bags on board. Then -presently with churning paddles the steamer<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_106">106</a></span> -departs up the loch, leaving behind it on the -dark waters a long trail of foam; the visitors -stow themselves like clustering bees upon the -high coaches that are in waiting; and the place -falls a-dreaming again amid the coming and -going of the tides.</p> - -<p>The five horses in the foremost coach to-day -are quite fresh, and as the steamer was half an -hour late, they have grown restive under the reins. -The driver now, however, after looking behind to -see that all is secure, makes his whip crack like -a rifle shot, and with prancing leader and gallant -clatter of hoofs the cavalcade moves off. Above, -the mountain-side, tufted with heather and bracken -and dark with trees, overhangs the road, and from -the high box-seat one might drop an acorn into -the waves that wash the foot of the precipice forty -feet below. After the throbbing deck of the great -steamer, and the oily smell of engines and cook’s -galley, it is pleasant to be bowling along a firm -road with the honey-scent of the heather in the -air, and—yes, it is quite certain—the fragrance of -peat smoke. For as the road turns inland the -village opens to view, a double line of dark blue -dwellings along the mountain foot. Cold, perhaps, -these cottages look to a southern eye accustomed<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_107">107</a></span> -to warm red brick; but in winter, when the storms -come roaring down the glens, and the hills are -hidden by falling snow, the hearths within, heaped -with glowing sea-coal and peat, are cosy enough -for all that. Then the brown fishermen, home -from the herring harvest of the North Sea, talk -over the year’s success as they mend their gear -by the fireside, and swarthy fellows shut out by -the snowdrifts from their work in the great slate -quarries on the mountain, gather to hear the -week-old news that has come by the trading -steamer. Just now it is only women and -children who come to the doors to see the -coach go past.</p> - -<p>The horses dash on at a gallop through the -village and into the mouth of the great glen -that opens, rugged and wild and dark, in front. -Between the mountain walls of that deep and -lonely pass reigns an awful silence now, broken -only by the far-off cry of the curlew and the -beating of the wild-bird’s wing. Unsought in -the corries, the hazel-nuts are ripening and the -rowan clusters growing red; while along the -misty precipices, the eagles, undisturbed, are -teaching their young to fly. All here to-day is -desolation, for hand of man has not tilled the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_108">108</a></span> -spot since the terrible night, two hundred years -ago, when the valley was swept with fire and -sword, and a hundred hearths, the dwellings of -its devoted clan, were buried in smoking ruins. -Foul lies that dark deed at its perpetrators’ door, -and its memory remains a blot upon their name.</p> - -<p>Gleams of sunshine lie golden on the steep -mountain-sides to-day, and the purple heather -warms them with its bloom; but a storm was -raging through the pass on that awful winter -night, and snow lay thick upon the ground, -when shriek and musket-shot told that the unsuspecting -clansmen were being murdered by their -guests—guests, too, who, though soldiers, were -their own neighbours and relations. Tottering -old men and lisping children were butchered -here then to avenge the baulked ambition of a -cruel statesman; and heart-broken women, clasping -helpless infants to their breasts, fled shrieking -from their blood-stained hearths to perish amid -the storm.</p> - -<div id="ip_108" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 37.5em;"><img src="images/i_131.jpg" width="600" height="358" alt="" /></div> - -<p>And the coach with its holiday occupants will -drive at a gallop to the head of the glen, and -some one will make a jest upon the bard’s choice -of an abode when Ossian’s cave is pointed out, -high up in the precipice face. But the heart of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_109">109</a></span> -the young bride will fill with world-old pity as -she sees, mouldering among the heather in the -valley, the ruins of once happy homes; and when -the coach comes down again there will be tears -perhaps in her eyes as she gazes at the chief’s -house, and is told how the rude soldiers, after -shooting her brave old lord before her eyes, tore -the gold wedding-ring with their teeth from the -finger of MacIan’s wife, and thrust her out, -trembling with age and grief, to die of her -agony in the snow. For on the loch-shore at -the entrance to the glen, the house of the chief -stands yet, silent, haunted by its memories, amid -the <span class="locked">trees—</span></p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Where Sorrow broods in silence evermore<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Among the shadows of eternal hills,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While at her feet sobs the unceasing sea.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_110">110</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="hdr_16">ACROSS BUTE.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">Tea</span> is over—the large eggs, snowy scones, -and home-made cheese that loaded the -table half an hour ago, have been satisfactorily -demolished; the full-bodied brown teapot has -yielded its final drop, and the crofter’s warm-hearted -wife is at last assured that her hospitality -has received ample justice. It is time to go, for -there is a nine miles’ tramp across the island yet -to be done.</p> - -<p>Wait a little! The good woman and her -husband will see us to the hill by a short path -through their fields. She will “just put a peat -on the fire first.”</p> - -<p>Sweet the air is in the doorway, and peaceful -is the hour! The sun is just setting beyond the -Cantyre hills, and out there, over the water, the -lonely peaks of Arran are purple in the evening -light. Scarcely a cloud lingers in the clear green -sky, and the calm sea stirs but at intervals with -the incoming of the tide. The tan-brown sails of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_111">111</a></span> -the fishing-boats that came out of Loch Ranza -an hour ago have hardly moved a mile yet up -Kilbrannan Sound. The rooks have gone home -to the Mount Stuart woods; the whirr of the -reaping-machine in the corn-field over there has -ceased; all the air is still. The grey smoke rising -from thatched roofs here and there in the little -strath tells that the evening meal is being prepared. -Presently the darkness will come down, -and the simple crofter hamlet by the shore will -sink to rest. And the weary and the disappointed, -soiled with the dust of the far-off city, striving all -their lives after what they will never win, have -forgotten that sweet bread may be earned on the -cornlands, and fair fish caught in the sea; that -there is music for listening, here by the murmuring -brooks, and rest in the setting of the sun.</p> - -<p>Soft shadows are gathering in the hollows of -the hills, and the road rising inland through the -quiet moors shows its white winding line among -the heather. This wandering by-path, too, among -the fields, is pleasant. Fitches are flowering yet, -purple and yellow, in the hedges, as well as the -delicate harebell—bluebell of Scotland—on the -bank below. The wild poppies have mostly -seeded now, but here and there a spot of flame<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_112">112</a></span> -tells where a late bloom lingers. Among the -feathery grasses in this untouched corner of the -field rich heads of the pink clover are still to be -seen, and creamy tufted clouds of meadowsweet -rise on their dark stems. Above, amid the prickly -sprays of wild brier, the glossy hips are already -a bright yellow, and on the uncut branches of the -thorn clustering bunches of haws are becoming -brown. Along the straight “rigs” of the corn-field -here, where the crofter was shearing to-day, -the dusky stooks of oats stand in long rows. -The good man casts a pleased glance along their -lines, for the straw is long this year, and the -heads are heavy. There is a quiet satisfaction in -the completion of a day’s work among the fields -which never comes to the mere mercantile toiler. -The ploughman strolls forth at night to gaze at -the broad acres he has furrowed, and the eye -of the reaper is rewarded with fair stooks of -winnowing grain.</p> - -<p>Healthy as could be the crofter’s children look -as they pick their way with bare feet along the -grassy edge of the stubble-field. No one need -wonder that their cheeks and legs are so chubby -and brown; for they get their school holidays in -harvest-time, and have been helping their father,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_113">113</a></span> -all day long, to bind his sheaves. Both boy and -girl have caught the clear blue of heaven in their -eyes; and the straying locks of their bonnetless -hair are just the yellow colour of the corn. -Donald, here, will make a sturdy ploughman -some day; and that wild Lizzie will soon be a -strapping lass. Theirs are the free air of the -mountain, the lusty bowl of porridge, and thick -broth of stalwart kale.</p> - -<p>The road lies close beyond this plantation. -But, take care! the ground is boggy here, and -one may sink over the boot-head in the soft -peat. Step on the hussocks of grass, though, -and the footing will be firm enough. In the -late light, the higher branches of the pines up -there among their dark green foliage shine as -red as copper: it is the colour of the rich new -bark. Not a blade of grass springs beneath the -firs, and the floor of the wood, with its carpet of -brown fallen needles, is soft and dry under foot. -Only the green feathery fronds of solitary bracken -rise here and there in the spaces.</p> - -<p>The wood ends at the road, and our little -friendly escort need come no farther. A hearty -handshake from the crofter, a kindly God-speed -from his wife, a laugh and retreat by Lizzie at<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_114">114</a></span> -suggestion of a kiss, and, as we scale the mossy -dyke, they turn back among the trees. A comfortable, -contented couple these are, rearing children -that will be healthy and strong as themselves. -After all, is not this the existence that best fulfils -life’s real ends? As he cares for the patient -beast, and reaps the autumn corn, a man need -not be told to glorify God; and here, under -sunshine and starshine, where the fruitful earth -smells fresh with the rainfall and the dew, he -cannot help enjoying Him.</p> - -<p>The winding lines of telegraph-poles that mark -the road can be seen stretching away for miles -among the hills. The sun has set now, and -night, falling earlier in the late autumn, is coming -down. It is the gloaming hour. Out of the -grass-field here by the roadside the trailing-footed -kine, with patient eyes and deep udders, are turning -down the hill towards their byre. Their -satisfied breathing fills the air as they pass with -the warm sweet scent of clover. The red-cheeked -farm-lass fastens the gate-hurdle to its post when -the last beast has gone, and slowly follows homewards. -A comely lass she is, with eyes like -the sloe, and teeth like milk, and doubtless her -sweetheart knows she has a soft voice and a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_115">115</a></span> -dewy lip. This is the traditional courting-time -in the <span class="locked">country—</span></p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Tween the gloaming and the mirk,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the kye comes hame.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="in0">Not another creature is to be seen on the upland -road; only, now and again, the lonely cry of the -curlew can still be heard far off upon the moor. -The last field is passed, and the last shieling lies -behind in the valley. The air up here is full of the -honey-scent of the heather. The last belated bee, -however, hummed homewards half an hour ago.</p> - -<p>The summit of the climb at last! Look! -Down there on the left, dark and silent under -the hills, lies Loch Fad, with, on the far edge -of it, a glimmer of silver, the reflection of the -full-orbed moon. Could the birth of Aphrodite -be fairer, as she rose from the soft sea of the -south? Hark! too, there is the sound of lingering -footfalls on the road in front, and the murmur -of a deep voice. The voice suddenly ceases, -and two figures linked together drift past in the -dusk. Just a glimpse of shy, happy eyes can -be seen—a glimpse worth remembering—and the -outline of a modest face. It is the old, old story. -The lovely Pagan goddess of the far Ægæan<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_116">116</a></span> -has worshippers yet among these simple-hearted -people of the hills. Happy rustic dreamers!—gamekeeper’s -lad and gardener’s lass, maybe. -Sweet is their courting-place and courting-time, -with the deep woods to listen to their whispers, -and the stars to look down in kindly sympathy. -Other lovers there are, alas! whose feet do not -tread among the blue forget-me-nots, and for -whom no blackbird warbles the vesper song.</p> - -<p>Civilisation, however, is approaching, and cultivated -fields begin to occupy the strath. A snipe, -beating about in the darkness, has alarmed the -birds here; peeweets are startling the night with -their untimely cries, and their white breasts ever -and anon glance by the roadside. Was that -faint sound the first bell of the steamer? There -is little time to linger. Close below, however, -shine the clustered lights of Rothesay; presently -the bright fire-points of the yachts at anchor in -the bay appear; the old chapel and its graveyard -of stones mouldering within their wall is passed—a -somewhat eerie place under these dark trees -by the roadside;—then, half-way among the -quaint houses of the old town, with their jutting -gables, the ancient castle—grey, silent, moated—where -old King Robert III. died of grief at the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_117">117</a></span> -news that his son James had been taken by the -English. With threatening clamour the second -bell rings up from the steamer, and, with a wild -rush down through the newer town and across -the fashionable esplanade amid the dazzling lights -and fair promenaders of a seaside resort, there is -only time to reach the pier and get on board -before the last bell rings and the moorings are -thrown off.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_118">118</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="hdr_17">WITH A CAST OF FLIES.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">“Get</span> up, man; get up! Look at the -morning! What glorious sunshine! -What mists rising on the loch!”</p> - -<p>And, indeed, the fresh morning air through -the open window, and the flood of rich sunlight -falling on the opposite wall of the room, -are enough to dispel all lingering drowsiness. -Up, then, for a refreshing plunge in the deepest -pool of the river, breasting the brown depths -with the exulting strength that is born of the -air of the mountain, and casting up, with waves -of the sweet murmuring waters, a high-tide -mark on the white stones that are hot already -with the sunshine! Up, for a stroll before breakfast -along the warm Highland road; to hear the -cuckoo calling across the valley, and, at the door -of the byre, the sighing of the patient kine -and the soft plash-plashing of the milk in the -milking-pails! Cool yet is the air of the corrie -as it comes from the waterfall, and all the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_119">119</a></span> -mountain-side is musical with the far-off call of -the grouse. Under the rich-leaved plane-trees -there is the hum of bees at the green hanging -blossoms, and from the meadows by the river -drift the bleatings of a thousand lambs. Appetite -comes here keen as a knife if one but stands a -moment on the sunny doorstep, and the morning -meal is enjoyed with a whole-hearted zest that -brooks no scantiness. Indeed, if there be healing -power anywhere on earth for the wasted -body or the sorrowing soul, it is to be found -here among the hills. Who can long be sick -at heart with that glory of valley and sky about -him? and who frail of step with his nostrils -full of the clover-scent and his tread on the -springing heather?</p> - -<p>The newspapers have to be got at the morning -train; and it is curious to see how the jaded -folk who have been travelling all night in the -close carriages from the far south open wide -the windows to let in the mountain air, and -begin to revive like flowers that have just been -watered. Enviously they look at the sunburnt -schoolboys, who have come panting along the -line, and whose faces compare all too well with -their own pale features.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_120">120</a></span> -The letters, too, have to be waited for at the -village post-office. It is universal supply-shop for -the country-side as well, so other business can -be transacted while Her Majesty’s mails, a very -small parcel indeed, are being sorted out. Then—for -there is nothing needing attention in the -correspondence—away for the loch side! It is -too fine a day to waste at the displenishing sale -up country, though gig after gig has passed, carrying -thither farmers on the lookout for bargains. -A fair breeze has sprung up, and a cloud or two -are moving across the blue, so there is the chance -of a fair day’s sport with the fly. Bring, then, -the rods, and put some provender in the basket, -for there will be no coming home for dinner if -the trout be taking.</p> - -<div id="ip_120" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 37.5em;"><img src="images/i_145.jpg" width="600" height="487" alt="" /></div> - -<p>The pleasantest road to the loch will be the -path along the mountain-side, and old John -M’Gregor can be requisitioned as boatman, by -the way. Yonder he is, under the flowering -gean-tree, mending his garden wicket. An easy, -comfortable life the old man lives, with his many-wrinkled, -bright-eyed old wife, on their “wee -bit bield and heathery moor.” In that snug, -thatched little cot they have reared a stalwart -brood—sons whose strong hands are tilling their<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_121">121</a></span> -own broad acres in the West, and daughters -in southern lands, about whose knees are springing, -sturdy as seedling oaks, the true materials -for future nations. But old John and his wife -will be beholden to none of them yet, and -when his little croft has been planted for the -summer and his peats cast on the moor, when -the cow has been turned out to the hill in the -morning and the calf tethered in the narrow -paddock, he is always ready to take an oar -on the loch. His broad-eaved Balmoral bonnet -and his rough homespun coat are green with -long years of sun and rain; but the head and -heart below them keep hale as ever. He is -full of anecdotes about the last laird and his -feats with the salmon-rod, and it takes a long -day of wind on the water to tire his arm when -the trout are rising.</p> - -<p>Quick, though! There is a cloud just now -before the sun, and a fish or two may be got -while the shadow is on the loch. It was a -mistake to coil up the fly-casts in the tackle-book, -for the gut will take some wetting to -straighten it out again. It is better to keep -the flies round your hat. There, push the boat -off; the water is fairly alive with leaping minnows<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_122">122</a></span> -in the shallow bays, and if the bigger fish be -only as eager there will be plenty of sport. Try -a cast or two first across the burn mouth; a -good chance of something lies there, for the trout -wait in the running water to seize any food the -stream may bring down. The boat can drift -broadside to the wind, so that it is possible to -fish both from bow and stern. Bring your line -well up behind, and then with a turn of the -wrist use the switch of the rod to send the cast -out, fair and straight and light, before you. Take -care, though; do not begin to work the line -before the last fly has touched the surface. The -day could not be better, with that ripple on the -water, the wind behind, and the sun in front. -Hardly an effort is needed to send the line out, -and it is possible to put the tail-fly on the very -spot where a trout has risen. See! here is a -little fellow. What a splashing he makes as the -line draws him up to the boat! The spring of -the rod itself will lift him over the gunwale. -There! you have another; a char, by his sides of -gleaming silver and copper.</p> - -<p>Whirr! Ah! here is a fellow worth catching; -two pounds at least, by the weight on the rod. -How the singing of the reel as he makes off<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_123">123</a></span> -gladdens the heart! There he leaps, for the -third time; he is off with a rush, firmly hooked, -surely. “Haud up ye’re p’int!” shouts John in -a terrific whisper. “It’s awa’ below the boat! -Ye’ll lose’t; an’ we’re clean a’most—the boat’s -a’ but clean!” It is an exciting moment; but -the hooks have not fouled the boat, and the -fish’s freshness is spent. Slowly he is drawn -in, showing the white of his sides. Now with the -landing-net; There! he is safe on board—“A -gey guid fish,” according to the cautious critic. -Then comes the inevitable story. The old man -“minds ae nicht” here at the burn mouth. There -was a party of three. It was a fine night, but -dark, and they kindled a fire, when, whether -owing to the light or not, they got a great -basket of “as fine trouts as ye’ll see.”</p> - -<p>But the sun has come out again, and, as the -ripple is not very strong on the water, there is -no great chance of doing much with the fly for -some time. Something might be done with the -minnow, however; so it can be let out with a -long line and trailed down the loch.</p> - -<p>Down the loch! By the little shingly bays -where the swan is preening her plumage on the -margin, while her lord floats near, admiring;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_124">124</a></span> -where the keen-winged little sand-martins are -skimming bank and water, and the quack of wild -duck is to be heard among the reeds; past the -lonely farm, with its weather-stained roof, at the -foot of its own wild glen—a place for life to -linger and grow sweet and gather memories, a -place for the growth of strong love or deep hate; -and under the black crag that rises a thousand -feet sheer against the sky, making a mile of cool -darkness with its shadow amid the hot sunshine -of the loch:—it is like the fabled Voyage of -Maeldune. Then there will be the return in the -evening, when the sun has set, and the clouds -roof the valley as with rust of gold; up the silent -strath as the mountains grow dark, and, under -the shadow of Ben Shian, the still river, like a -pale-green thread, reflects its own clear space of -tranquil sky; to the quiet village where there will -be supper by lamplight, and the recounting to -interested listeners the day’s exploits.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_125">125</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="hdr_18">FROM A FIELD-GATE.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap a"><span class="smcap1">A</span> glorious afternoon it is, the hottest of -midsummer, with not a shadow in the -dazzling blue of the heavens. Who could sit at -a desk, with the white butterflies flickering in -and out at the open window, the sweet breath -of the clove-pinks filling the air, and the faint -gurgle of the river coming up from the glen -below? The gardener has long ago left off -weeding the lawn borders, and betaken himself -to the cool planting-house; Jug the spaniel lies -panting out there, with lolling tongue, in the -shadow under the rhododendrons; and the leaves -of the aspens themselves seem tremulous with -the heat. It will be pleasanter to go up through -the wood to the end of the lane, to sit under -the edge of the trees there on the trunk of -silver birch that serves for a cattle-gate, and -enjoy something of the southern <i xml:lang="it" lang="it">dolce far niente</i>, -with a pocket copy of gentle Allan Ramsay to -finger through.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_126">126</a></span> -Altogether quiet the spot is, with the wood -behind, and the flowery fields sloping away in -front. Not a murmur comes here from the city, -whose smoke rises, a murky cloud, far off in the -valley below. The streets there will be stifling -to-day amid the hot reekings of asphalt pavements, -the sifting particles of burning dust, and -the incessant roar of traffic. Here, above the -fields, the air is sweet with the scent of clover; -the stillness is only broken by the faint pipe of -a yellowhammer sometimes in the depth of the -wood; and the blue heavens shed their peace -upon the heart. Nothing but the faintest breath -of air is moving, just enough to stir gently the -deep grasses of the hayfield, and to touch cheek -and lip now and again with the soft warm sigh -of the sweetbrier in the hedge. Gleaming flies, -green and yellow, with gauzy wings, float like -jewels in the sunshine; a shadow for a moment -touches the page as a stray rook drifts silently -overhead; and on the edge of the great yellow -daisy that flames over there like a topaz among -the corn, a blue butterfly lazily opens and shuts -its wings.</p> - -<p>This is the silent month, they say, because -the birds have nested and foregone the twitterings<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_127">127</a></span> -of their courting-time; but from the lark -up aloft, a quivering black speck in the sky, there -is falling a perfect rill of melody. What is he -exulting about, the little black speck? Is it for -sheer gladsomeness in the happy sunshine, or is -it because there is a little helpless brood of callow -laverocks in a nest somewhere below among the -clover? Glad little heart! sing thy song out -while the blue sky smiles above thee. Thou -hast forgotten the pinching of the winter cold, -and why should thy rapturous hour be saddened -by taking thought for the dark things of the -morrow. Under the hedge close by, an occasional -rustle of dry leaves and an admonitory cluck -betray a brood of chickens surreptitiously brought -into existence by some lawless and absconding -hen; and on a twig a little way off, a young -sparrow with fluttering wings gapes its yellow -beak for the attentions of a proud and sprightly -parent.</p> - -<p>In the distance, from the bottom of the next -meadow, comes the faint whir of a mowing-machine. -It and the reapers are out of sight; -but on the level beyond, the ryegrass lies in -long white lines winnowing in the sun. Well -may that harvest be the first to be gathered,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_128">128</a></span> -for it is the share that falls to the faithful dumb -friends of man. Meanwhile, the farm horses left -at liberty in the grass-field at hand are evidently, -like many honest souls of another genus who -have worked hard all their lives, quite at a loss -what to do with their late-acquired leisure.</p> - -<p>On the dyke-top here, the clover, with great -ball-blooms of rich pink, is growing beside the -purple-toothed vetch and the small yellow stars -of another unknown flower. In the hedge, among -the heavy-scented privet blossoms, are flowers of -pink wild-rose delicate as the bloom of a girl’s -cheek, with full pouting buds red as lips that -would be kissed. White brier-roses there are, -too, as large as crown pieces; and great velvety -humble-bees are busy botanising among their -stamens. The bees prefer the newly opened -ones, however, whose hearts are still a rich -golden yellow. Below, among the woodland -grasses, the white dome-clusters of the dim-leaved -yarrow are flowering amid a miniature -forest of green mare’s-tails and the downy stalks -of hemlock. Gardeners are only now beginning -to see the beauty of the yarrow for deep borders, -as they are beginning to see the beauty of the -foxglove and the glory of the broom. Over<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_129">129</a></span> -there in the side of the wood-ditch are springing -delicate tufts of spleenwort; and already the -flower-fronds of the hard-fern are rising from -the nest of their dark-spread fellows. The graceful -heart-shaped nettle leaf appears there too, with -its purple stem, beside the tall magenta-coloured -flowers of the bastard-thistle.</p> - -<p>A pleasant retreat, indeed, is the spot; and -through the tangled wood-depth, of a moonlight -night, might be expected to come the revel court -of Titania. Is not that one of her furry steeds, -with velvet ears erect and bright wide eyes, -cropping the green blade in the grassy lane -path? Her sleek chorister, too, the blackbird, -has forgotten to be timid as he hops across the -ruts there, waiting doubtless for her coming. -Whirr! What a rush of wings! It is a flight -of starlings disturbed from the grass-field below; -for these birds bring their young out to the -fields this month in flocks of hundreds to feed. -Round and round they wheel in the air, as if -delighting in their power of wing, before finally -settling on the grassy knoll a hundred yards -away.</p> - -<p>A sunny knoll that is, where the birds feed -undisturbed to-day—a small point in the landscape;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_130">130</a></span> -yet it has a page of history to itself. On -its summit once stood a Scottish queen, surrounded -by a little group of nobles, watching, a mile to -the north, the die of her fate being cast, the -arbiter of life or death. Two armies lay before -her. Far off about the little village in the bosom -of yonder hill she saw two dark masses gathered, -with a battery line of guns between them. Those -were her enemies; and one of the horsemen -behind them—it was only a mile away—she -knew was her own half-brother. Nearer, on the -lower rising ground, which the railway cuts -through now, she saw her own troops gathering, -a larger force, but without the advantage of -position. And the queen watched and waited; -it was about nine o’clock of the morning. Presently, -a cloud of smoke sprang out between the -armies, and immediately was heard the roar of -cannon. The duel of the artillery had begun. -During half an hour little could be seen for the -smoke, and there was a constant explosion of -ordnance. It must have been an anxious time. -Suddenly, however, the firing ceased, the smoke -rolled away, and the battlefield could be made -out. The queen’s cavalry had formed into line, -had charged, and were driving the enemy’s horse<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_131">131</a></span> -before them. Then a tear sprang to the queen’s -eye as she saw her vanguard leave the hill, cross -the open ground among the furze, and, with their -gallant leader at their head, rush to storm the -village. They disappeared in the narrow lane, -where the new church stands now in the hollow -of the hill, and there could only be heard faintly -their shout as they closed with their opponents, -and the shot-reports of the enemy’s hagbutters -firing at them from the hedge-gardens and the -village roofs. How was the day going? See! -the enemy’s wing was wavering, was giving way. -Fight on, brave fellows! brave vanguard! press -them hard. A few moments longer, and the -day is yours.</p> - -<p>But look! A horseman gallops to the other -wing of the enemy, where the Regent is riding. -It stirs: it moves down upon the village. Ah, -where now is the queen’s reserve. Why does it -remain inactive and aloof? Are its rival leaders -quarrelling over petty precedence, or is there -treachery in its ranks? The battle closes again -about the narrow lane. The vanguard is attacked -on either flank—it is overborne—it gives way. -See! they are broken; they pour back out of -the lane. Wounded, weaponless, they are fleeing,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_132">132</a></span> -and with a yell their foes are upon them, cutting -them down. But the reserve is moving at last; -it may bring help; it may yet retrieve the hour. -Ah, cowards! it breaks and scatters. The day is -lost. Away! then, away, poor hapless queen! -Ply whip and spur for thy life. Neither here nor -anywhere in all thy fathers’ kingdom of Scotland -is there safe tarrying-place for thee now. And -may Heaven help thee in the hour of need, for -thou wilt find small help in man or woman!</p> - -<p>The starlings are feeding this afternoon on the -Court Knowe, the hillock there, undisturbed; and -it is three hundred and twenty-eight years since -the stricken queen rode away through the hollow -of the hills where the green corn is growing. The -suburbs of the city are spreading even over the -battlefield itself. But ever and again, upon a -summer day, there comes a pilgrim to stand a -while in pitying silence on the little knoll under -the trees, and to recall something of these “old, -unhappy, far-off things,” as he reads upon the -stone there the royal monogram, and the date, -May 13, 1568.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_133">133</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="hdr_19">SCHOOL-DAYS.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap al"><span class="smcap1">As</span> a means of awakening the genial after-dinner -humour of most men past middle -age, no subject, perhaps, equals the memory -of early school-days. Let the topic but be -started by an anecdote of some long dead -dominie, it is as if the spigot had been drawn -from a butt of old vintage, and the stream of -recollection will flow forth rich and sparkling -with the mellowed light of years. Strange is -the charm of a word! For a lifetime a man has -been painfully toiling up the Alps of circumstance; -it may be he has gained the object of -his desire—the glittering ice-crystal on the peak -which long ago dazzled his upward-looking eyes; -and now, toying with the walnuts and the wine, -someone says “I remember:”—lo! the years are -forgotten; the greybeard is back in the sunny -valley of his boyhood, wandering the field-paths -with chubby companions long since dust, and -filling his heart once more with the sweet scent<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_134">134</a></span> -of hayricks, of the hedges in hawthorn-time. It -is not for nothing that rustic children day after -day, as they start for school, hear the low of the -farmyard kine coming in to the milking, and that -day after day, as they tread the long miles of -moorland path, they see the grouse whirr off to -the mountain, and the trout dart away from the -sunny shallows; and it is not for nothing that -they spend long truant afternoons by ferny lanes -and harebell copses in the seasons of bird-nesting -and bramble-gathering. These make the fragrant -memories of after years! And again and again, -in later life, to the man jaded with anxiety and -care, the old associations come back, laden with -pleasant regrets—a breath from the clover-fields -of youth.</p> - -<p>School life in town, notwithstanding its more -sophisticated surroundings, has also its memories; -for in what circumstances will not the boyish -mind create a charmed world of its own! Apart -from the actual events of class-room and play-ground, -the streets and the shop windows, and -the things in them to be desired, all furnish -absorbing interests; and a half-amused envy in -later years attends the memory of the fearful -joy with which, after much contriving of ways<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_135">135</a></span> -and means, and much final screwing-up of -courage to face the shopman, the long-coveted -percussion pistol, or the wonderful and still more -expensive model locomotive, was acquired and -smuggled home. But school life in the city -has a certain precocity which detracts from the -poetry of its remembrance—an aroma is lacking -which forms the subtlest charm of the associations -of rustic childhood. What has the city-bred -man to compare to the memory of that -hot afternoon in July, when, escaped from the -irksome thrall of desk and rod, in the clear river -pool at the bottom of some deep-secluded dingle, -the urchins of the rural pedagoguy learned to -swim? Such a scene remains in a man’s mind, -a possession and a “joy for ever.” Far off in -some city den, gas-lit and fog-begrimed, his -eyes may grow dim, poring over ledgers that -are not his own, and his heart may grow heavy -and sick with hope deferred; but at a word, -a suggestion, it will all come back; he will be -standing again on that grassy margin, the joyous -voices of his comrades will be ringing in his ears, -while the sunshine once more beats warmly on -his head, and at his feet sparkle over their sandy -bottom the pellucid waters of the woodland pool.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_136">136</a></span> -The black art of letters is probably the -least detail of the learning acquired by school-children -in the country, and it must be confessed -that the thirst for book-lore is not exactly their -most conspicuous foible. Happy, nevertheless, -in “schools and schoolmasters” of Nature’s own -appointing, they grow up like the lilies, children -of the earth and sun, and none the less fit for -life, perhaps, that their learning has been got -at first-hand from the facts and realities of -actual existence. Who has not envied the bright-eyed -boys and red-lipped little lasses, healthy -with the breath of the woods and of the fresh-delved -earth, whom one meets, satchel on back, -on sequestered country roads? The dead tongues -may be dead, indeed, to them, and mathematics -an unnamed mystery; but, with eyes and ears -open, they have learned all the lore of the fields -and the hedges—have drunk deep at those nature-fountains -whence all the literatures and poetries -of the world have sprung.</p> - -<div id="ip_136" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 31.4375em;"><img src="images/i_163.jpg" width="503" height="600" alt="" /></div> - -<p>Many changes have been made in school-teaching -in the country of recent years. The -Government inspector is now abroad, and code -and standard compel all within their iron rule. -The old ruts and byways have been forsaken, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_137">137</a></span> -the coach of Learning has been made to roll, if -not yet along the coveted “royal road” of the -old saw, at least along a highway more uniformly -paved than of yore. The difference in outside -appearance between the wayside school-houses -of to-day and of thirty years ago is only an -indication of the changes which have taken -place within. The days are past when any -incompetent would do for a dominie; and in -place of the halt and the palsied, who used to -fill the pedagogic chair, there is now the pretty -school-ma’am from some Normal seminary. A -tyrant of the most petty kind, it is to be feared, -the rural schoolmaster of the old days too -often <span class="locked">was—</span></p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The day’s disasters in his morning face;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee<br /></span> -<span class="i0">At all his jokes, for many a joke had he:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Full well the busy whisper, circling round,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="in0">Now all this is altered. No longer would it be -suffered that a sour and crabbed dominie, too -crippled to walk, should, out of sheer caprice and -ill-temper, hurl his tawse at some urchin’s head, -and order him to bring them up and be thrashed;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_138">138</a></span> -and it is to be doubted if the modern “Board” -would countenance even such a gallant device as -the vicarious birching of a boy for the delinquencies -of one of the dearer sex. Idiosyncrasies like -these, no doubt, made much of the picturesqueness -of school life in the country a generation ago; -and people whose memories are of the old régime -are apt to look back upon the former state of -things, faulty as it was, with a sigh. Sometimes -a head is shaken regretfully, and it is averred -that with modern innovations are being planed -away all those strong, rich peculiarities of ancient -rural life which made character in the country -interesting. The crabbed rule of the ancient -village pedagogue has a charm for those who -have escaped beyond reach of his tawse, the -thrashings themselves of bygone days have -become mere subject for a smile. Point of -view, however, makes a considerable difference -in the matter, and the unfortunate urchin of -those days, counting the strokes of an ill-tempered -and unreasoning castigation upon his -nether habiliments, probably entertained a somewhat -different sentiment.</p> - -<p>Head-shakings and misgivings notwithstanding, -individuality of country life may very well be<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_139">139</a></span> -left to take care of itself. Children remain true -to their instincts under the new régime as under -the old; and growing like the trees of the -hedgerows, amid the influences of wild and -varied nature, rustic character may still be -trusted to develop a picturesqueness of its own. -The real country school, after all, does not lie -within four walls, nor is it ruled by the rod of -prim school-ma’am or spectacled dominie. Nature -herself, the primeval <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">alma mater</i> of all mankind, -is the educator there. The leaves of her primers -are stored in the woodlands; her history-books -are written and explained by the seasons themselves; -the lark and the rivulet are the perpetual -tutors of her “old notation”; and her terms are -timed by the bloom and flight of the snowdrop -and the swallow.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_140">140</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="hdr_20">A LOCH-SIDE STRATH.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">Hardly</span> more than twenty miles from -the populous heart of Glasgow lies a -parish of which no notice is to be found in the -guide-books. No show-place is supposed to be -there, and no tourist route runs through it, and -so, though almost within hearing of the hum of -a great city, the strip of country between mountain -and loch remains all but as primitive in its -rustic simplicity as it was a hundred years ago. -A century ago, indeed, the district may have -been better known than it is to-day, if notoriety -be regarded as a distinction; for every corrie in -the hillsides and every burnside hollow, where a -little wooding afforded concealment, appears then -to have been the scene of illicit distilling operations; -and the raids of the excise and military in -search of “sma’ stills” were both frequent and -famous. With this exception the parish has -been allowed to slumber on in happy obscurity -since the days of the old clan feuds and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_141">141</a></span> -the cattle-liftings of its neighbours, the wild -Macgregors.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, unknown though it may be, and -unfrequented by “the Sassenach” as in the days -of Rob Roy himself, this quiet loch-shore has a -history stirring enough, and memories of its own. -Situated just on the old Highland line, the -district must frequently at all periods have been -the scene of warlike episodes. Regarding the -tastes and pursuits of its ancient inhabitants -there remains small doubt. The memorial of -a peaceful enough enterprise, it is true, seems -crystallised in the name of the parish—the -parish of St Ronan’s Cell, as it reads translated. -Midway, it is said, on his journey from Kilmarnock -in Ayrshire to Kilmaronaig on Loch Etive, -that famous missionary priest of the early Church -thought it worth his while to tarry a space in -the district in order to teach the rude inhabitants -peace. But, to judge by the later events of -history, the task would seem to have had but -doubtful results. The prevailing names, at the -present hour, of the people in the district—Galbraith, -Macfarlane, M’Kean—recall the circumstances -of less orderly times. In the stalwart -farmers’ sons guiding the plough and feeding the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_142">142</a></span> -cattle about the steadings there to-day, one sees -the lineal descendants of clansmen who once held -their own on the loch-side by the primitive <em>coir -a glaive</em>—the title of the strong arm. To keep -these turbulent vassals in order, the Earls of -Lennox found it necessary to hold three castles -in the neighbourhood.</p> - -<p>Nor has the strath been without a share in the -outstanding events of history. This loch-shore -it was which witnessed the failure of Argyle’s -ill-advised attempt at rebellion in 1685. Here, -barring his progress, beyond the streamlet in -the clachan of the parish, the Protestant Earl, -after his long march among the western lochs, -first came within sight of the Royal troops. -Here, that night, his camp-fires were left burning -to deceive his opponents; and it was on the hills -behind that his little army finally lost its way, -broke up, and dispersed amid the bogs and the -darkness.</p> - -<p>A romantic story of that most romantic of -episodes, the Rebellion of 1745, also belongs to -the district. The most powerful family in the -strath at that time, as, indeed, it had been for -generations, was one of the name Buchanan. -This family owned two mansions and estates at<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_143">143</a></span> -no great distance from each other, and from the -larger of these they took their familiar title, -Buchanans of the Ross. Whether the head of -the house of that date had personally taken part -in the Jacobite rising, or had incurred suspicion -of Jacobite sympathies, need not be inquired into, -but, upon the final overthrow of the Stuart cause -in the spring of 1746, it can be understood that -he, in common with others in his position, was -willing enough to demonstrate his loyalty to -the Government of King George. The opportunity -for doing so which occurred to him, -however, involved a breach of laws which above -all others were held inviolably sacred by the -Highlanders—the laws of hospitality.</p> - -<p>The tradition of the district has to be relied -upon for the story. By this tradition it would -appear that among the fugitives upon whose head -a price was set, after Culloden, was the Marquis of -Tullibardine, elder brother of the Duke of Athole. -Being hard pressed by the search-parties which -were everywhere scouring the country, this nobleman, -it is said, betook himself to Buchanan of -the Ross, with whom he had been upon terms of -friendship, and besought temporary asylum. This -favour Buchanan granted readily enough, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_144">144</a></span> -apparently in all good faith; but no sooner was the -unfortunate refugee secure under his roof than he -intimated the fact to the nearest military post. -The natural consequence was an immediate visit -of the soldiery and the arrest of the fugitive.</p> - -<p>Here the story becomes uncanny. The victim -of misplaced confidence was being dragged across -the threshold, when, it is said, recovering from -surprise at the unheard-of treachery, his Highland -rage and indignation reached the blazing point, -and, turning upon his host, he hurled out the -imprecation, “There’ll be Murrays on the braes -of Athole when there’s ne’er a Buchanan at the -Ross!”</p> - -<p>This was the last of the Marquis, so far as -the district was concerned, but it was by no -means, in the eyes of the dwellers there, the -last of his “curse.” Strangely enough, and, -whether in fulfilment of the fierce prophecy or -not, only a few decades had passed when the -race at the Ross, so far as the male line was -concerned, actually died out, and, as if to complete -the result, upon two occasions since then -the estates have passed to other hands through -female heirs.</p> - -<div id="ip_144" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 35.25em;"><img src="images/i_173.jpg" width="564" height="600" alt="" /></div> - -<p>In the early decades of the present century the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_145">145</a></span> -master of the place was an Edinburgh advocate, -Mr Hector Macdonald, and under his hospitable -roof again and again was entertained no less a -guest than the author of “Waverley.” It is not -difficult to understand, apart from the congenial -society of his host, Scott’s attraction to the house. -The natural beauty of the place, if nothing else, -must have been a continual delight to one so -keenly alive as he was to the interest of woodland -and loch. The district around, the house itself, -and the mountains before him, besides, were -teeming with memories—every glen the home of -a romance. In Ross Priory, at anyrate, he -frequently stayed, and from the local legends -and colour with which his residence supplied -him he selected the materials for some of the -most famous episodes in “Rob Roy” and “The -Lady of the Lake.” The use he made of it, -indeed, has invested the whole district with a -new interest. All the neighbourhood, strath and -glen, glows with the reflected splendour of his -thought, a “light that never was on sea or -land”; and with the clear wind blowing fresh -from mountain and loch, something seems mingled -of the wholesome mental health and vigour of -the “Wizard’s” work.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_146">146</a></span> -The place has changed but little since Scott -last visited it, and the wanderer by the loch’s -margin may, with the atmosphere of the past -still about him, indulge in all the pleasures of -reverie and recollection undisturbed. At the -present day hardly a sound is to be heard there -but the lapse of wavelets on the pebbly beach, -and the sighing of the wind through the branches -of the immemorial oaks. Occasionally, on a -summer evening, when the air is still, the far-off -beat of paddles comes faintly across the lake, as -the steamer threads its passage among the islands. -But for the rest of the time the call sometimes -of the peacocks on the lawn before a storm, and, -at night, the harsh cry of wild-fowl making flight -for the marshes at the river’s mouth, form the -only addition to the harmony of the wind and -the waters.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_147">147</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="hdr_21">A HIGHLAND REEL.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">Much</span> study, truly, becomes a weariness of -the flesh. After a long day’s seclusion -over desk and books the cobwebs begin to gather -about one’s brain, and stronger and stronger grows -the longing to look upon the face of one’s fellows. -There are fair faces, too, to look upon, and -bright-lipped laughter to listen to not far away; -and the shriek of a fiddle or the skirl of the -pipes is all that is needed to set light footsteps -tripping on a broad barn floor. Down with -pamphlet and pen, therefore; on with a heavy -coat in case of rain, and out into the roaring -night.</p> - -<p>A heavy “carry” is tearing across the sky, but -the air is fresh and clear; and see, away below -through the darkness, by the loch-side, shining -hospitable and bright, are the lights of Gartachraggan. -Away, then, by the steading, where -the patient beasts are stirring in their byres, -and a breath is caught of the rich warm mash<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_148">148</a></span> -preparing for their evening meal. Away through -the whin-haughs, where the owls answer each other -with silvery hootings, and again and again overhead -there is heard the creaking wing of belated -snipe beating to and fro. How the wind sighs -in the naked hedges, with a louder whisper where -the thick-leaved holly-trees are set! One is -tempted to linger under the soft shelter of the -wood, where the air is rich with the fragrance of -the undergrowth, and the stillness gives a feeling -of pleasant security by contrast with the roar -and sough of the storm in the tree-tops far above. -The stones of the dry-dyke here are covered close -with the clinging tendrils of a small-leaved ivy, -and wild strawberry and wild geranium in summer -star with white and pink the mossy crannies. A -pleasant spot it is, therefore, at that time of year, -to linger in, to watch the red squirrel frolic on -the road, and the chaffinch build his mossy home -overhead. But to-night one’s thoughts are otherwise. -It is cold, and the south wind is roaring in -the wood, hustling the withered leaves to limbo. -Down the hill, therefore, at a blithesome pace, -jousting and jesting with the storm, till a glimpse -of the realm of Oberon is caught below—the foam-swept -loch with its lonely islets, seen by the fitful<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_149">149</a></span> -gleam of stars. Life comes back to the jaded -heart on such a night, as the fresh wind lifts the -hair and clears the brain. There is war in the -heavens overhead, and the scream can be heard -of wild-duck entangled in the driving clouds; but -in the heart there is only laughter, born of the -comradeship of “rude Boreas.” Whew! Draw in -here to the shelter till the rain-blast sweeps over. -It whistles like arrowy sleet through the branches -overhead, and the great limbs roar and struggle -in the contest. The bole of the giant ash itself -heaves and groans with the effort. But the strong -tree has grappled before with the Titan, and the -wrestlings of eighty winters have but given it a -deeper grip of the soil. And so the blast blows -over, the air clears, and close at hand, a ruddy -blaze among the trees, are seen the gleaming -windows of the farm.</p> - -<p>What a kindly welcome is this! No ordinary -“How d’ye do?” and touch of listless fingers, -but a heartiness honest as its own broad vowels. -The good folk here live close to the soil, and -continually touch the real facts of life. Ennui -and cynicism, those soul-cankers of the dwellers -in towns, have never found their way to these -homesteads by the loch-side; and sweet and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_150">150</a></span> -whole-hearted as the breath of their own hay-ricks -are the greetings of these hospitable folk. For the -frank grasp that will ease world-cares, go to the -kindly sea-captain, or the hand that has held -a plough. Years have gathered on the heads -of the farmer and his wife since first their plough-shares -turned the loch-side soil, but still they are -fresh and hale, and the frost of years that has -silvered their hair has touched them no whit -besides. Meanwhile, there has grown around -them a brave and comely brood—sons stalwart -as the ark-builders of old, and daughters—ah! -Look not too long upon these, good youth, or -thou art undone (though that might not be the -worst thing that could happen thee). For there -is choice and difference among them; the hair of -one dark as the starling’s wing, another’s bright -with russet gold; eyes blue as the summer skies, -eyes dark as the woodland wells; cheeks of fair -soft peach-bloom, and cherry lips ripe and red. -Beware!</p> - -<p>Into the parlour? No!—the kitchen is the -place. A carpeted parlour can be seen at any -time, but such a kitchen only in such a spot. -The great fire blazing in the chimney roars -defiance to the storm outside, and flashes its<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_151">151</a></span> -warm light upon wall and rafter. Lamps shine -bright as silver in their sconces, and plate-racks -and harness steels gleam in the wall’s recesses. -Not a speck stains the purity of the red-stone -floor, and the massy tables and chairs of honest -deal are white as driven snow. Into the kitchen, -then, and ask for the goodman’s health, and -whether the ploughing has gone forward well, -whether the collie that went amissing has turned -up yet, and what was done with the tramp who -threatened the ploughman’s wife.</p> - -<p>But, listen! the neighbours are coming already, -and in the lull of the wind surely that was the -sound of the pipes! How the girls’ eyes sparkle -and their colour rises! What tempting access -of witchery!—wait a little, take care, keep hold -of your heart! Perhaps their sweethearts are -coming. The pipes stop at the door, there is -a sound of laughter, a moment’s pause, and then -a new invasion of brave lads and comely lasses, -bringing in with them the earth-smelling wind -of the night. Fresh-voiced as the spring thrushes, -it is an inspiration to look at and listen to these -sons and daughters of the hills.</p> - -<p>First of all, for the Highlands are hospitable, -something must be eaten. The table in a trice<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_152">152</a></span> -is heaped with tempting array—everything the -produce of the farm itself, and not the less -delicious for the fair hands that have placed it -there.</p> - -<p>Then, hey, presto! the scene is changed. A -space has been cleared in the barn, and lamps -hung from the rafters and on the walls light it -up in gipsy fashion, casting fantastic shadows -into the far corners behind the great heaps of -warm oat-straw. A skirl of the pipes, and in a -moment partners are chosen. Then more than -one secret slips out to the curious eye; for much -there is to be read in the language of a blush -and a look. The lads stand back to back, two -and two, their partners facing them, and as the -music takes to the air, featly they trip it in -the merry figure-of-eight. Presently, opposite -their neighbours’ partners, comes the chance for -spirit and agility, and many a wild capering step -is done by the lads with arm in air and a whirl -of the tartans, while the lasses, more modest, -with downcast look, hold back their skirts daintily -as they foot it with toe and heel. Faster and -faster the music gathers, faster flies the dance -with its changing step, with the threading of -eights and the Highland fling, while cheeks take<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_153">153</a></span> -flame, eyes flash wildly, and the barn floor shakes -in rhythm. More and more breathless grow lasses -and lads, but no one will yield to stop, till at -last, with a wild whoop, they fling themselves -all at once upon the straw, and the music slowly -runs out.</p> - -<p>Again and again it will be renewed, with the -wilder “Reel o’ Hulochan” for a change, or some -wonderful old-fashioned country dance; and only -some time in the morning, long after the old folk -have gone to bed, will the merry party break up, -tired but delighted, to go home in twos and threes -along the hills.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_154">154</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="hdr_22">AN ARRAN RIDE.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">“Hamish</span> will just be putting the mare in -the cart to drive over the ladies, so the -need is not so great for hurrying.”</p> - -<p>The arrangement of the crofter’s wife is hospitably -meant, if somewhat ominously expressed. -Conveyance of any kind, moreover, will be most -acceptable to the two ladies of our party after -their long ramble on seashore and moorland; -and the more primitive it prove, the more fittingly -will it end the memories of the day. -“Meanwhile ‘the need is not so great for hurrying,’” -repeats one of the two slyly, out of hearing -of her hostess, and, pulling off her gloves, proceeds -to gather pleasure from the blazing chimneyful -of peat. Leaning back in the warm light, she -stirs the white feathery ash with a dainty boot, -and discovers, to the boot’s cost and her own -surprise, that the whiteness of the peat conceals -a glow of burning red. It is a peculiarity of -the Highland character, as of the Highland fuel,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_155">155</a></span> -this fire within the grey exterior, needing only -a touch or a breath to show itself.</p> - -<p>The light ash of the peat, they say, flies everywhere -about a shieling. But it is a cleanly thing. -It leaves no tarnish, at anyrate, on the snowy -wood dresser or its high rack of shining delf. -The tall old-fashioned mahogany case-clock in -the corner, an heirloom much valued, may have -absorbed more of the powder, perhaps, than -conduces to regular intestinal working; but the -open iron cruizie or cresset lamp hanging quaintly, -though now unused, from the high mantelshelf, -is kept clear enough for lighting yet if need -were; and maybe the hams and “kippered” -fish hanging from hooks in the blackened -rafters are rather improved in flavour by the -condiment.</p> - -<p>But look here. With true Highland hospitality, -preparations for tea have been surreptitiously -advanced, and the fresh, wholesome-looking -daughter of the house and her mother lift into -the middle of the earthen floor the table ready -caparisoned with cloth-of-snow, glittering cups -and knives, heaped sugar-bowl, and beaker of -rich yellow cream. A lissome flower of the -moors is this crofter maid. The oatmeal which<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_156">156</a></span> -she has been baking is not more soft and fair -than the skin of the comely lass, and, as she -smiles reply in lifting the toasted oat-farles from -the flat iron “girdle” swung over the fire, it -needs no poet to notice that her eyes are bits -of summer sea and her mouth a damask bud. -The toasted farles of oat-cake from her hand -send forth an ambrosial smell which, with the -fragrance of the new-made tea, is irresistible to -hungry folk, and no pressing Highland exhortation -is needed to set visitors of both sexes to -the attack of the viands.</p> - -<p>Not till every one has again and again -declared sheer inability to pursue the attack -further, does the announcement come that “the -mare is in the cart.” A chair, therefore, is -presently carried out, and the whole party of -four mount into the rough vehicle among the -straw. Hereupon follow a hand-shaking and -repetition of hospitable invitations to return -which begin to become almost embarrassing, -before Hamish starts at his horse’s head upon -the moor track.</p> - -<p>A long, memorable day it has been, amid the -warm sunshine and the bright sea-breeze, a day -to do the heart good and to tire the limbs<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_157">157</a></span> -royally—the morning draught of brave mountain -air and life on the white moorland road before -the inn; the forenoon ramble, rod in hand, on -the warm gorse-path by the river; luncheon in -quaint-flavoured, wit-haunted company by the -blue Kilbrannan Sound, with nothing to interrupt -but the beat of sudden outflying wings sometimes -about the warm cliff crannies overhead, -and, on the beach below, the soft caressing -murmur of the secret-telling sea; the afternoon -drive to the far hill-clachan, where the turf roofs -were tied down with heather ropes, where the -brown women were carrying sea-wrack to manure -their fields, and where, as a back-sound to the -quaint-turned Highland speech, was heard the -thud-thud of the swinging flails; and, last of all, -the return at evening by the high moorland path, -with the amethyst fire dying out on Ben Ghoil -in the east, and, in the west, the sunset heavens -aflame with saffron and rose, and the sea a living -splendour of generous wine.</p> - -<p>Now it is night, and the air comes cooler over -the moor. No air is like Arran air at night, -with its vague herb-perfumes adrift, for stirring -old memories and desires in the heart and new -ambitions in the blood. Upon its clear breath<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_158">158</a></span> -old designs, old possibilities long forgotten, come -back again to make life and hope. By it the -vapours of worldly wisdom are blown aside, the -cloud-wrack care of intervening years is lifted, -and one walks again clear-hearted for a time in -the April valley of his youth. Night anywhere -has charms for those who think, but night upon -the moors possesses an influence peculiarly its -own. The primeval heath, wild and undesecrated -by the hand of man, lies under “the splendid-mooned -and jewelled night,” shadowy and mystic -with the silence of the ages. Abroad upon the -moor at such an hour seem to brood the imaginings -of an older world, and the grey stone circles -standing gaunt yet upon the Arran wilds are -hardly needed to suggest the memory that along -these wilds, once upon a time, wound processions -of bearded Druids, to practise under the starry -influences rites of a faith now long forgotten. -At intervals upon the moor appear these grey -menhirs and circles. Inscrutable as the Egyptian -sphinx they stand with sealed lips, strange monuments -of a buried past. For tens of centuries -they have seen the dusks gather and the stars -swim overhead, but no rising sun has wakened -them from their silence, and still they keep the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_159">159</a></span> -stony secret of their origin, though they could -not keep the ashes of the dead committed to -their charge.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile Hamish makes way steadily, though -by tortuous windings. None but a native bred -on the spot could conduct a vehicle safely by -night across these moors. Where unaccustomed -eyes can make out no sign whatever of a track, -and where a single mistake would send one -wheel floundering into a peat-hag and the other -spinning in the air, or capsize the whole equipage -into the miry abysses of a bog, Hamish leads -confidently on, with no worse result than the -jolting of a rugged road. The mare is a sturdy -beast of the small sure-footed Arran breed, now -dying out, and she pulls away gallantly among -rocks and heath-tufts that would bring any other -sort of horse to quick disaster. It takes her -master all his time to keep up with her on the -rough ground, and he has breath left for no -more than an occasional “Ay, ay,” or “’Deed, -yes, sir!” in the true Arran accent. English is -evidently the less familiar language to him; his -remarks to the mare, <i xml:lang="it" lang="it">sotto voce</i>, are in Gaelic.</p> - -<p>All last month after nightfall tufts and sheets -of flame were to be seen among the darkness of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_160">160</a></span> -the hills; for in March they burn the heather on -the sheep-farms to let the young herbage come -up, and the conflagrations which appear then as -pillars of smoke by day become pillars of fire -by night. But in April the moorland birds have -begun to build their nests, and the hills are left -to them in darkness and in peace. The only -light to be seen from the cart is that in the -window of the croft far behind, which will be -kept aglow by thoughtful hands as a guide till -Hamish’s return after moonset. Over the brow -of the moor, however, the shining lights of the -clachan at the mountain foot before long come -into sight, and away to the right, tremulous with -silver and shadows, the sheen of the moonlight -can be made out on the sea. Rapidly now the -path descends, plunging presently through lanes -of high thorn hedges where the stars are all but -shut out overhead. The rush of a river is heard, -the wheels grate harshly on the gravel, there is -a sudden and vigorous splashing of hoofs, and -the mare has passed the ford. Then a half-mile -of climb uphill on a good road, and Hamish -stands still with his charge at the door of -the inn.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_161">161</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="hdr_23">BY A WESTERN FIRTH.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">“Good-bye, my</span> dear!”</p> - -<p>How beautiful the old lady looks as she -stands in the porch overclustered with its tangle -of budding roses and honeysuckle, a kindly smile -on her lips, and her eyes shining, and her silver -hair, in the last light of afternoon! For the sun -is setting now, across the water, behind the hills -of Bute, and the glory that fills the heavens and -floods the full-ebbed sea casts about her, in its -departing moments, a halo of peace serene as the -hours of her life’s own afternoon. “Good-bye, -my dear!”</p> - -<p>Sunshine and silence sleep now on the hillside -strath above, where the woods hang motionless, -and the sward here and there, in the open spaces, -is lit with the golden flame of gorse in blossom; -but across that hillside once long ago raged the -tide of a relentless war. Here, blood-red in the -setting sun, waved the standard of a Scottish -king, and yonder, down to the shore and to the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_162">162</a></span> -wrecks of his ships, was driven back the shattered -strength of the invading Norseman. The corries -were filled then with the bodies of the dead, and -the brown waters were stained a dreadful purple -in the burn-pools where the trout leap now after -the evening fly. That was the Scottish Salamis.</p> - -<p>No one is in sight upon the white road, and -no sound to be heard of distant footstep or -departing wheels. There is only the lingering -lapse of the quiet ripples as the sea sows its -pearl-seed along the shore. A perfect calm rests -upon the waters while the light slowly leaves -them, and the red sun goes down behind the -hills; only, at one place, across the glassy surface, -where the tide is stirring, run, on the tiny wavelets, -a hundred flickering tongues of fire, and, far out, -the reflection of the great yellow cloud aflame in -the west shimmers like frosted gold upon the sea.</p> - -<p>Gently the gloaming falls. The last mellow -pipe of the mavis floats from the garden shrubbery -behind, and bats begin to jerk about with their -uncertain flight under the trees, their wings -making a curious eerie creaking in the air. Only -a dim green light falls through the leaves interlaced -overhead as the road leaves the bay and -dips inland through the woods.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_163">163</a></span> -The day’s work is over. It is the sacred hour, -and, far from “the stir and tumult of the street,” -in these still aisles, carpeted soft with fallen bud-sheaths -and grass, roofed with the fretted canopy -of branch and leaf, and hung with the fringed -banners of larch and birch, ascends to heaven -with the last notes of the woodland choristers -the sweet incense of a thousand flowers. Mossy -dykes run into the wood-depths here, and among -the tall feathery grasses under the trees there -are places purple with a mist of wild hyacinths. -A crimson shadow, too, lies here and there, where -the wood geranium throws its profusion; and -pink and white sandflowers grow in the dry -ditch-sides. By the clear mossy roadside well, -and among the withered leaves in the glades, rise -the first green spires of the foxgloves; a golden -haze betrays the beds of yellow crowfoot; and in -some sequestered spots pale primroses are still -starring the rivulet banks.</p> - -<p>Amid the woods, a secluded nook, nestles a -cottage—the gamekeeper’s lodge, with its low -slate roof, and sweetbrier trained upon the white -walls, yellow pansies asleep beneath its window-sills, -and crimson fuchsia and wild dog-roses -blossoming in the hedge. The little flower-garden<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_164">164</a></span> -about it is trimly kept, with its southernwood -and thyme, its clipped box edgings and gravelled -path; and in the grassy hollow under the wood -behind are the rows of boxes for breeding the -young pheasants. A faint luscious smell hangs -in the air of the spot—suggestive of frying trout -freshly caught in the brown burn that gurgles -close by in the darkness. The keeper, too, is -sitting outside the quiet doorway enjoying his -evening pipe; and the fragrance of the southern -weed mingles with the sweet scent of the pink -hawthorn flowering over the wicket. Tread -softly, though, on the grassy edge of the road -for a little way. The kennel is at hand, and -the slightest sound will set every dog baying -his loudest. The rattle of a terrier’s chain is -enough, sometimes, to set the woods echoing -for full ten minutes.</p> - -<p>The air grows less heavy as the road again -approaches the shore, and there comes up with -the murmur of the shingle the faint salt smell -of the sea. Away in front the bright blaze -streaming out in the darkness strikes from the -lighthouse tower at the outmost sea-edge, receiving -its signal, like the bale-fires of old, from -the beacon on the opposite coast, and flashing<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_165">165</a></span> -it on to the next point up channel. Far out, -too, on the firth a red light is moving, and the -faint beat of paddles comes across the water. It -is the last river-steamer making for the watering-place -opposite. Singularly still the air is, to -carry so distinctly the throbbing of that distant -pulse. Not another sound is to be heard, and -nothing astir is to be seen. Only, the moon -has risen, a clear sickle, on the edge of the -dark hill above. On such a night loveliness -and mystery swim together on the air; the -blushing of the rose is the fairer for being but -half seen in the dim light; the woods above -have ceased their amorous whisperings; and -the sea amid the silence is kissing the shore’s -wet lips.</p> - -<p>What white shadow comes yonder, though, -moving under the high hedge in the darkness? -It might almost be one of those wraiths of which -the country-folk speak with bated breath—the -awful Something seen moving in the dusk from -the house where a man has died. There is a -sound of hoofs here, however, and the spectre -proves to be but the gaunt Rozinante of some -wandering gipsies—the grey and pitiful counterpart, -doubtless, of a once-gallant steed.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_166">166</a></span> -Delicate hands may have patted the neck -worn bare now by the collar, and sweet sugar-bits -may have been offered by dainty fingers -to the lips that tremble now as they crop the -dusty roadside grasses. Does memory ever -come to the brain behind those patient eyes?</p> - -<p>See! close by in the little dell among the flowering -broom twinkles the camp-fire of the owners. -Their dark figures lie about it asleep, for the -night is warm, and they are a hardy race; while -at hand stands their quaint house on wheels, -overhung with baskets of all sorts and uses. -A strange, lawless life they live in the midst -of nineteenth-century civilisation, those Bedouins -of the broomfields and commons.</p> - -<p>But here is our inn, a long-forgotten hostelrie, -where one can sit at noon in the shade by the -doorway with a book, and watch the ships far -out go by upon the firth, while the cool sea -glistens below, and all day long there is the -drowsy hum of bees about the yellow tassels -of the laburnums at the gable ends. A pleasant -spot it is even now in the darkness. The lilac-trees -in the garden are a-bloom, and the air is -sweet with their scent. A pleasant place, where -the comely hostess will welcome the tired<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_167">167</a></span> -pedestrian, where his supper will taste the better -for the fresh night air from the open window, -and where, presently, he will fall asleep between -sheets that smell of the clover-field, to dream of -the firmly-grasped tiller, the snowy cloud of -sails overhead, and the rushing of the water -under the yacht’s counter of the morrow.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_168">168</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="hdr_24">AN ISLAND PICNIC.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap b"><span class="smcap1">Seven</span> o’clock, and a glorious morning! The -sun is shining brightly on the coral-clustered -rowan-tree outside, and the sky already is dazzling -blue. A gentle air, too, just stirs the muslin -curtain of the window left open overnight. With -it comes in the scent of honey and the hum of -bees at work in the garden below. No morning -is this for laziness and a late breakfast. The -impulse to be abroad is born of the sunshine; -and a few minutes serve, after a hurried toilet, to -snatch a towel, bound down stairs, and go tramping -across the heather to the well-known pool.</p> - -<p>A magnificent day indeed it promises to be. -The wreathing night-mists have already risen -from the Bens, and the loch below gleams like -melted sapphire round sylvan island and far-set -promontory. Everywhere the mountains are clad -in purple, and from the moor-bloom spreading -its springy carpet underfoot rises a fragrance -that fills air and heart alike with delight. And<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_169">169</a></span> -the river pool—never was found more delightful -bathing-place. Hidden deep between overhanging -banks of heather in flower, with a clean -brown ledge of rock to dive from, the depth of -dark, clear water, like amber wine, sparkles with -foam-bells, and the waterfall tosses from the rock -above great showers of silver spray. No more -invigorating plunge could be had. For a moment, -as he breasts the brown depths, the bather feels -something of the salmon’s exultant pride; and -a dip like that sets one off high-hearted for -the day.</p> - -<p>Breakfast is a delight after such an appetiser; -and fresh eggs and thin oatcakes, creamy porridge, -golden marmalade, and all the wealth of Highland -fare, disappear with startling despatch. There is -no time to be wasted either, for Archie was to -have the boat ready at half-past nine, and there -is a Highland half-mile of road between the -house and the loch. Archie would by no means -scruple about expressing his candid, and perhaps -not very complimentary, opinion if the party -chanced to be late; and there is a kind of -unwritten law in the house that the old servant -is to be humoured as much as possible. So -already the ladies are concerning themselves with<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_170">170</a></span> -the making and packing of sandwiches, the due -stowage of cold provender, jellies, fruit, milk, -<i xml:lang="la" lang="la">et cetera</i>, and the apportioning to each his load. -For the luncheon is to be, <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">bonâ fide</i>, a true -Robinson Crusoe affair, no servants interfering; -and each man must make himself useful.</p> - -<p>“’Deed, and ye’re no that late, efter a’!” is -Archie’s magnanimous reply to a deprecating -remark of his mistress on reaching the loch-side. -The sunshine has evidently thawed his usual -crustiness. “Aye, mem,” he replies further, “it’ll -be a fine mornin’, a very fine mornin’; the hills -is quite clear.” After which deliverance he holds -the boat steady alongside the little wooden -landing-place, while provisions, kettles, and rugs -are stowed away in the bow; and his grey eyes -twinkle with pleased humour under their shaggy -brows when the heir of the house whispers some -bit of sly badinage in his ear. “Aye he iss a -fine lad that, a fine lad!” the old fellow will be -saying to himself when the boat has been pushed -off, and he watches from the pier the stalwart -object of his remark bestirring himself to haul -up the sail.</p> - -<div id="ip_170" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 30.375em;"><img src="images/i_201.jpg" width="486" height="600" alt="" /></div> - -<p>There is just enough breeze to curl the water -gently; and when the snowy sheet is hoisted the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_171">171</a></span> -boat bends away gracefully before it, leaving a -swirling track of foam and eddies in her wake. -When the morning is so fine as this there is -little fear of danger; but on these Highland -lochs one never can foretell the moment when -a sudden gust may come down from some -hillside corrie; and cool nerves and a steady -hand are needed to control sheet and tiller. -The man who loses his wits on an emergency, -who cannot slacken out sail or bring the boat’s -head up to wind when a squall strikes her, is -no fit pilot for these waters, and many a fair -freight has gone to the bottom from such an -one holding the helm. A strong and ready -hand is in charge to-day, however, and “black -care” is a thing impossible on board, as the -little craft goes bounding out upon the bosom -of the loch.</p> - -<p>And fair as a romance is the scene—the clear -lake winding away among the mountains, its -surface broken only by bosky islets that float -in their own reflections—while the sunny air is -full of the awe and silence of the Bens.</p> - -<p>The only spot in all the scene where silence -reigns not is on board the little boat herself; -and a continuous ripple of merry chat and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_172">172</a></span> -joyous laughter floats away astern with her -foam. From wild little islets passed by the -way come breaths of pinewood and of heather -in bloom, faint and delicious as the gales which -drifted leeward of old from homeward-bound -spice-argosies of the East. But the bright eyes -on board are an inspiration themselves, independent -of the sunshine and the pure and -scented air; and the gladness of youth has -broken forth—the contagion of happy and hopeful -hearts. A sweet strain of melody floats -once and again from the bow, where the singing -throats are:</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="in0">—the Skye Boat Song, a farewell to Prince -Charlie, that old-time idol of the Highland -hearts. A sad melody it is, amid its sweetness, -as are all the old Jacobite songs, with their -breathing of hopes that were never to be fulfilled; -and somehow, strains like that come to -the ear with more real tenderness when sung -as to-day by clear young voices among their -native mountains.</p> - -<p>Too soon, almost, the boat’s keel grates upon -the island beach—the strip of silver shingle under<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_173">173</a></span> -the green-fringing trees. One would fain have -prolonged especially the last part of the voyage, -through the straits between the islands—straits -like the miniature narrows of fairy-land, between -whose near and bosky shores the fragile shallop -of Oberon and Titania might almost be expected -to appear, flying a web of the woodland gossamers -for its sail. But other attractions enough lie -within the island greenwood. There are delicate -groups of birches to be sketched by those who -have brought block and colours. In the rivulet -dells some of the young ladies have been promised -the discovery of the much-sought hart’s-tongue -fern. And for those who wish to recall -to fancy the place’s romance of the past, there -are the remains of a ruined monastery to explore. -But the merriest party of all, perhaps, is that -retained for the preparation of luncheon; and it -is wonderful in how short a time those dainty-fingered -damsels have the tasteful display of linen -and crystal and silver spread on a grassy plot, -the clumsy-handed males being retained, after -the fashion of the knights-errant of old, for the -opening of baskets and boxes, and the seeking -of leaves wherewith to decorate fruit-salvers, -napkins, and the tablecloth’s centre.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_174">174</a></span> -A merry meal it is, too, which follows, <i xml:lang="es" lang="es">al fresco</i>—“all -in the greenwood free”—with the contortions -of carvers on their knees, the popping of -corks, and continual little explosions of mysterious -laughter from the various groups perched on -cloaks and rugs wherever a seat-hold offers -round the roots of some gnarled oak or ash. -Never more gallant do young men appear than -when attending the wants of their fair comrades -amid such a scene; and thrice happy is he who -has such an opportunity of laying siege to the -heart that he desires.</p> - -<p>Then away again over the island they go, in -parties of two and three; and the flutter of a -light dress is to be seen and the joyous ripple -of merry laughter to be heard in many a nook -and dell hitherto invaded only by the antlered -and timid deer. Many a pleasant word is spoken, -and many a heart mayhap lightened of its care -on such an afternoon; for the anxieties of civilised -life come not to a sylvan retreat like this, and -it is impossible to be aught but joyous-spirited -when the surroundings are all of gladness.</p> - -<p>But hark! they have caught a piper on the -mainland, and have brought him over, and there -is to be a dance on the grass. Yonder he goes,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_175">175</a></span> -under the edge of the trees, pouring forth a -torrent of Highland reels. A brave sound that, -setting the blood on fire and making it impossible -to sit still. And merrily go the twinkling -feet on the greensward—“figures of eight,” and -Reel o’ Tulloch, Highland Schottische and Highland -Fling. Wilder and faster grows the music, -as the piper catches the spirit of the scene, and -faster and faster the dancers foot it, with swirling -tartans and flying skirts, till, at a final blast of -the screaming chanter, the last partners throw -themselves panting on the grass. Then a cup -of tea makes a kindly refreshment and prevents -heated throats from catching cold, and the boat -has to be got ready, and the furniture of the -feast stowed away. Afterwards, as the clear -young moon begins to sparkle in the sky, the -sail is set once more and the prow pointed for -home. And if the wind fails, and some rowing -has to be done, the exercise is good for keeping -off the chill; and with song after song floating -out across the water under the stars, a fitting -end is made of a day without regrets.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_176">176</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="hdr_25">TENNIS IN THE NORTH.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap a"><span class="smcap1">A</span> pretty sight they are, these two, this -fair summer morning, among the dewy -branches of the rose-garden, all unconscious that -anyone is looking at them, Minna, the daughter -of the house, her white hands wet with flowers, -is cutting fresh blossoms for the breakfast-table, -and that tall fellow, the Professor, who at home -used to get up only when the college bell was -ringing, has actually risen half an hour earlier -than he need have done in order to hold the -basket for her. He is not looking at the costly -little circlet of diamonds sparkling upon her finger, -but at the bright dark eyes swimming under the -edge of that delightful straw hat, where, doubtless, -he is getting some fresh light upon the Greek -particles. For they are engaged, Minna and he, -and he is coming back in the autumn to carry -her off and transplant her, like some bright-petalled -flower, in his dim old college city.</p> - -<p>But there is the voice of our host greeting<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_177">177</a></span> -them from the porch below, and the Professor -comes forward eagerly to shake hands with him. -Young Rossdhu has driven down to say that -some friends arrived at their house last night, -and his mother will be glad if we can go up -to tennis and luncheon there this morning. No -other engagement will be broken by this, and -a day on that velvet lawn among the pine-woods -will be delightful; so the carriage has -been ordered for eleven o’clock. The day -promises to be very warm here by the sea, -but more air will perhaps be moving up among -the hills, and there will always be the shadow -of the old beeches to rest under. When breakfast -is over, then, it will just be time to get -ready, though it is tempting to linger in the -quiet cool little room, at the white-spread table -with its freshness of flowers—the full-blowing -Maréchal Niel and the languorous yellow tea-roses -set there by dainty fingers.</p> - -<p>Outside, the sunshine is very hot already, -and the last dewdrop has long ago dried from -the scarlet petals of the geraniums in the urns. -The ponies at the door, too, are impatiently -whisking their tails and twitching their ears to -keep off the flies.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_178">178</a></span> -There could be no more enjoyable drive than -that along this road of the far North, running -a mile or two first within sight of the blue -glistening sea, and then turning inland. The -road itself, of that dazzling sandy whiteness -peculiar to the district, is perfectly dry and -smooth; and while from the deep grasses of -the bank on each side, and from the warren -beyond, come the hot passion-breath of the -golden-flowered whin, and the soft amorous sigh -of the milky-clouded thorn, there is ever in sight -the broad country, rich in old forests, showing -here and there the grey tower of some ancient -castle, and stretching away to the mountains -beyond, purple under the speckless sky. Then -it turns off suddenly into the pine-woods of -Rossdhu, and the wheels roll noiseless upon the -soft bed of fir needles.</p> - -<p>Forty years ago, when old Rossdhu found -that, owing to the repeal of the Corn Laws, it -would no longer be profitable to grow wheat, -like many another proprietor in the North he -planted his lands with trees. And so, while -the country buys its bread with the riches of -ore and fossil stored up æons ago in Nature’s -grim treasure-caverns underground, the soil, at<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_179">179</a></span> -rest from plough and harrow, is growing young -again amid the forests, under the brown depth -of mouldering leaf and cone.</p> - -<p>Deep quiet reigns among these warm pine-woods, -a sort of enchanted stillness amid the -yellow sunshine. In the bosky hollow where -the brown butterfly is hovering, old Pan might -be asleep among the fern. The feathery grasses -everywhere are in flower, as high as a man’s -shoulder; above them shimmers the great green -dragon-fly, two inches long, with his gossamer -wings; and from among their clouds at places -little ladybird beetles, like pin-heads, spotted -scarlet and black, fall into the carriage in their -flight. The wild strawberry, with its tiny white -blossom, is growing on the sunny banks of the -road, and wild rasps spread their tangle in the -undergrowth beyond.</p> - -<p>In the narrow meadow amidst the woods a -lonely mower is at work, and the air is sweet -with the scent of new-mown hay. He lifts his -cap respectfully as the carriage passes, for the -manners of the district have not been corrupted -yet by contact with rude railway navvies, nor -by the shortcomings of Board schools; and the -peasant still exchanges a recognition with his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_180">180</a></span> -superior. Much more real kindliness might -exist between the social classes if in our schools -there were a Government grant for manners. -All store nowadays seems to be set upon the -three “Rs”—reading, writing, and arithmetic—as -if the whole sum of human felicity lay -in a knowledge of the “black art” of books.</p> - -<p>The mower was singing to himself as we came -up, a soft Gaelic song that kept time to the -sweep of his scythe, and Minna blushes a little -as she promises to translate it in the evening, -for it is a song of confessed love. The man is -happy, surely, singing as he sees the glistening, -swathes fall by his side to ripen in the sun: -and well he may be, for has he not, like the -happy birds, a nest, too, somewhere in these -woods, and a blue-eyed brood that will greet -his home-coming at nightfall.</p> - -<div id="ip_180" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 24.0625em;"><img src="images/i_213.jpg" width="385" height="600" alt="" /></div> - -<p>But the manor-house stands close by now, and -there, on the smooth green lawn among the trees, -the tennis nets are spread, and the courts marked -with lines on the grass. A beautiful old place it -is, its grey stone walls hot with the sunshine, and, -among the thick-climbing jessamine and fuchsia, -the open windows revealing tempting depths -of shadow within. The sound of the wheels<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_181">181</a></span> -on the gravel brings out old Rossdhu himself, -the soul of hospitality, with half a dozen of his -dogs barking a welcome after their fashion, and -wagging their tails. Shaggy-bearded as some of -his own peasants, the old gentleman is the pink -of Highland courtesy, and he assists “Miss -Minna” to alight as if she were a princess. -“Alec,” that is his son, he explains, “is busy -inside,” and the frequent popping of corks heard -there intimates his occupation.</p> - -<p>The dark cool drawing-room is bright with -the light dresses of young girls, and musical with -the murmur of happy laughter, while the air that -just stirs the creamy gossamer of the curtains -brings in with it the fragrance of the dark -velvety wallflower still flowering outside in the -sunshine before the window. The lady of the -house is an invalid, and Rossdhu begs that -Minna will give her just one song before everybody -goes out to the game. So Minna draws -off her gloves, and the piano is opened. And -it is very pleasant to sit in the deep shadow -by the open casement, looking out upon the -sunny lawn and woods, and listening to the -melody of that sweet young voice. It is a -Jacobite song she sings, “The Auld House”—<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_182">182</a></span>some -other such place as this, with low-roofed -rooms, dark-panelled and oaken-raftered, where -the hopes of gentle hearts blossomed and withered -long ago with the fortunes of their fair, ill-fated -Prince. The plaintive words linger with their -air in the memory, how “the auld <span class="locked">ladye”—</span></p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">Here sheltered Scotland’s heir,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And clipped a lock wi’ her ain hand<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Frae his lang yellow hair.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="in0">Then, afterwards, when everybody has had enough -of the ices and the claret cup, there is the tennis. -And though it is somewhat warm work for those -actually playing, there are seats under the leafy -beeches and chestnut-trees, where a quiet <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">tête-à-tête</i> -can be enjoyed, and a lazy glance cast at the -lithe, light-clad figures of the players out in the -sunshine, and the white balls that fly to and fro -across the nets.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_183">183</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="hdr_26">THROUGH THE PASS.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap b"><span class="smcap1">Rain</span> is not to be heeded in the Highlands. -It is the picturesque part of the weather -here. The air grows fresher and sweeter in a -shower, a richer fragrance comes out in the woods, -and the true gloom and grandeur of the mountains -can only be seen when the grey rain-veils are -darkening and glittering among their glens. Even -into the house steals the reviving freshness of the -rain. The scent of the wet sweetbrier budding -in the garden hedge enters at the open window; -from the larch-wood near, the grateful thrushes -can be heard sending forth more liquid trillings; -and the daffodils, hung like yellow jewels along -the lawn, appear fairer and brighter amid the -shower. But better than wasting the day indoors -it is to sally forth, strong-booted and roughly -clad, breathe the freshness of the cool, new air, -and start, staff in hand, for the hills themselves. -It is worth while to defy the rain, for the road -lies through woods dewy and dim as Keats<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_184">184</a></span> -dreamed for his “Endymion.” In their deep-secluded -ways sometimes may be seen the timid -roedeer, and on the fragrant air be heard the -amorous crooning of wild doves.</p> - -<p>In another month the quiet dells among these -woods will be purple with dewy hyacinths, and -many a sequestered nook will be dim with the -blue forget-me-not. Already the open meads -are sprinkled with patins of buttercup-gold, and -a modest spot of cream here and there, under -some mossy bank, betrays a late primrose. As -yet, however, the delicate broidery of summer -has not carpeted the forest floors. Under the -dark, low-hanging branches of the spruce-firs—made -a richer green by the rain—there is only -a russet wealth of withered fern, with a warm -depth of shadow such as Rembrandt loved to -paint. Looking over a mossy old bridge parapet -into the ferny dingle below, one can see the -feathery grey larches powdered with sweet pink -blossom, whose beauty few people know; and -lower down, by the burn, the alders putting forth -silky silver bud-tips—the “mouse’s ear,” which -is the angler’s sign that perch are to be caught. -In open spaces where some forest-clearing has -been done, the few silver-barked birches left<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_185">185</a></span> -standing begin to show a smir of green, their -graceful drooping branches looking like trailing -sprays of delicate maidenhair; whilst here and -there a spot is lit up by the golden glory of -the whin.</p> - -<p>The woods at this time of the year are full -of life, for the cruel gun is silent, and many a -happy home of bird and beast is hidden in the -tangled undergrowth. In the elm-tops about the -lodge behind by the river the rooks are giving -each other much grandmotherly advice as to the -rearing of broods. The cock pheasant’s crow is -to be heard frequently in the covers, and sometimes, -from his open feeding-ground beside the -path, a splendid bird rises suddenly with whirring -wings, and sails royally away to more secluded -fastnesses. Among the thick-leaved tangle of -wild rhododendron on either hand blackbirds are -fluttering joyously about their nests. Overhead, -occasionally, passes the heavy, rushing flight of -a wild pigeon. And more than once across a -gleam of sunshine on the path runs a red squirrel, -like a bit of living gold.</p> - -<p>And while one treads on the brown, fallen -needles of spruce and larch, the subtle forest -scents fill the heart with many pleasant memories.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_186">186</a></span> -Never are these forest scents richer than when -brought out by a shower, and it is curious how -vividly some faint perfume drifting on the air will -recall the happy scenes of other days, memories -that are themselves the pensive fragrance of old -age.</p> - -<p>Through these ducal woods, and amid such -pleasant sights and sounds, some seventy years -ago wandered the “Wizard of the North,” gathering -material for his work. Fairer scenes a poet -could not have chosen to gather inspiration from. -Everyone may feel the eloquence of those northern -hills in front, as everyone may enjoy the fragrance -of the meadow violets: it needed a poet, however, -to turn into speech the eloquence of the hills, as -it needs a bee to turn into honey the fragrance -of the flowers. Hither, therefore, fitly came Scott -to his work; and over clachan and mountain alike -he has woven the golden net of romance.</p> - -<p>One may wander for miles through these woods -and out beyond upon the old Highland road, with -its low, mossy dykes, without meeting a single -wayfarer. Only Nature herself, with gentle and -sweet suggestion, speaks to him of the past or of -the future. For the touch of the fresh cool air -upon the face clears away all cobwebs of sordid<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_187">187</a></span> -thought, and braces the faculties for new endeavour. -Here, too, may be witnessed many a matchless -transformation scene. For presently the rain -ceases, the grey mist melts into the lucent blue -of the sky, and wet hill and woodland sparkle -and glow in a flood of hot sunshine. Immediately -the shallow trout burn that comes down to the -stepping-stones under the edge of the wood -laughs gaily and dances over its pebbles; the -mountain in front becomes a great sapphire -burning gloriously under the blue; the larks -rise, true sun-worshippers, pouring forth rills of -song, libations to their God, at heaven’s own -gate; and from the twittering coppice flutter the -vain chaffinches, with purple velvet heads, gold -breasts, and silver-barred wings, to show themselves. -Never do the vaunted birds of the tropics -sing so joyously as the sweet hedge-warblers of -Britain; and, ages before the alchemists came, -thrush and robin and yellowhammer had found -out Nature’s own philosopher’s-stone, and sang -the praises of that sunshine which, like love -and like human genius, turns all it touches into -gold.</p> - -<p>Steep as a wall in front rises the mountain -barrier of the Highlands, its wooded and inaccessible<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_188">188</a></span> -shoulder projecting far into the loch. Only -one passage is to be found through that rocky -wall, and the road to it winds perilously round -a little bay, between darkening precipice and -lapping wave, before ascending the narrow and -unseen defile. Daring would the assailant be -who tried that steep and narrow path with a -Highland foe above him! Scarcely more than -a bridle-path, and steep as a staircase, it winds -upward between rugged mountain walls. A -single clansman, posted with gun and claymore -behind one of its jutting crags, might hold -the road against a regiment. High and dark -overhead against the sky rise sombre pines and -immemorial holly-trees, which from their torn and -shattered girth might <span class="locked">be—</span></p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Seedlings of those that heavenward sprung<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While yet the maiden moon was young<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="in0">—ancient enough, at anyrate, to have looked down -on many a Highland foray. No one need marvel -that the Macgregors thought themselves safe when -they had driven their spoil through the Pass of -Balmaha.</p> - -<p>And glorious as well as welcome was the sight -that met these clansmen when once actually<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_189">189</a></span> -through the defile. For away to the north, Ben -beyond Ben, far as eye could range, rose the -fastnesses of their native mountains—silver waters -flashing below round islands of fern, and the blue -sky laughing above. Every glen had its memory, -and every corrie was their inheritance, and even -the traveller of the present day can know no -more gorgeous spectacle than Ben Lomond after -sunset burning in amethystine fire. For more -reasons than one, therefore, might these rough -old warriors rejoice when they had scaled the -pass and beheld before them this wild but lovely -vista of the country they called their home.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_190">190</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="hdr_27">A HIGHLAND MORNING.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap b"><span class="smcap1">Breakfast</span> is over—a Highland breakfast. -Full justice has been done to the pleasant -porridge and warm creamy milk, the fresh -herrings that were alive in Loch Fyne a few -hours ago, salmon from the splash-nets at -Eriska, fragrant coffee, excellent home-made -scones, and rich butter, tasting of the clover-field. -The day is superb, and no one will spend more -of it indoors than he can help; besides, the -boat will be almost afloat now, and it will take -a little time to bale her out. Bring the lines, -then, with their gaudy red and yellow flies—it -may be that a mackerel or two are to be caught -in the loch; a novel of William Black’s, “The -Princess of Thule” or “MacLeod of Dare,” and -a pocketful of good cigars. It is hardly nine -o’clock, yet the sun is dazzling and hot in -the doorway. There is just enough air moving -to bring up the fresh smell of the seaweed -stirred by the rising tide. The white sandy<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_191">191</a></span> -road is almost dry again after the rain which -has fallen in the night, and as the kine, after -their morning milking, are turned into the clover-field -alongside, the foremost will hardly move -from the gate to allow the others to enter, but -bury their muzzles at once in the fresh, wet -grass. The sea lies flashing and sparkling -in the morning sunshine, and, on the dark -Kingairloch mountains opposite, here and there -the silver streak of a torrent still shows the -effects of the morning shower. A sunny quiet -fills the air. The faint screaming and splashing -of gulls and sea-swallows far out over some -shoal of fishes, and the sound of the oars in -the rowlocks of the distant boat, can be distinctly -heard, while the leisurely movements of the -horse and cart going down the road a quarter -of a mile away are quite distinguishable. The -driver is whistling pleasantly; the tune is -“Mo nighean donn bhoidheach.” The last mists -are leaving the mountain sides, and everything -promises a hot day. Even the soft white clouds -far up in the sky are every moment growing -fainter, and already the thin shimmer of heat -is ascending from the dry-stone dyke beside -the road. The brambles on the other side of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_192">192</a></span> -the dry, grassy ditch show profuse clusters of -bright red fruit, but there are no ripe berries -to be seen—the children pluck them long before -they are black. The scarlet hips, too, shine -bravely on the sprays of hedgebrier, the tips of -whose leaves are just beginning to turn brown. -A small blue butterfly flickers across the road, -and, rising at the dyke, is lost in a moment -against the blue of the sky; while a silent -humble-bee comes by, alights on the last empty -bell of a seeded foxglove, and immediately -tumbles out again disgusted, to continue his -researches farther on. Over the hedge there, -on the other side of the road, the oats seem -yellow enough to cut, and among them are still -in flower a few yellow Marguerites. The hill -beyond glows purple yet with the heather, -although its full bloom is past. Here and there -plants of it are flowering close to the dyke -by the roadside. It is the small sort, the kind -the bees frequent, for they can get into it—the -bell heather flowers earlier, and is over -now.</p> - -<p>But here is our boat. She is already afloat, -the mainsail and jib are soon hoisted, there -is just enough wind to carry her against the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_193">193</a></span> -tide, and Appin and Castle Stalker, the ruined -stronghold of the Stewarts of Appin, are slowly -hidden by the point behind. On the right is -the green island of Lismore, low lying and -fertile, with few houses visible upon it; only the -slate roof of Lady Elphinstone’s lodge flashes -in the sunlight like a crystal. And beyond and -above tower the dark mountains of Morven. -To the south, in the offing, lie the islands of -Easdale and Luing, famous for their slates.</p> - -<p>Down we drift, past the Black Isle, to the -narrows of Eriska. The tide is still running -in towards Loch Creran, and the passage, which -otherwise would have been difficult among the -eddies and currents, is easily and quickly made. -An immense volume of water must pour to -and fro through that narrow channel to fill the -loch at every tide. At these times the current -rushes like a mill-race. We are inside presently, -and as the air is very warm, and a pleasant -little bay with a sandy beach lies close at hand -on Eriska, there could be no better opportunity -for a bathe.</p> - -<p>No sooner said than done. The boat is -anchored a little way from the beach, where -through the clear green water the sandy bottom<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_194">194</a></span> -can be seen some few fathoms below, and one -after another enjoys a header from the bow, or -slips gently over the stern. Pleasant as Arcady -and utterly secluded is the spot; not even the -crack of a gamekeeper’s fowling-piece is to be -heard on shore.</p> - -<p>But what is this—that jig-jig-jigging of -engines? A small steam yacht is coming into -the loch, and—gracious goodness! there are -ladies on board. To cover, all three, behind -the boat, hang on by the gunwale, and -trust in Providence to keep the yacht at a -respectable distance. One has no ambition at -such moments to court the suffrages even of the -most delectable society. But the danger moves -past, and though the fair ones on deck do -smile at the phenomenal movements of our boat, -and the ominous absence of occupants, who is -a whit the worse? They will laugh with us, -rather than at us, should we meet.</p> - -<p>The breeze has freshened a little now, and -will be enough to carry us up the loch amongst -the currents and against the outflowing tide. -Yonder goes the ferry-boat, crossing from Shian. -It has a waggonette and horses on board, and -the sweeps carry it over but slowly. The long<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_195">195</a></span> -low island there, with its few stunted bushes, -is seldom visited, and remains a favourite haunt -of the graceful sea-swallows. Two months ago -every grassy ledge upon its sides would have -its couple of sea-swallow’s eggs. See yonder, -just beyond the rocky point, swimming quietly -about, with watchful, intelligent eyes, there is -the black head of a seal.</p> - -<p>As the boat gets round the end of Craigailleach, -the ruin of the ancient castle of Barcaldine, on -the low neck of land across which the road -winds from Connal, comes into sight. In the -days of which Sir Walter Scott speaks in his -“Lord of the Isles,” when against the Bruce -in Artornish Castle “Barcaldine’s arm was high -in air,” there was scantier cultivation around -the site of that black stronghold. The shrub -ivy was not waving then from its beacon turret, -and the retainers whose thatched cottages are -still scattered among the fields around were rather -caterans and pirates than peaceful crofters. Now, -however, as Mr William Freeland puts <span class="locked">it—</span></p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The freebooters, reiving and killing,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">No longer swoop down from their glens,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But delve by the bothie and shieling,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Or shepherd their flocks on the bens.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_196">196</a></span> -The mountains in front seem to rise higher as -we approach, and to cast a deeper silence on -the narrowing water and motionless woods at -their base. Barcaldine House, as secluded and -delightful a spot as any in the Highlands, with -its old-fashioned gardens and vineries, lies hidden -among these woods.</p> - -<p>Far up on the purple hillside at the head -of the loch the eye can make out a lonely -burying-place. A stone dyke guards the little -enclosure of quiet graves. The spot is visible -for many a mile around, and its presence ever -in sight must have a tender and solemn effect -in keeping alive the memory of the dead. -Every day, as the crofter toils in his little field, -or the shepherd takes the hill with his dogs, -his eyes will turn to it, and he will think of -wife or child who lie in that still, peaceful place, -asleep under the calm sunshine and among -the heather. Only sometimes will it be hidden—when -the soft, white, trailing mists come down -and weep their gentle tears upon the spot.</p> - -<p>Directly in front, away beyond and above the -other mountains, towers Ben Cruachan, a monarch -among the peers. And below, on the shore of -the loch, appears the long, low-roofed cottage,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_197">197</a></span> -half covered a month ago with crimson tropeolum, -and half smothered among its roses, where lives -the author of the humorous and valuable “Notes -from Benderloch.” Here is our destination. -Let down the mainsail, let go the jib, and we -will run ashore. It is not yet noon, and there -are many hours before us to spend in the -beautiful Barcaldine woods.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_198">198</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="hdr_28">TILL DEATH US PART.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">“Is</span> she better, Doctor?”</p> - -<p>“No; worse. Can’t last through the night, -I’m afraid.”</p> - -<p>The forester’s wife pauses a moment, looking -after the physician’s carriage as it whirls out -of sight in the gathering darkness along the -road; then, exclaiming sadly, “Poor, dear young -lady!” she closes again the heavy iron gates, -and retires to her own happy hearthside within -the lodge.</p> - -<p>Night has all but fallen, and though it is still -only dusk upon the open road outside, within the -avenue the gloaming is already deepening into -mirk, and under the shadows of the limes it will -soon be quite dark. A quiet spring night. When -the wheels of the doctor’s carriage have retreated -in the distance, no sound is to be heard amid -the shadows but the twitter of a blackbird settling -itself again to roost in its perfumed dreaming-place -among the spruce branches, and the silvery<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_199">199</a></span> -tinkle of a streamlet making its way at hand -through the ferny under-tangle of the wood. The -air is rich with the fresh sweetness of budding -life—the breath of unseen primroses opening -their creamy petals upon dewy moss-banks in -the darkness. Born amid the stillness, new, -vague hopes stir within the heart; everywhere -seems the delicious promise of the time of blossom -and leaf that is to be; and the motionless night -itself seems conscious of the coming of desire. -It is a night to inspire a poet or a lover; every -faint wood-scent, the cool touch of the night air -itself upon the cheek, bringing with it some -subtle suggestion, the more delightful that it -is undefined, setting the pulse of youth a-beating -with thoughts of a glad to-morrow.</p> - -<p>Alas for those to whom no morrow will -come!</p> - -<p>At the upper end of the long avenue a faint -light is shining yet in two windows of the many-gabled -mansion-house. One of the windows is -open, and within, at a small table, leaning his -head upon his hand, can be seen the figure of -a man. It is the master of the house. He has -just received the last sentence of the physician, -“I can be of no further service. The end will<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_200">200</a></span> -probably come before to-morrow”; and the words -are still in his ears, beating like a leaden pendulum -against his heart. Straight before him into the -dark night he is gazing; but the eyes that look -are tearless; only the drawn line about his mouth -and the pitiful twitching of his lip bespeak the -emotion that is working within. Yet he is not -altogether left to himself. The air from the -open window stirs his hair and fans his pale -cheek—Nature, like a sweet and gentle friend, -would offer him the soothing of her sympathy. -Probably he is unconscious of it—drowning in -the hopeless flood-tide of his grief; but, with the -gentle air stealing in from the darkness outside, -the influence of the great Reconciler, mother-heart -of all mankind, is already touching him. -While his ear takes in the soft movements of -the nurse in the next room, tending all that is -dearest to him on earth, his heart, stirred unconsciously -by the subtle suggestions of the incoming -night-scents, is travelling, torn with regret, through -the tender avenues of the past. And strangely -fresh in every detail reappear those scenes imprinted -upon the pages of memory by the -sunshine of love.</p> - -<p>He is in a cottager’s garden, listening, amid the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_201">201</a></span> -hum of the hives and the glory of old-fashioned -wallflower borders, to the gossip of the simple -old soul who is showing him her little domain. -There is the quick trotting of a pony. A low -phaeton drives past on the road beneath. And -he has seen and shared the smiling glance of a -gentle, lovely face—a sunny glimpse to be -remembered. Again, he has been picnicking -with friends, a family party, on the shore of a -Highland loch, and has noticed with mingled -admiration and resentment that while all others -have been seeking their own enjoyment, one pair -of frank and willing little hands has wrought -the whole comfort of the group. They are in -the shallops, rowing home, and as, pulling at -his oar, he listens to the innocent freshness of -a shy young voice singing some Highland boat-song, -he becomes conscious for the first time of -a vista before him of wondrous new and fair -possibilities—of a path in life which is not to -be trodden alone. Once more. It is a secluded -spot. He has wandered in happy company, -from his party. Clear as yesterday comes back -the memory of the scene. In front some tented -waggons, rust-brown with wandering years, trail -down the woodland by-road. The gipsy woman<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_202">202</a></span> -has taken his silver coin, and, with a keen, -shrewd glance, has wished the “lady and gentleman -a happy bridal!” He has seized the -moment, has whispered the secret which was no -secret, and has read in shining eyes the answer -of his hopes.</p> - -<p>All that was a year ago, little more—woodland -and lake and garden, with a hundred other -scenes and episodes as tender, which, crowding -back, fill his heart to bursting; and <span class="locked">now——</span></p> - -<p>He rises, closing the window, and passes into -the adjoining room.</p> - -<p>Treading softly on the thick carpet, a glance -assures him that nothing has altered in the sick-chamber -since he left it with the physician. Only -amid the momentous stillness, in the subdued light -by the fire, the trim, white-aproned nurse is trying -to read. A whisper to her—she will be called if -required; and, closing the door noiselessly behind -her, she leaves him to watch alone.</p> - -<p>Alone, for the last time, with all that is dear -to him, the flower that is fading out of his life -so soon! He turns to the bed. There, pale -with preternatural loveliness, her dark hair spread -like a cloud upon the pillow, lies the sunny -sweetheart, the shy bride of a year ago. A<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_203">203</a></span> -faint moan, the glistening of a tear between the -closed eyelids, betrays the grief that is haunting -that strange shadowland between this world and -the next—grief for that which was not to be! -He can look no more! Sinking into a chair by -the fire, he buries his face in his hands. It is -the hour of his despair.</p> - -<p>Midnight has long passed; the fire is sinking -unheeded in the grate; and he has not moved.</p> - -<p>“Arthur!”</p> - -<p>In a moment he is by the bed, that thin, hot -hand in his, gazing heartbroken into the face of -his wife. In those grey eyes of hers there is no -second thought. Love, for the time is short, has -dropped his last disguise, and looks forth from -them with unutterable tenderness and regret. -“Arthur!” She lingers fondly upon his name, -and her fingers push the hair tenderly from his -brow—“Arthur!”</p> - -<p>But there is a sudden change. A look of terror -springs to her eyes, and she clings wildly to his -arm. Is this the end? She would have fallen -back upon the pillow had not his arm been -round her. With a despairing effort, her eyes -filling with tears, she articulates, “We have—been—very—happy—my -dear!” Their lips meet<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_204">204</a></span> -for the last time—a long, long farewell. Then -a second shadow passes over her face. He lays -her gently back upon the pillow. The wistful, -eager look dies away out of her eyes. It is all -over. He is alone, kneeling by the bed, his -face pressed deep into his hands. A gust of -wind, rising outside, shakes the sash of the -window; the crow of chanticleer is heard far -off at the stables: it is three o’clock, the coldest -hour of the night.</p> - -<p>And in the lodge at the foot of the avenue, -at that hour, the young forester’s wife, stirring -softly in her sleep, presses the month-old babe -beside her closer to her heart.</p> - -<div id="ip_204" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 37.5em;"><img src="images/i_239.jpg" width="600" height="405" alt="" /></div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_205">205</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="hdr_29">A FOREST WEDDING.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">Though</span> it is not yet seven o’clock, the -winter night, in this northern parish, has -quite closed in, and it is already very dark. -When the sun set, far in the south, some hours -ago, its disc gleamed coppery red through brown -mist veils as of rising smoke, and the shepherd’s -wife on the moor, as she brought in her peats -for the night, said she thought there would be -more snow before morning. It has not yet -begun to fall, however, when the minister, -wrapped up to the ears in his heavy coat, and -his feet encased in strong, thick-soled boots, -pulling on a pair of rough worsted gloves, and -calling his spaniel from her place on the study -hearth, sets out from his comfortable manse.</p> - -<p>Presently, as he turns from the beaten highway -into the snow-clad woods of the manor, -hearing the bell of the distant town steeple -behind him striking the hour, he gives an -encouraging word to his dog, and quickens his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_206">206</a></span> -steps a little. As he passes the humble window -of the gate-lodge, he pauses a moment—there -was a sound; yes, it is audible again—a mother -crooning softly over her child; and his eye -glistens as his ear catches the lullaby, old -bachelor as he is. From the chimney on the -low roof, too, there steals down among the trees -the savoury fragrance of the evening meal. The -father, one of the under-gamekeepers on the -estate, evidently has not come home yet, and -his young wife is waiting for him.</p> - -<p>The sky hangs soft and very dark overhead, the -tree-tops are all but lost in it, and one can almost -fancy he hears the drifting of the coming snow. -But all is silent, not a branch in the forest stirs, -and between the black tree-trunks the white sheet -can be seen stretching stainless and undisturbed -on either hand into the mysterious depths of the -woods. The trees themselves, unshaken all these -weeks by wind or squirrel or woodbird, raise into -the night their branches robed to the remotest -twig in the matchless lacework of the frost.</p> - -<p>But see! Along the hollow, to the left, can -be caught a glimpse of the manor-house, its -windows, most of them, aglow with light. A -grey, stately old place it is, in the midst of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_207">207</a></span> -its woods, eloquent with the memories of long-past -centuries. Royalty has been entertained -there in bygone days, and in the woodland aisles -around has echoed merrily the laughter of many -a gay party from the Court, distant only a -morning’s ride. But storm after storm has swept -the land since then; that gay Court’s palace lies -a ruin now; and while the race of the humble -peasant still thrives in the manor woods, the -race of the manor lord and the race of the -kings themselves of those days have passed -from the earth for ever.</p> - -<p>There is no spot in so old a land but has its -memories, sad and gay. Somewhere in these -woods, in days still farther gone, a national hero -was betrayed, and on the moorland ridge, a mile -away, a king’s army suffered defeat. But the -minister passes on. His errand to-night is neither -to palace nor castle, yet it may be that the -simple hearts he is presently to unite will beat as -happily under a lowly roof of thatch as do those -of the gentle owners in their mansion yonder.</p> - -<p>By degrees, as he presses on, the path becomes -rougher, the trees deepen the darkness overhead, -and hardly a former footstep has left its trace in -the undrifted snow. The solitude might almost<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_208">208</a></span> -be primeval, so absolute is the silence in these -untrodden recesses. The solitary snapping, once, -of a rime-laden branch has only testified amid -the stillness to the intensity of the frost. At -last, however, the path widens somewhat, there -is a little clearing and a forsaken lodge, and -beyond, here and there in the open, gleam the -scattered lights of the village. A sequestered -spot it is, bowered in summer by the whispering -woods, and in winter buried in the forest solitudes -by the swathing snow.</p> - -<p>But there is merriment enough to-night in -the little community; and the frequent ring of -laughter from the nearest cottage, as well as -the warm glow of firelight streaming from its -threshold and windows, deep-set under the thatch, -tell where the festivities are going forward. It -is the cottage of the bride’s father: all the -village has assembled here to assist in the -ceremony, and they are waiting now for the -minister. The laughter subsides as he lifts the -latch and enters, stamping in the doorway to -shake the snow from his feet; and all eyes -are turned upon him, as the goodman of the -house, a grizzled forester of sixty winters, hastens -forward with a welcome to help him out of his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_209">209</a></span> -coat. It is a comfortable scene, the interior -of the low-raftered kitchen, lit up rather by the -warm glow of the open fire than by the candles -set on table and window-shelf. By the hearth -are gathered the older folk—the many-wrinkled -granny, in comely white mutch and kerchief; -the few matrons, with smoothly-braided hair, -and little ornament, except a well-worn ring -or two; and the men in decent homespun; -while farther back are grouped the more youthful -members of the party—broad-shouldered young -fellows and merry-eyed lasses, excited a little -by the somewhat infectious inspiration of the -occasion. Everything in the humble apartment -is as clean as housewifely care can make it; -not a speck is to be seen on the brown stones -of the floor, and above the black shining chimney-piece -the brass candlesticks glitter like gold. -On the snowy dresser, below the well-filled -plate-rack, is piled in profusion the substantial -fare which will do duty later on. Meanwhile, -on the white deal table in the middle of the -room is set only the well-worn family Bible.</p> - -<p>The minister, with a kindly word, has shaken -the hand of the somewhat embarrassed bridegroom, -and stands now, inquiring pleasantly<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_210">210</a></span> -after granny’s eyesight, by the fire. There is -a pause of expectancy, a hurried messenger -or two pass between the rooms, and then the -bride, a handsome young woman of twenty-two -or so, is brought in by her mother from “ben -the hoose,” as the only other apartment is called. -With a look of happy pride at the object of his -affection, the bridegroom takes his place by her -side at the farther end of the table, and the -minister, glancing round to see that all is ready, -opens the Bible.</p> - -<p>After a brief but earnest prayer, and the -reading of a short passage of Scripture, the -good old man addresses them in a few solemn -yet kindly words. They are taking the most -serious step in life; let them look to Heaven -for a blessing upon it. The future may bring -them prosperity; let them see that it does not -cool their affection. It may also have trials -in store for them; let these be lightened -by being shared between them. Above all, let -them remember to be open-hearted to one -another. Then he asks if they are willing -to be wedded “for better or for worse,” bids -them join hands, engages in another most -momentous prayer, and finally declaring them<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_211">211</a></span> -man and wife, with the solemn injunction, -“Whom God has joined together, let no man -put asunder,” ends the short ceremony.</p> - -<p>Immediately there is a great stir, shaking of -hands with the bridegroom, and kissing of the -bride; the gallant “best man,” somehow, unwarrantably -extending the salutation to the -blushing bridesmaid. The mother sheds a few -quiet tears, and granny, by the fire, wakens up -to speak of her own wedding day.</p> - -<p>But the proper papers have been signed, and -the minister, followed to the door by the overflowing -thanks of the little family, and refusing -all offers of escort, leaves the homely company -to its enjoyment—for the dance will be kept up -till a late hour in the morning. The night air -is bracing, after the warmth inside, and, as the -sky has cleared a little by this time, the pathway -back through the woods will be better seen -by the silvery sparkle of the frosty stars.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_212">212</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="hdr_30">LOCH LOMOND ICE-BOUND.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">There</span> could hardly be a greater contrast -than that between the fog-laden atmosphere -of Queen Street Station, Glasgow, on a winter -morning, and the frosty, bracing air of the country -outside. Ever since the train emerged from the -murky gloom of the long city tunnel into the -open freedom of the frost-covered fields, the sense -of exhilaration has been increasing. Sounds of -laughter from the compartments before and behind -bespeak the high spirits of the occupants; while -at every roadside station along the Clyde valley -fresh parties of pleasure-seekers, their cheeks red -and eyes bright with the cold, have added to the -freight, and swelled the merriment. The ice on -Loch Lomond is “bearing,” and the clash of -skates is in the air.</p> - -<p>Slowly at last the train, crammed by this time -with skaters of both sexes and all ages, pants -into the station at Balloch Pier. Before it has -stopped, the doors of the carriages swing open,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_213">213</a></span> -and an eager crowd swarms out upon the platform. -The throng chokes the stairway down the face of -the pier, so many impatiently hasten back to the -shore; there is a scramble over a wire fence, a -stampede across a well-trodden stubble-field to the -loch, and then the stream of enthusiasts disperses -in all directions to don the necessary foot-gear.</p> - -<p>Different indeed is the scene now from what it -was in summer! Then the clear water glistened -and twinkled in the sunshine, the white sail of a -boat slowly moved across the dark green of a -distant island, and the mountains beyond rose, -purple and grey, into a fleckless sky; while one -of the little loch steamers at the pier blew clouds -of steam noisily from its funnel, as it took on -board its gay crowd of tourists. Now no lapse -of water is to be heard upon the pebbles, not a -whisper moves among the frosted fretwork of the -trees. The landscape everywhere is draped and -lifeless, the loch itself lies a level sheet of snow, -and far up yonder, above the dark narrows where -the waters are still unfrozen, Ben Lomond raises -his shoulder, ermine-clad, into a darkling heaven. -The twin steamers, too, lie prisoned in the ice, -crusted white, and motionless as Lot’s wife.</p> - -<p>If Nature herself, however, is crystallised into<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_214">214</a></span> -silence and stillness, there is both movement and -sound of another sort about. Here at a run -over the field to the ice comes a schoolboy, as -eager as if the whole day were not before him, his -wooden skates clashing together as he stumbles -on the molehills. Farther off a young man and -a maiden are transacting in orthodox fashion the -idyll of the ice, she seated on what has ordinarily -been a mooring post, and holding out a dainty -boot, while he, kneeling devotedly in the snow, -buckles on her skate. All along the shore, on -every hillock that affords a seat, are groups of -eager enthusiasts, busy with straps and buckles; -and the shrill whirring sound of the ice tells -that many of the new-comers are already moving -over it.</p> - -<p>But the last refractory screw-nut is adjusted—Mercury -has buckled on his wings; and yonder, -two miles away, lies Inch Murren. Each winter, -when the loch is frozen, the first person who -crosses on foot to the island receives a pair of -deer antlers as a trophy; and often, before the -ice is very strong, the efforts of some bold skater -to win the honours are exciting enough. Since -the trophy was won this year,<a id="FNanchor_C" href="#Footnote_C" class="fnanchor">C</a> however, thousands -<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_215">215</a></span>of pleasure-seekers have crossed the loch; venders -of hot coffee and biscuits have established themselves -on the shore of the island, under the ruined -keep; and a rink of curlers has taken possession -of the little bay. Where the deer came down to -drink in summer, there mingles now the crackling -roar of heavy stones hurled along the ice, with -shrieks of vulgar laughter as some conspicuous -skater comes to grief. The cries of the curlers -themselves are loud and puzzling enough. At -the near end of the rink the leader, a stout, -grizzled countryman, shouts with many explanatory -gestures to the player at the far end to -“Tak’ a wick aff the fore stane, and lie in front -to gaird.” The person addressed, evidently a -clergyman (for on the ice social distinctions are -forgotten), sends his cheese-shaped block of -granite “birling” towards his instructor, and, as -it comes along, the cries of the players stationed -on either side of the rink with brushes to “soup -her up,” and their vigorous efforts to smooth the -path before it, are exciting as well as amusing, -until the stone comes crashing in at last among -the others round the mark.</p> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_C" href="#FNanchor_C" class="fnanchor">C</a> 1882, I think.</p></div> - -<p>The “roaring game” is perhaps more interesting -to the player than to the onlooker, but<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_216">216</a></span> -the enthusiasm it excites, and the exertion it -requires, are exactly suited to the season, and -prepare its votaries to enjoy most heartily the -traditional “curler’s dinner” of corned beef and -greens.</p> - -<p>One soon grows tired of the noise and stir -around this oasis of the ice. Indeed, the laughter -and the movement seem almost sacrilege in a -place where so lately the autumn leaves dropped -silently into the clear brown water below, where -the plash of a trout made stillness felt, and the -solitude was unbroken by the step of man. Away, -then, from the coffee-stands and the curling-rink, -from the shouting of the shinty-players, and the -fragrance of intolerable cigarettes! The loch is -frozen all the way to Luss; last night’s wind -has swept every particle of snow from the surface; -and to the little loch village, out of sight -in the bay ahead, stretch seven miles of ice, -smooth as black glass.</p> - -<div id="ip_216" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 37.5em;"><img src="images/i_253.jpg" width="600" height="535" alt="" /></div> - -<p>Easily as thought the skates curl over the -keen ice. The air is clear, cold, and bracing, -with just a faint odour of the shore woods -upon it; and curve after curve on the “outside -edge” adds, every moment, to the exhilarating -sense of power and the conscious poetry of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_217">217</a></span> -motion. It is a new and strange sensation, -this flight for miles over ice whose surface has -till now known no invasion. One feels as an -astronomer must, when exploring new depths of -<span class="locked">Heaven—</span></p> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Or like stout Cortez, when, with eagle eyes,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">He stared at the Pacific—and all his men<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Looked at each other with a wild surmise—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Silent, upon a peak in Darien.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="in0">Lonely and far stretches the level realm of ice -away northward to the dark narrows of the loch, -where, under the steep dark sides of the mountains, -the water is too deep to freeze. To terrible -tragedy have the black depths under foot been -witness. Here it was that Sir James Colquhoun, -returning from a hunting party on one of the -islands, in his boat, deep-laden with deer, was -caught by a sudden squall on the loch and -drowned, and it was long before the hidden -depths gave up their prey. For the waters that -lie motionless now in their icy prison are given -to rise and rage at a moment’s warning; and -many are the fair pleasure freights they have -swallowed. Across these waters, too, in the days -when might was right, and the Highlands lived -by helping themselves, have not the boats of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_218">218</a></span> -the Red Macgregor swept down by night from -the narrows to pillage and burn? For the Rob -Roy country lies opposite among the mountains.</p> - -<p>But away! away! this is the joyous motion -of a bird, and the miles fly under foot without -effort. It is seven miles from Balloch; and the -fatigue of the distance has been trifling. A point -of land, covered with trees, runs out into the -loch, and a mile beyond lies Luss. Another -turn, and a little bay is discovered, most like, -in all the world, a miniature scene from fairy-land. -The glassy ice sleeps on the crusted shore; -birch and beech and hazel hang motionless around, -a delicate tracery of snow; not a squirrel moves; -the silence is perfect. The spot is under the spell -of the Frost King. Not altogether, though, for -a robin flutters down with a twitter from a shaken -spray, and, proud of his scarlet breast, hops bravely -out upon the ice.</p> - -<p>At hand, however, appears the chimney of the -inn, and—inspiring sight!—there is smoke rising -from it. The air of the loch is appetising, and, -as it is now almost five o’clock, something more -solid than a sandwich seems desirable. Unbuckle -the skates, therefore, and, following the windings -of that narrow loch-side road among the trees, let<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_219">219</a></span> -us awaken the hospitality of mine host. It will -be dark before we start for home; but the sky -is clear, there will be a full moon, and, under -the scintillations of the frosty stars, it will be a -merry party that skims back over the ice by -night to Balloch.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_220">220</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="hdr_31">HALLOWMAS EVE.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">“The</span> good old customs of the country are -passing away.”</p> - -<p>No speech, perhaps, is oftener heard than this -when, over the walnuts and the wine, about -Christmas time or Hallowe’en, the talk has -turned upon the subject of old-fashioned festivities. -And the sentiment seldom fails to evoke a sigh -of regret, and to awake recollections of frolic -mirth enjoyed in lighter-hearted days. But while -there is, without doubt, truth in the remark, -happily it is not altogether true. The portly -old gentleman who animadverts upon the subject -is generally too apt to take for granted that, -because for some decades he has ceased to share -in these festal sports, the sports themselves have -ceased to be observed. If, however, the speaker -were to return upon such a night as All Hallow’s -Eve to the village where perchance his youthful -years were passed, he might find that the -quaint and merry customs he laments do not<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_221">221</a></span> -altogether belong to the golden dust of long-forgotten -days. Though he himself has grown -older and graver, the great heart of the world -has remained ever young; and ever still, as the -traditional occasions come round, there breaks -forth amid its long-accustomed scenes the ancient -madcap carnival of mirth.</p> - -<p>Not, indeed, quite as in bygone times is this -festival of Hallowe’en now observed. The witches -no longer, as in days of yore, are believed to -hold their revels then upon the green-sward, -and something of the ancient superstition which -otherwise lent awe to the eve of All Saints’ -Day has been dispelled by modern education. -But enough remains of uncanny feeling to lend -interest to the more mysterious proceedings of -the night; and the spirit of simple enjoyment -may be trusted to keep alive for its own sake -most of the mirth-giving functions of the feast. -An institution which took its origin probably -from some strange rite of far-back pagan times, -which has managed to survive countless changes -of thought, and, like a rolling snowball, to -incorporate in itself traces of the Crusades, of -the mediæval church mysteries or miracle plays, -and of later witchcraft and elfin superstitions,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_222">222</a></span> -must have a strong hold somewhere upon human -nature, and is not likely to disappear quite at -once even before the blast of the steam-engine -and the roll of the printing-press.</p> - -<p>If one wishes to know how lads and lasses -spent their Hallowe’en in Ayrshire a hundred -years ago, he has but to read the famous description -of the occasion written by the glowing -peasant-pen of Burns; and cold indeed must -be his imagination if he does not catch from -that description something of the frolic spirit of -the night. In these lines he may hear the timid -lasses “skirl” as their sweethearts surprise them -pulling the fateful corn-stalks; he may watch -Jamie Fleck secretly sowing his handful of -hemp-seed, and waiting for the image of his -destined true-love to appear behind him in the -act of harrowing it; he may see Meg in the -empty barn, winnowing her “wechts o’ naething,” -and likewise waiting for her true-love’s presentment; -and he may laugh at the mishap befalling -the wanton widow as she dips her left sleeve -in the rivulet at the meeting of three lairds’ -lands. But one must not think that these time-honoured -rites are all unpractised now.</p> - -<p>Let him step into some great farm-kitchen<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_223">223</a></span> -of the Lothians, with its red fire roaring up -the chimney, its plate-racks gleaming on the -walls, and dressers, tables, and chairs clean as -scrubbing can make them, and he will find in -practice bits of traditional folklore and traits of -human nature equally worthy of the poet’s pen.</p> - -<p>The place for the moment is empty, the lamps -shining from their bright tin sconces on the -walls upon unoccupied wooden settles and chairs; -for lads and lasses together have betaken themselves -to pull each his particular prophetic stock -in the kailyard at hand. But presently, with -shouts of laughter, they come streaming in from -the darkness; and shrieks of merriment greet -the discovery of the fortune which has befallen -individual members of the company. For, -according as the stock lighted on in the dark -turns out to be straight or crooked, and its -taste sweet or bitter, so the appearance and -disposition of its possessor’s future mate will -be; and according as earth has clung to the -uptorn root or not will the pockets of the future -pair be well filled or the reverse. A merry party -these men and maidens make, bringing in with -them, as they enter, a breeze of the cool night -air, and a breath of the sweet, fresh-smelling<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_224">224</a></span> -earth. And from the flaming cheeks and -sparkling eyes of at least one of the laughing -girls, it is to be doubted that she has met outside -with somewhat warmer and more certain -assurance of the personality of her future -partner in life than is likely to be afforded by -her stock of curly kail.</p> - -<p>Another method of divination, however, presently -engrosses all attention indoors. Three -bowls are set out on the hearth—one full of -clean water, one muddy, and the remaining -vessel empty. One after another each lad and -lass is blindfolded, the position of the bowls is -changed in thimble-rigging fashion, and he or she -is led forward and invited to place a hand in -one. According as the dish chosen proves dirty, -clean, or empty, will the inquirer of the Fates -marry a widow or a maid, or remain a bachelor; -and shrieks of merriment are occasioned by -the appropriate mishaps which befall the most -confident.</p> - -<p>Then there is the burning of nuts to be done -in the great kitchen-fire—a method of discovering -whether the future wedded state is to be one of -peace or discord. And it is amusing to see the -quietest of the maids drop two nuts side by side<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_225">225</a></span> -into a red corner of the coal, blushing at the -guesses made by her merry companions, but -shyly whispering to herself, “This is Patey and -this is me,” and watching with bashful eagerness -as the two take fire together. Puff! Alas for her -hopes, poor child! “Patey” has shot away from -her side; and the hot tears are woefully near her -eyes as she notices that he has settled down to -burn by the nut of her neighbour. May her -sorrows, sweet lass, never have darker cause than -this imaginary presage of losing a fickle lover!</p> - -<p>And now, by way of supper, a mighty platter -of “champed” potatoes is placed upon the table—a -pile mountain high, in which are hidden -somewhere a ring, a sixpence, a thimble, and a -button. The lamps are put out, each person is -armed with a spoon, and in the uncertain light -of the glowing fire the mystic procession moves -round the table in single file. Each one as he -passes the platter takes a spoonful of potatoes, -and he or she who finds the ring is fated to be -first married. The sixpence is an augury of -wealth, and the finding of the thimble or the -button is, according to the sex of the finder, an -indication that he or she will marry a maiden -spouse or will die single.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_226">226</a></span> -But, listen! There is a sudden loud knocking -at the door. It heralds the time-honoured visitation -of the Guizards, a ceremony annually renewed -by each succeeding generation of village boys. -In they stalk, got up in grotesque improvisations -of mumming costume, each armed with a -wooden sword, and carrying a ghostly lantern -hollowed out of a giant turnip. “Here comes -in Galoshin,” as that individual himself informs -the company—being doubtless the traditional -representative of some forgotten Templar Knight; -and presently he is engaged in a sanguinary hand-to-hand -encounter with another wooden-sworded -champion upon the floor. Many are the bold -words that are said and the doughty deeds that -are done; and through the whole performance -one may see, as Scott remarked in a note to -“Marmion,” traces of the ancient monkish plays -and the revels of the mediæval Lord of Misrule. -At the end the players are contented with a reward -of apples and nuts, and a share in their elders’ -merriment.</p> - -<p>Tubs full of water are placed on the floor, and -dozens of red-cheeked apples set swimming in -them; and immediately a wild scene of revel -ensues, as all and sundry, men and maids, on<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_227">227</a></span> -their knees, seek to snatch the floating apples -with their teeth. Many an unexpected ducking -is got, and shrieks of laughter greet each mishap -and each ineffectual effort to secure a prize. -Then there is a wild game of blind man’s buff, -led off by Galoshin himself, who turns out, now -that his burnt cork and whiskers have been -washed off, to be one of the younger men of -the house, and the soul of all the fun. And -from the sly fashion in which he avoids other -quarry, and keeps hemming one rosy little maid -into corners, compelling her to spring shrieking -over settles and chairs, it may be gathered that -the knowing fellow is no more blinded than he -wishes himself to be.</p> - -<p>And so the night goes on, a night of whole-hearted -and innocent mirth—enough to prove -that the spirit of old-fashioned revelry is by no -means dead, and that, for at least one night -in the year, the young blood of Lowland and -Lothian still can make as much and as joyous -merriment as ever did its progenitors a hundred -years ago.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_228">228</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="hdr_32">HOGMANAY.</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap1">Conspicuous</span> among the folk-customs -which, north of the Tweed, have survived -from the remotest antiquity, remains that of -welcoming with wassail and good wishes the -birth of the New Year. To all appearance a -pagan custom, dating from the pre-Christian -past, it probably owes its permanence to instincts -acquired amid the superstitions of the Dark Ages. -Of late years, it is true, under the influence of -southern fashion, the festival of Christmas has -seemed to be superseding that of New Year’s -Eve. But, as with many other picturesque and -interesting customs of Scotland, the older observance -remains yet deeply rooted in the heart of -the people, and, having already survived so many -changes of habit and creed, may be expected to -outlive even this latest inroad.</p> - -<p>There is much to be said, too, for the keeping -of Hogmanay. Christmas, indeed, is the commemoration -of a great religious event, and even<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_229">229</a></span> -in the North it appears interesting and appropriate -enough as a Church festival; while to those with -whom its observance has been a national and -family custom it contains, of course, an ample -significance. But to people who have inherited -the instinct with their blood, the end of the year -remains a more fitting time for recalling the -deeds and the days that are past; and the -keeping of Hogmanay awakens, north of the -Border, a subtle train of early feelings and -associations—the pensive charm and sweetness -of “auld lang syne.” Scarcely a dwelling is -there, cottage or hall, in the breadth of all broad -Scotland, which has not, time out of mind, on this -night of the year witnessed some observance of -the ancient and pleasant festival. Alike under -gilded ceilings and roofs of thatch there is to -be heard then the toasting of old memories and -the pledging of health and fortune to the house -and its occupants throughout the dawning year. -About every village cross, too, as the last moments -of the year approach, the young men of the -neighbourhood have ever been wont to gather to -greet the incoming day with shouts of rejoicing -and with the curious traditional custom of “first-footing.” -Even in the cities, where contact with<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_230">230</a></span> -the world tends greatly to obliterate such folk-customs, -it is curious to see the ancient festival -year after year assert itself, its observance the -better assured, probably, because it brings back -to those who attend it the scenes and memories -of earlier, and, perhaps, happier days.</p> - -<p>Ever with the same details the time-honoured -proceeding may be witnessed on the night of -any 31st day of December at the Cross of the -ancient city of St Mungo.</p> - -<p>Some time before midnight the roar of the -day’s traffic has died out of the streets. The -great warehouses are closed, and their windows -gaze, like sightless eyes, into the deserted -thoroughfares. To one imbued with the spirit -of the hour, it is as if the city herself were -thinking of the past; and the sudden sweep of -wind that comes and dies away seems a sigh of -regret for her departed glories. Many memories -cluster about this ancient heart of Glasgow; and -at such an hour, and upon such a night, it would -seem little more than natural if the historic figures -of the past should move again abroad. Strangely -enough, too, the creatures of imagination present -a no less tangible presence to the mind’s eye -than the real persons of bygone days. Behind<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_231">231</a></span> -the tall, limping figure of Sir Walter Scott, a -curious visitor here, the equally immortal Bailie -picks his steps; and as the bold Rob Roy strides -past into the shadow, there is heard the tramp -of Cromwell’s bodyguard and the clatter of the -Regent Moray’s cavalry. For it was out by -the Gallowgate here, and across the river by the -Briggate, that the troops of the Protestant lords -marched in 1568 to the battle of Langside; and -at the head of Saltmarket the Protector Cromwell -quartered himself in 1650, issued his orders, and -held levees. In the Gallowgate yet, though sore -transformed from its ancient glory, stands that -once-famous inn, the Saracen’s Head, at which -the learned Dr Johnson put up while passing -through Glasgow on his Hebridean tour. Close -by the Cross, where the street lamps shine on -the shuttered windows of a great east-end warehouse, -stood the town-house of the Earls of -Lennox; and past it, up the gentle hill, and -still wearing something of its old-world look, -bends the High Street with its memories. Out of -sight up there the façade of the venerable College, -<i xml:lang="la" lang="la">alma mater</i> of Campbell the poet, Smollett the -novelist, Archbishop Tait, and a host of great -divines, was wont for over four hundred years<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_232">232</a></span> -to frown upon the pavement. The Vandal, however, -has at last prevailed against it. A few -paces farther and the gigantic form of Sir William -Wallace still seems to slaughter his enemies at -the Bell o’ the Brae. And beyond all, on the -slope of the hollow where the classic Molendinar -once flowed, surrounded in the darkness by its -city of the dead, stands the grey cathedral of -St Kentigern.</p> - -<div id="ip_232" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 26.625em;"><img src="images/i_271.jpg" width="426" height="600" alt="" /></div> - -<p>The spot itself, however, has indeed changed -with time, and but few links are left it to recall -bygone days. The loud tramp of Dundee’s -dragoons long since died away in Rottenrow. -No longer do the rustling gowns of bishop and -dean sweep through the cathedral choir. Even -the house from which the ill-fated Lord Darnley, -sick to death, was carried to the lonely Kirk o’ -Fields three hundred years ago, has disappeared. -Cavalier and Covenanter and Virginia merchant -have given place to the petty trader and the -artizan. The house at the foot of Glassford -Street, where Prince Charlie put up in the ’45, -has been pulled down; and of the walls which -witnessed the rejoicing bonfires of the Whig -burgesses after the news of Culloden, few are -left but those of the dim cathedral. Even the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_233">233</a></span> -Saltmarket at hand has been so altered of late -years, that if worthy Bailie Nicol Jarvie were to -step out again on the causeway he would find -no trace at all of the narrow, ill-paved, unlighted -lane of his day, with its high, rickety houses, -and creaking shop-signs.</p> - -<p>Rather must the city pride herself now upon -her glories of the present. Far off, upon the -great Clyde artery at Govan, where the nets of -the salmon-fishers once hung in the sun to dry, -the noise of a myriad hammers has just ceased -for the holiday, and the iron skeletons of a -hundred ships stand silent in the darkness—spectres -not of the past but of the future. -Overhead, between the high house-roofs, the -heaven is very dark, and above the lanterns of -the clock the Tron steeple is hidden from sight; -but one side of the neighbouring tower—that of -the ancient Tolbooth in High Street—reflects the -red glare, from a mile away, of the iron furnaces -at Hutchesontown—those undying vestal fires of -the nineteenth century; and the golden vane -upon the spire shines, strangely lit, alone in the -dark heaven. Significant indications, these, of -the strong modern life that throbs in the veins -of the ancient city.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_234">234</a></span> -But the great gilt hand of the clock overhead -is approaching midnight, and along the streets, -from the four points of the compass, comes the -sound of innumerable hastening feet. It is the -crowd gathering to observe this immemorial -ceremony of “bringing in the year.”</p> - -<p>Few of the revellers, probably, reflect upon -the antiquity of the custom they are observing; -if they did, it might, perhaps, lend the proceeding -a deeper interest in their eyes. To survive so -many vicissitudes of history, the rite must once -have possessed a solemn religious meaning. On -the bank of the river below, the rough Norse -rover has shouted “Wæs hael” to Thor; on -the crest of the hill above, the Roman warrior -has poured libations to Jove. Bishops of a -feudal church within the storied cathedral walls -have said the mass of Christ; and the spires -of many a Presbyterian kirk now rise round -the ancient Cross. But through all changes, -through the ebb and flow of Faith and Fear, -has come down the relic of an older worship, -and in the mistletoe and the New-Year mysteries -the Druid lives among us still. These people -are gathering now, as for ages their race has -gathered, to bid farewell to the old year and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_235">235</a></span> -welcome to the new, and to pour their mystic -sacrifice to Time—not, indeed, as of old, upon -the unconscious earth nor within the stone circle -of a rude astronomy, but at least under the -open sky, and with something of the ancient -wish-rites of the runes.</p> - -<p>Hundreds in number they come, and over all -the open space—at corners where in the daytime -knots of loafers are for ever to be seen, as -well as on the Trongate pavement, where, all -day long, recruiting sergeants, splendid in red -and gold, pace magnificently to and fro—in -little groups they wait the stroke of twelve. -Each man has brought with him a bottle, and -in each man’s pocket there is hidden a glass, -one that has seen service and lost its stem being -the popular variety.</p> - -<p>Quickly enough the final seconds of the year -run out. The hand of the great clock reaches -and touches the hour. At last it strikes, a -single bell—one, two, three—a bold sound in -the silence; and immediately it is answered by -a bewildering clangour from all the city belfries. -Before the last stroke has died away, a wild -cheer bursts from the throat of the waiting -crowd below. There is a great commotion<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_236">236</a></span> -among the little groups; and, as cheer after -cheer rings up into the sky, from the belfry -overhead the city chimes ring out upon the -night their welcome to the New Year.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile everyone is drinking the health of -everyone else, Celt and Saxon, countryman and -citizen; and as no one can pass an acquaintance -without hospitality offered and taken, and as, -moreover, the dew of Ben Nevis is somewhat -potent, the shaking of hands and wishing of good -luck soon become fairly exuberant. Presently, -however, everyone sets off to first-foot his -friends.</p> - -<p>The origin of this ceremony it is difficult to -suggest, unless it be to represent some priestly -visitation, a sacrament assuring to the people -throughout the coming year the blessings of food -and drink. A door-to-door proceeding, at anyrate, -it is—accompanied by much eating of cake -and drinking of whisky, and it will last well into -the morning hours. Lucky, for this performance, -are accounted those dark of skin. If the first-footer -be fair the tradition runs that it bodes -ill-fortune for the year to the house whose -threshold he or she has crossed; and often -enough a door is shut in the face of such a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_237">237</a></span> -friend, simply because of his complexion. Moreover, -the visitor must not come empty-handed; -and so the bottle and broken wine-glass which -each carries serve as a double introduction.</p> - -<p>And now all who sat up till the city bells -struck twelve, as well in the crowded tenements -here as in the far-off suburbs of the rich, have -wished each other a good New Year, and are -retiring to rest. Among them, doubtless, there -are many thoughts of sadness. Many a widow -was a wife last year; many a ruined home was -prosperous; many a soiled heart still was pure. -But the old year, with its sorrow, has passed -away in the night, and with the New Year’s -dawn a glimmer of hope comes in at the darkest -casement.</p> - -<p class="p2 center smaller"> -<i>Printed by</i> <span class="smcap">M’Farlane & Erskine</span>, <i>Edinburgh</i>. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"><div class="transnote"> -<h2 class="nobreak p1"><a id="Transcribers_Notes"></a>Transcriber’s Notes</h2> - -<p>Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a predominant -preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed.</p> - -<p>Simple typographical errors were corrected; occasional unbalanced -quotation marks retained.</p> - -<p>Ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained.</p> - -<p>Text uses “humble-bees”, not “bumble-bees”.</p> - -<p>Page <a href="#Page_170">170</a>: “he iss a fine lad” was printed with two s’s.</p> -</div></div> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Sketch-Book of the North, by George Eyre-Todd - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SKETCH-BOOK OF THE NORTH *** - -***** This file should be named 54083-h.htm or 54083-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/4/0/8/54083/ - -Produced by Cathy Maxam, Charlie Howard, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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