Chapter IV (2)

Another curious link between the highlanders of India and of Scotland is the custom now in use among the Khonds (a tribe in Madras), of gathering together their forces in time of need, by sending round an “arrow of summons,” which was identical with that “fiery cross” so well known to our ancestors, who, in times of danger used to slay a goat, and making a cross of wood, seared its extremities in fire, and extinguished them in the blood of the sacrifice. This was in constant use so late as 1745, and was known as the cross of gathering, or as Craan Tarigh, the cross of shame, because shame, fire, and blood awaited any man from the age of sixteen to sixty who failed to come to the help of his clan. It is said that in the isle of Shetland the arrow was the sign retained till very late days, just as it still is among these primitive Khonds, a race in which each family still bears the name of some animal, which is its Totem, or representative animal, so that the tribes are known as bears, owls, monkeys, or deer. They have neither temples nor images, because they cannot believe that a temple made with hands can be the favoured abode of God, so they prefer to worship him on hoar rocks amid the silence of the eternal hills, beside still fountains and by flowing rivers, or in the deep shade of sacred groves where the sound of axe is never heard. They reverence forests, rivers, and mountains, sun, moon, and planets, as types of the Creator’s power, very much as our own ancestors did in bygone ages.

Even in simple questions of food, of clean and unclean meats, many curious coincidences occur in the customs of brown men and white.

Readers of Ossian and kindred Gaelic lore have sometimes been struck by the readiness with which mighty hunters of old feasted on the wild boars they had slain in the chase, as when Fingal and his son Ossian, and all the other heroes devoured the boar Scrymner. They note this fact in connection with the Scotch abhorrence of pork and pig’s flesh in all forms. It is, therefore, not without interest to notice that though the modern Hindus abhor the domestic pig almost as much as do the Mahommedans, they will feast on wild boar to any extent. Even high-class Brahmins will sometimes partake of this dainty, in remembrance of their sacred hog Baraha, who was an incarnation of Vishnu. Several learned men assert that in this land also the wild boar was once held sacred, and even in later times his effigy has been represented on the ancient British coinage.

It is curious that in Egypt also the Copts mark precisely the same distinction between the wild and tame pig, a prejudice which they are supposed to have retained from the remotest times; an inheritance doubtless from their Phœnician ancestors, who held pig in such abhorrence that they bequeathed the antipathy to all their race. It has been recorded even of the gluttonous Heliogabalus that he rigidly abstained from pork and bacon in every form, because of his Phœnician descent. As to these modern Egyptians, they will in no case rear pigs or taste the flesh of the tame animal, whereas that of the wild boar is considered a most desirable feast. One difference assigned is that the latter is almost entirely a vegetarian, whereas civilization has degraded the appetite of his tame brother. So hateful to the old Egyptians were the domestic swine, that should a man accidentally touch one with the hem of his garment he was rendered unclean. Yet at the full moon pigs were freely sacrificed to Bacchus, and the people feasted on their flesh. Each family slew a pig at their own door, while those who were too poor to afford one made an image of dough, which they offered instead. Doubtless the Jewish sin of eating pig was hence associated with idolatry, as we generally find that eating swine’s flesh and broth made thereof is associated with burning incense to strange gods, and on forbidden altars. This, too, would account for the intense abhorrence with which the Jew regarded poor piggy—far in excess of that merited by other things equally prohibited by the Levitical law. Thus in the account given in Maccabees of the persecution under Antiochus, we find that they submitted to every species of degradation, to the defilement of their altars, and the dedication of their temples at Jerusalem and Mount Gerizim, to Jupiter. They even submitted to walk in idolatrous processions at the licentious feast of Bacchus, carrying ivy like the rest of his worshippers, but when it came to the question of swallowing swine’s flesh, there they stood firm, from the least to the greatest, and we hear even of a mother standing by to see her sons murdered piecemeal with indescribable tortures rather than purchase life and wealth by this concession. One by one her seven sons were thus slain, while she encouraged then to endure to the end, and finally died with them.

Another interesting point of resemblance between the ancient Celt and the modern Hindu is the religious abhorrence in which the latter holds poultry, as being unclean, so that he will on no account taste it or touch it. The poultry market of India is, I believe, entirely supplied by Mahommedans, or by men too degraded to have any caste. The Celts we know were forbidden to eat a hen, a goose or a hare. The repugnance to the latter is not yet wholly extinct in some districts.

As to the goose it seems to have been held too sacred for food in all parts of the world. Here our forefathers sculptured it among the sacred emblems on their holy stones, together with elephants and horses. We find it, in the same company, carved on the most ancient stones of Ceylon. In Rajpootana and other parts of Hindostan it is specially dedicated to Hari, the Hindoo god of battle, who is also worshipped under the symbol of a sword. In Burmah the goose still floats on the royal standard as the national emblem. We find it receiving solemn worship in ancient Egypt, as also in Scandinavia, where it was sacred to Odin, and where the goose festival has been christianized to the honour of St. Martin instead of St. Michael as in this land. As to the old Romans, we all remember how the sacred geese of Juno saved the capitol, but though they doubtless gained great popularity thereby, their sanctity was a much older story. Even to this day the modern Italians fatten geese which are rarely, if ever, brought to table.

The very name of the bird has altered strangely little in its westward journey. Thus in the ancient Pali, it is _Hanza_; in Egyptian, _Hanza_; with the Romans, _Anser_. In Malay, _Gangsa_; in old German, _Ganza_; in English, _Gander_.

Equally wide-spread seems to have been the reverence for certain fish. It was affirmed by an ancient writer[30] that the people of Caledonia never ate fish. Certainly it is remarkable that in all Ossian’s songs of the chase, when he skims over flood and field, rivers and seas, no allusion whatever is made to the catching of fish. Yet we find these rudely carved on many holy stones, together with the mirror, which the sea-faring folk to this day declare to be always seen in the hands of mermaids. Their description of these fishy maidens and mermen answer, precisely to the old accounts of the fish god and goddess, Dagon and Derceto, which were worshipped by the Syrians and Phœnicians, who, for their sakes, would eat no fish. The temple of Derceto, at Ascalon, was on the edge of a deep lake full of fish, which, like those in the tanks in India, were held sacred, and religiously fed. Venus also protected the finny tribes, and on certain old Phœnician coins, fish appear in connection with the crescent moon. The priests of ancient Egypt were also forbidden to eat fish; and to this day certain tribes exist in Caufiristan and the remote Hindu-Koosh mountain ranges, who worship a god whom they call Dagon, and who religiously abstain from eating fish.

The ancient prohibition of the use of poultry, seems no wise to have interfered with its use as a most suitable propitiatory offering in all cases of need. In Britain as in India and Ceylon, a red cock seems from time immemorial to have possessed peculiar virtue, and to have retained such hold on the popular mind, that Christian teachers have found it well-nigh as difficult to check this sacrifice in the one land as in the other, even among their most hopeful converts. Among the Santhals, and various other tribes both of Northern and Southern India, it is customary in every case of dangerous illness, to sacrifice a cock beside the patient, to whatever demon is supposed to have caused his malady. A live cock is also nailed to the funeral pyre. And in our own Western Highlands, and in some of the border counties, it was till very recently quite a common ceremony to kill a cock beside the sick man, and either bury it beneath the floor of the cottage, or at least let its blood trickle into a hole in the floor. To this was probably added some of the patient’s hair, and some parings of his nails! This is generally supposed to be a trace of the old Roman worship of Esculapius, but I fancy that some older tradition still, must have taught the same practice to the Hindus. I believe this custom to be by no means extinct in Britain.

Sir James Simpson mentions several instances within his own knowledge in which this strange remedy has been resorted to, for the cure of fits, epilepsy, and insanity. In one case a cock was killed and deposited in a hole in the kitchen floor, on the spot where a child had fallen down in a fit of convulsions; and a Ross-shire lassie told him that the neighbours were urging her mother to try the like cure for the same cause! He also speaks of the sacrifice of cats, moles, and other animals. Thus, at Nigg, in Ross-shire, a lad being attacked with epilepsy, his friends laid on his head a plate, and above it, held a living mole, by the tail. They then cut off its head, and allowed the blood to drip on to the plate. Three moles were thus killed in succession, but without effect.

This offering a life for a life is the common Hindu practice in cases of sickness. Various domestic animals are brought into the room from a belief that they will absorb the noxious principles of disease, and act as disinfectants. When they are supposed to have done their work, they are thrown from the window. Even in the case of so enlightened a Hindoo as the young Rajah of Kolapore, whose recent death at Florence was a cause of so much regret, the presence of four European physicians would have been considered by no means sufficient had these traditional Hindu prescriptions been neglected; and as the Florentine authorities might justly have objected had these wretched animals been cast from the windows into the street, they were thrown down into an open courtyard!

Even the modern Jews seem to have borrowed this ceremony of cock sacrifices from their pagan neighbours. We know that the Levitical law makes no provision for any such thing. Yet the Rabbis are not only as strict as modern Hindus, or ancient Celts, in excluding all poultry from the holy city, but like them command that on the eve of the Great Day of Atonement the head of each house shall take a cock, and, having tied its legs together, shall swing it thrice sunwise round his own head, uttering a certain formula of words. The women of the household are not present, but they may in like manner deal with a hen, which they afterwards eat together. The Jews, however, are said to object to the use of a red cock, and, if possible, procure one that is pure white.

It seems that in old times the custom of sacrificing a cock by night at places where four roads meet was quite as common in India as in Britain, where this is one of the dark deeds most frequently laid to the charge of witches. Thus in 1324 we find a lady of high estate, Dame Alice Kyteler, accused by the Bishop of Ossory of having sacrificed nine red cocks and nine peacocks’ eyes to an evil spirit, at a place near Kilkenny where four roads meet, and having then boiled part of the flesh and other villanous compounds in the skull of a felon. About the same time we hear how the Cardinal of Gaæta, afterwards Pope Boniface VIII., was accused of similar communication with demons by drawing round him a circle, and therein sacrificing a cock. We know that drawing the circle was another ceremony common to sun-worshippers. Thus in Ceylon, where, as we before observed, the old worship of the planets has been incorporated with the purer faith of Buddha, the most solemn festival of the year is that of the midsummer full moon, when priests and people march in procession to the great river near Kandy, and, at the moment of sunrise, draw a magic circle on its waters with a golden sword, and, filling their water vessels within this mystic line, carry this sacred water to the temple of Buddha, where it is religiously treasured till the following year. Thus too the Arabs draw a mystic circle round any property which they are obliged to leave unprotected; and they, as we know, sacrificed cocks to the sun, long before the days of Mahomet. We also obviously trace sun-worship in such a sacrifice as one described at Llandegla in Denbighshire, where an epileptic patient was directed to go three times sunwise round the Holy Well, where he was to wash himself, and cast in an offering. He was then to carry a cock thrice sunwise round the well, and thrice round the church, and was himself to lie all night beneath the Communion Table, with his head resting on the Bible,—a curious blending of “the Table of the Lord” with the service of devils. A very common ceremony in the Highlands was for a man who believed himself to be in danger from fairies to draw a circle round himself with a branch of oak, a certain charm.

Speaking of the kindred superstitions of divers races, have you ever noticed how curiously those having reference to salt appear in many lands? For instance, the common Scotch belief that spilling salt at table will be the sure precursor of a quarrel finds a strange illustration in some of the oldest Italian pictures of the Last Supper, in which Judas is represented as having just overturned the salt. We all know how, among the Old Scotch and Irish, the place of the salt at table divided the honoured guests from those of lower rank, so that to sit below it involved a very humble position. Here, as in the East, eating salt together seems always to have symbolized a certain sacredness in hospitality, akin to the Arabic respect thereto—something of the obligation to fidelity implied in such scriptural expressions as “being salted with the salt of the palace,” or “having made a covenant of salt.” Hence, too, the Persian description of a traitor as one faithless to salt.

We know that not only the Jews, but also the Greeks, Romans, and other heathen nations, offered salt with every sacrifice. Whether this was done in Britain I do not know; but of the Jewish belief that a sprinkling of salt was “good for the land,” we find a trace in the old Scotch and Irish custom, that when the sowers went forth to sow the fields, the wife of the farmer first of all sprinkled a handful of salt, to ensure a good crop. Also when a man was appointed to any new position, women threw handfuls of salt after him to bring him luck.

As to our common custom of throwing salt over the left shoulder, to avert the quarrel which is sure to follow the upsetting thereof, it is said to be simply an offering to some devil, who was supposed to be the master of salt, and angered by its waste; unless, therefore, this atonement were made to him, he would stir up strife among the guests. On the other hand, the Egyptian women sprinkle salt on their floor in the name of God, in order to prevent evil spirits from entering their dwelling.

Another custom which seems equally wide-spread is that of saying “God bless you!” to a person who sneezes, a custom which we generally trace back to the days of the plague, when this was held to to one of its first symptoms. But it seems that even the Siamese always wish long life to one who sneezes, because they believe that an angel holds the book wherein is written the life of every mortal, and as he turns to the page which contains the history of any particular person, that person infallibly sneezes, and so his friends wish him good luck in the reading of his fate. And likewise one of the old Greek poets speaks of an evil-minded person who refuses to say “Jupiter save him” when one of the company sneezes. Thus, too, in the “Odyssey,” when Penelope has just heard a rumour that gives her hope of the return of Ulysses, Telemachus sneezes violently, which she at once hails as a happy omen.

The old Jewish Rabbins, too, have curious traditions on this matter. They say that before the days of the patriarchs all men died of sneezing. They never sneezed but once, and straightway gave up the ghost. Jacob was the first man who died from sheer old age. So after his day, it was found that to utter words of blessing during the act of sneezing would avert all danger. And so it came to pass that every ruler ordained this custom in his land; and this, says the Talmud, is the reason why the same practice is found in all nations, even among the savage tribes of Africa. Thus when the King of Sennaar sneezes, all his courtiers turn aside and slap their thighs. But a sneeze from the King of Monomotapa is a very serious matter indeed, for all his courtiers must salute him in so loud a voice, that all who wait in the ante-chamber may hear and join in the acclamation, while those in the further rooms join chorus, till the very guards and sentinels take it up, and all passers-by in the streets, hearing the well-known salutation, must utter it aloud, so that the wave of benediction runs along every street of the city—and a pretty hubbub it creates.

But we have no need to go to savages for examples. The graceful “Eviva” or “Felicita,” of the Italians, and the sacred invocation of the Spaniards “Jesus!” will at once suggest themselves as implying some kindred notion—a greeting that shall avert some real evil from the person addressed. Hence the exclamation of a Spanish girl, when an English lady remarked that she had just had a violent sneezing fit, “Ah! Pobrecita!” poor little thing, “and I was not there to say Jesus! for you.”

In Egypt when a person sneezes, he exclaims, “Praise be to God!” and all who are present say, “God have mercy on you!” to which the sneezer replies, “God guide us all!” But should he yawn, he must cover his mouth with his hand, and say, “I seek refuge with God from Satan the accursed.” But no one wishes him luck, for they believe that the devil is ever watching to leap into a gaping mouth!

But all these curious coincidences between the customs as well as the traditions of the Eastern and Western world have tempted us to wander on and on from fairy tales to mythology, till we have drifted off into a vague world of superstitions that have carried us far away from the old Gaelic songs and legends, with which our sailors whiled away the lovely summer evening.

It was late before the little yacht was ready for the night, and her crew turned into their tiny cabin “for’ard.” The evening lights were so beautiful that we lingered on deck, hour after hour, scarcely knowing how to turn away from so much loveliness. There had been a golden sunset behind the Quiraing, which still stood out in rich purple against a lemon-coloured sky—while the calm sea reflected both. Each changing tint of the opal had rested by turns on all the islands and the hills of Torridon. Now the clear moonlight gleamed on the water, and silvered the soft white mists that half shrouded Ben Etra, even lending poetry to the little inn, with its group of thatched byres and offices.

But the other side of the bay lay in its own deep shadow, and it was not till we saw it in the early morning that we realized how beautiful it was. Green banks sloped gently down to the water’s edge, crowned with perpendicular stacks of basalt, in three distinct masses. It is from these basaltic columns that Loch Staffin, like Staffa, takes its name. Nearer us, a great headland of rock and greenest grass rose abruptly, half enclosing a shore of the smoothest yellow sand; while every mark and cleft in the rock lay clearly mirrored below. The scene was irresistibly suggestive of bathing; so, being by this time fully competent to pass as “able-bodied sea-women,” we rowed ourselves ashore, and vowed that no bathing-ground had ever been so charming; and that here must be our head-quarters fur the present.

Later in the day we had a lovely row all along the coast to a wonderful headland known as the Kilt Rock, by reason of the many-coloured strata of which it is composed. From the green sea upwards, layers of oolitic limestone, oolitic freestone and shale, alternating with lines of grass, lie horizontally; while rising vertically from these is a great mass of red, brown, and yellow columnar basalt: so huge are these pillars, that they quite dwarf those of Staffa; indeed Macculloch, whose sea-side geology was generally accurate, calculates them at five or six times the magnitude of those in the wonderful little Isle. On the top of this cliff[31] lies an extensive loch (Loch Mialt is the sound, though as to Gaelic spelling, he is rash who ventures to attempt it!) a loch with reedy shores, haunted by innumerable water-fowl. Hence the waters fall into the sea below, in flashing spray—a clear fall of 300 feet.

As we rowed slowly along, in the warm bright sun, so warm indeed that the men’s faces and arms, tough sailors though they were, were all blistered with the heat, and looked up to the cliffs above, and down into the waters beneath, with such an intensity of delight, as became almost oppressive, there was something overwhelming in the feeling of the amazing strength and immutability of those dry, scorching rock walls, contrasted with the perfect stillness of the exquisite green water, through the clear depths of which we peered down into the marine forest, whence trees and shrubs of every variety of form and colour stretched their branches upward to the light. There were giant brown sea-wares of many forms, some waving like graceful palms; others tossing great arms aloft, like the patriarchs of this untrodden jungle. Some have thick stems, and broad fleshy leaves of the richest golden brown, every leaf ten or twelve feet long. Some are smooth and leathery, and others all plaited, and fringed, and folded, and twisted, and crimped, as if the laundry-maids of the sea had no other work to do but just to get them up. Then we passed over others with large fan-like leaves; some that look like bunches of long pink or green ribbon; and countless varieties of delicate pink, and lilac, and olive sea-flowers and sea-weeds, like floating lace-work, woven in some fairy loom—more brilliant in this temperate sea, than either in tropics, or colder regions.

And in all this beautiful, luxuriant vegetation, myriads of dainty sea creatures make their home. Every lace-like weed seems beaded with black pearls, which are the smallest mussels you ever saw. You cannot lift up the tiniest plant but you will find on it a score of living things, whose delicacy of structure arrests your eye, even without the help of that best of companions, a small magnifying-glass.

As to the wonders of the invisible life of the sea, as shown by a good microscope—the almost invisible weeds, which give food and beautiful homes to millions of our fellow-creatures, and the endless varieties which float in every drop of water—_that_ is a field of enjoyment quite by itself. Only, be sure that next time you get the chance you look at some common oyster-spat through a good glass, for I think that (except perhaps the purple bunches of grapes, which are only dust from the blossoms of the marsh mallow), no lifeless thing can be more beautiful. But the most careless eye can scarcely look down into a sea whose depths teem with such exuberance of life, animal and vegetable, without noticing something of the beauty that nestles under every leaf, lodges under each root, hides in every crevice: thousands of creatures, each of wonderful organism, building their curious nests of sand and glutinous matter, floating on the warm surface of the water, or drifting lazily hither and hither in the gentle current.

After passing the Kilt Rock, we came on what seemed to me still more curious geological freaks. There were patches of many-coloured rock; but in particular, just above the sea-level was a long layer of pale grey oolite, wherein at regular intervals were imbedded great round boulders, like huge black cannon-balls. We landed at Lon Fern, a region of black volcanic-looking rocks, some standing apart like quaint figures. One statue of John Knox in a black gown was so unmistakeable, that we pointed to it simultaneously.

This bay is like one vast aquarium. I never before saw so many living creatures in so small a space. Such multitudes of sea-anemones of every colour, and tiny star-fish, and little silvery eels, and shoals of fish no bigger than minnows. And then the countless varieties of crabs! Poor little half-naked hermits; dwellers in other folk’s houses; and braver little creatures who are ready to fight life’s battle for themselves, though they are so delicate as to be almost transparent, and their tender claws could scarcely nip the tiniest sea-anemone. Sometimes a great big fellow (a parten, as we northerners call him), would swim up from his rock home under the sea-weeds, and peer at us with his curious eyes, and then sink down again, faster than he rose, to his hiding-place in the fairy garden, among corallines and sea-weeds of every hue, crimson and gold and bronze—and lustrous metallic greens and purples. Besides these, there were innumerable jelly-fish, from the tiniest atoms of orange, or red-currant jelly, to the great giants who would overflow the largest jelly mould that ever was made. And such beauties as they are, with their delicate rings and stars of lilac, and the fringe of long sensitive fingers floating in graceful festoons.

The longer we looked, the more convinced we were, that, in spite of Kingsley, we had really discovered St. Brandan’s Fairy Isle for ourselves. There it lay before us, just as he describes it, “reflected double in the still, broad, silver sea.” That wonderful water world, where the water-babies, and all other little water-creatures, play hide and seek in the great water-forests. There, just as he tells us, was the Isle, “full of pillars, and its roots full of caves; and its pillars of black basalt, with ribbons of many-coloured sandstone, all curtained and draped with sea-weeds, the rocks covered with ten thousand sea-anemones of all beautiful colours and patterns, just like the gayest flower-bed. And here and there the soft white sand where the water-babies sleep every night, taking no heed of the little flounders which wriggle about in the sand, or of the crabs which lie buried under it, and only peep out with the tips of their eyes.”

Vainly we hunted and peered into every bright shallow pool for one glimpse of those most enchanting fairies who rule in this watery world—Mrs. Doasyouwouldbedoneby, and Mrs. Bedonebyasyoudid. For the sun overhead was scorchingly hot; and the glare from the water much the same; and the thought of sea ices, made of seacow’s cream, positively made our mouths water. But alas! our blind eyes had not been opened to discern their presence, so we were forced to turn inland, to a shady, quiet, happy nook among the silent grey rocks, with their beautiful ferns and grasses, and wild thyme and blue bells—and here we enjoyed ourselves and our luncheon as we could only do on such a day and in such a scene.

After awhile, my companions went off to call at a large farm, near which are some remains of the old Fort of Dun Deirg, so-called in memory of Dargo, the Druid, so the people say. I first inspected the rough sheiling—half natural boulders of rock, half loose stones—where the salmon fishers live; then idly, for lack of better occupation, wandered up a long grassy slope called Rhuna Brathrain, the Brother’s Hill, or as some say, Rhu-na-Bratan, the salmon’s headland, from the fact that the beautiful silvery fish love to lie in the clear green water below, which accordingly yields the best fishing off the island. Suddenly, as I reached the summit, such a scene burst on my astonished sight as left me fairly breathless with delight. The grassy slope, as I might have guessed, ended in an abrupt precipice, and right at my feet, far below, lay the clear calm sea, while from the shore one huge basalt needle stood up level with the hill whereon I stood. All along the coast lay sunny bays, each inclosed by great masses of columnar basalt, always crowned with rich green pasture. Bight before me towered the Storr, a mountain of the same character as the Quiraing, rising almost perpendicularly from the sea to a height of two thousand feet. Its smooth surface is clothed with rich green grass, while the rocky face which lies towards the sea is one mighty mass of broken crag. In every direction are heaped confused piles of rock, tossed about in forms gigantic and terrible, like the colossal ruins of some stupendous city, or the burial-place of some race of giants; a place utterly desolate and silent, where the spirits of the past may dwell undisturbed in unbroken solitude, and where the floating vapour-wreaths that cling to the weird rock figures, seem like the ghostly winding-sheets of an army of mighty dead.

The autumn of 1872 added a new element of eerieness to this unearthly scene, for here was found the body of a poor young Englishman, who, wearying all too quickly of the cares and sorrows of earth, selected this lonely spot as the most fitting to put an end to the young life that weighed on him so heavily. His body was carried to Portree for burial, for you know, in Scotland, even the rash dead, who has fallen by his own hand, is not excluded from a resting-place in the kirkyard, but is laid, with unbaptized infants, in the cold shade on the north side of the church. It seems, however, that such burials are liable to meet with opposition from the fishers, not from any special fear of the kirkyard being haunted but from a belief that for seven years to come the herrings will forsake the coast! In the present instance, whatever demur may have arisen, the funeral was suffered to proceed, and I have not heard whether the harvest of the sea has suffered in consequence.

High above this wilderness of grand pinnacles and tumbled crags, towers one gigantic rock-needle, poised as if in mid-air, on the summit of a great grass-covered crag. This is _par excellence_, the Storr. Its height is 165 feet, its circumference at the base 240 feet, and as it cuts clear against the sky, like some vast minaret pointing heavenward, it becomes a landmark whereby the fishers may guide their course for many a mile; the only wonder is that it should not ere this have been in some way utilized as a vast natural light-house, a guide for the night as well as the day.

Beyond this magnificently wild scene lie the blue Cuchullin and Sconser Hills, and the little Isle of Raasay, with the wild coast of Applecross, Torridon, and Gairloch, as a background, and as I looked down on the calm waters, a few brown sails of far-away herring boats were all that recalled human life and toil.

Along the horizon lay soft, silvery grey clouds, all reflected in the water, while from the clear blue overhead came such a chorus of laverocks as seemed to bring floating back pleasant memories of sweet home-voices singing joyous songs, to the blythesome “bird of the wilderness,” soaring on dewy wing through downy clouds. “Hail to thee, blythe spirit!” When the larks had vanished sunward, there followed a hush and stillness of unutterable delight—a “silence more musical than any song,” while the hot sunshine, pouring its flood of light on earth and sea, enfolded all nature in a dreamy, sleepy haze.

Looking forward to a delightful row homeward, I at last came down from my beautiful crag, losing sight of the sea for half an hour. To my dismay, on reaching the shore, and looking back in the direction whence we had come, I found that a sharp breeze had sprung up, and long heavy waves were beating violently on the rocks. It was clearly impossible for the boat to carry us in such a sea. The sailors, however, said that they could get her back to the yacht if we could go round by land.

It was a weary six miles walk, and we were pretty well tired already, but as there was no alternative, we just “set a stout heart to a stey brae,” and clambering once more to the top of the cliffs, found there a tolerably level road, and faced the dull grey mist as cheerily as we could. We could see nothing else on every side of us; and every sheep we met was so magnified by the fog as to be suggestive of some ghostly monster. At last we reached the desolate loch sacred to all manner of wild fowl, which looked up wonderingly as we passed. Still, on and on, we trudged through the soaking mist, with an ever-changing escort of curlews and plovers, circling round us with shrill angry whistle till we were well past the homes of their little ones. Then a fresh colony would be equally distressed by our approach, and took up the chorus of alarm.

At last we reached the little Inn at Stencholl, and here my companions determined to spend the night; but as we were not expected, and neither rooms nor supper were ready, I preferred going on board to my own little cabin, after getting good milk and scones, and a thorough good drying at Sandy M‘Leod’s blazing peat fire.

Have you ever, when thoroughly drenched, and in prospect of a long cold drive home, tried the experiment of pouring whisky into your boots? I cannot say I have ever tried it myself, but those who have, maintain that even if their supply is insufficient for both internal and external use, they consider the latter more important as a preventive against dangerous chills. Happily I had no need to try either on the present occasion as a very few minutes’ rowing saw me safe on board the _Gannet_.

Next morning broke calm and beautiful. I went ashore, and found my companions none the worse for our expedition, but not inclined to repeat it. So I returned to our favourite sandy bay, where a group of many-coloured rough Highland cattle were cooling themselves in the sea, and nibbling sea-weed which I believe in winter time, when other pasture is buried in snow, affords a livelihood to cattle and sheep, and sometimes even to deer. The sailors were filling our barrels at a spring of deliciously cool water, gurgling up from a cleft in the rock.

Beyond the blue sea lay the beautiful Ross-shire coast, every peak of the grand Torridon Hills standing out in clear relief. One in particular, a great cone of pure white crystalline quartz, glittered in the sunlight as though covered with fresh snow. From Gairloch to beyond Applecross that magnificent mountain range lay unclouded—a perfect sea of peaks and cones and great shoulders—a grand tract of treeless deer forest, in whose jealously guarded precincts lie hidden deep rocky corries, as wildly beautiful as, and practically far more inaccessible than, any Himalayan pass. Verily the cup of Tantalus was a perfect joke to the woes of an artist dwelling in a land of deer-stalkers, daily looking with ever-increasing longing at the barrier of great brown hills which inclose the paradise, one rapid glance at which still haunts his dreams, but where he may not again dare to set foot, under penalty of instant expulsion by a whole army of vigilant foresters, backed by grim laws of trespass.

To the southern ear this use of the word forest always sounds a strange misnomer; and the raw Saxon who ventures to wonder at the absence of trees is apt to be rather startled at first by such a posing reply as “Trees! wha ever heard of trees in a forest?” Nevertheless, when for the satisfaction of our Sassenach friends, we refer them to their beloved Dr. Johnson, we find he defines forest as a word descriptive of “any untilled tract of ground.” You see he had been in the north country himself, and knew all about it. If lack of tillage be all that is required to constitute a forest, there is not much fear of those wild hills ever losing their rank as such.

In those deep corries lie unnumbered treasures for fern-lovers. The delicate parsley fern grows there in rich abundance; and there are sheltered nooks by the sea where the tall Osmunda Regalis flourishes undisturbed.

“Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall fern
So stately of the Queen Osmunda named.”

That wild coast still keeps legends of its early Christian days, and tells how just twelve hundred years ago, St. Maelruhba, who like Columba was descended from Niel of the Nine Hostages, King of Ireland, and like him, too, was a most zealous convert to the new faith, sailed over the sea from Bangor, and landing at Aber-crosen (the mouth of the Crosen), now known as Applecross, founded a church and monastery there, which received the name of Comaraich, the Sanctuary, and was acknowledged as a haven of refuge for criminals and debtors, a privilege which I believe it could claim to this day. On the little isle of Croulin, near Applecross, was Maelruhba’s oratory—and other memorials of his missionary wanderings remain in various parts of the country, where he is remembered as Malruba, Malrue, Mourie, or Maree. He was patron saint of the south-eastern half of Skye, the remainder of the isle being under the care of St. Columba. To him were dedicated the churches of Kilmoray in Brackadale, Kilmaree in Strath, and Aski-Malruby, commonly called Killashig. The parish of Kilarrow in Islay was also his, and though its church has wholly disappeared, a few carved slabs still mark the old kirkyard. In his honour beautiful Loch Maree is said to have changed its ancient name as an arm of Loch Ewe. The farm of Kinloch Ewe, at the head of the fresh-water Loch Maree, still retains the original name, though now some miles distant from its salt-water godmother; a fact which, taken in connection with the different levels of these lakes, seems to point to some very curious topographical change. One of the many islands on Loch Maree, commonly called Eilean Mowrie, or Malruba’s Isle, became a favourite retreat of the saint; and his chapel, burial-ground, and well, are still held by the people in such veneration that they resort thither to bathe, and drink, and hang up rags and other offerings on the bushes. It was formerly considered especially efficacious in curing insanity, and patients were taken there to bathe, and then rowed sunwise round the island, getting an occasional dip in the Loch as they went on. Malruba is said to have been slain near Conan Bridge, and his body was carried to his monastery at Aber-crosen, beside the sea, where a grey stone in a thicket of brambles marks his tomb.

Zealous as he was in teaching the people, he does not seem to have been altogether successful, for so late as the year 1656 we find the ecclesiastical authorities endeavouring to stop the annual sacrifice of bulls on the 25th of August to St. Mourie, “whoever he might be, saint or demon.” This recipient of dubious honour was, in fact, poor Malruba himself. The people also carried milk to the tops of the high mountains, and there poured it out upon the rocks as an oblation. The Presbytery was much troubled at the impossibility of checking these heathenish offerings, and found that not only at Applecross, but also at Loch Carron, Loch Broom, Kintail, and other places in this district, but more especially at Gairloch and Loch Mourie this demon had “his monuments and his remembrances.” The “sacrificeing of beests in ane heathenish manner” on the Eilean Mourie in Kinlochewe again troubled the Church in 1678, and “Mourie his poore ones, and Mourie his deviles” continued obstinately to hold their ground in these remote valleys. From these dreamy legends of the distant hills I was roused by the sound of footsteps, which in that silent spot was somewhat of a rarity. Looking up, I perceived that there was a gathering of the fisher folk, for from every side of the hills I could see groups of people approach, all making for this very spot, till two or three hundred had assembled; and I found that all the fisher lads were to start in the afternoon for the herring fishery on the east coast, and their sweethearts and wives, and old fathers and mothers, and little brothers and sisters, had all come down to see them off.

At first it was a scene of very cheery greetings, for many of them live far apart, and rarely “foregather.” But as the hour for parting drew near, it became sadder and sadder, and the amount of kissing and crying told pretty plainly how well they knew the dangers and perils that might arise within the two or three months that the fishing would last. For many a sad fireside has its own sore history of the Caller Herrin’, and can tell too sad a tale of why “wives and mithers, ‘maist despairin’, ca’ them lives o’ men.”

And though the sea to-day was literally without a ripple, we were reminded of its angrier moods by the great masts and ribs of an unhappy ship with which the whole bay was strewed, she having been dashed to pieces on these rocks some time previously. For old ocean has not forgotten what merry games it played in olden days, when the Norwegian galleys that had swept down so proudly on the Scottish shore were dashed to pieces by the wild storms on these Western Isles, and when

“On Lorn and Mull and Skye
The hundred ships of Haco
In a thousand fragments lie.”

And his own royal galley, shorn and shattered, could hardly reach that bleak Orcadian coast where the brave Norseman only purposed to spend the winter, but where it had been decreed that he should sleep his last sleep amid stern warriors and drowned fishers. Such of his fleet as had weathered the storm stood right away for Norway, so the king had but a little band around him when his last sickness overtook him. When he knew that he was nigh unto death he arose, and being taken to St. Magnus’ Kirk, he made a sunwise turn round the shrine of the sainted Earl Magnus. A few nights later he died. His body, richly apparelled, and crowned with flowers, was laid in a hall lighted with great tapers, and thence borne to St Magnus’ Kirk, and buried near the shrine of the great yarl. But Haco’s dying command had been that he should be carried back to Norway and laid beside his fathers. So in the spring his body was taken on board that great ship of oak, with the twenty banks of oars, and all the dragons’ heads carved and gilt; the same ship in which he had sailed so gallantly from his own land. After many days the great ship reached Bergen, and all the royal family came forth to meet the funeral train, and with them all Haco’s warriors and a vast concourse of people who came to witness his burial in Christ Kirk. So there the brave sea-king was laid in the year of grace 1263. But the men of the Isles, while they mourned the death of their valiant foe, rejoiced in the mighty bulwark of hidden reefs and breakers that had proved so sure a defence against the invader.

This day, however, the clear sunshine and calm sea gave no hint of any danger being in store. One by one the heavily laden boats started; some with as many as thirty-six lads on board; half of whom would help to man the Ross-shire boats, and then fish the coast wherever the shoals might lead them, as far as Aberdeen. Fine strapping young fellows they were, for the most part, lads of whom the sobbing lassies on the shore might well be proud. They reminded me of an islander’s comment on a certain scriptural biography. “Ou! she was a stout lad, Samson; sure she cam’ frae Skye!” Away they sailed over the smooth waters; and though their rich brown sails were hoisted, it needed all their rowing power as well to make a fair start. So we wished them luck with all our hearts, and that

“Weel might the keel row, that earns the bairnie’s bread.”

One of the many distinctions by which you may at a glance tell the boats from the east or west coast is that the former invariably have one woman on board, probably the sister of some of the men. Her duty it is to cook, and keep house for the party, and whether on board the boat-home, or some temporary encampment on land, always have as cheery a fireside as may be for these toilers of the sea. The men from the west coast and the isles dispense with even one fair ministering spirit; but each boat carries a lad who is bound to look after such limited creature comforts as are positively indispensable, their standard of such necessities being on a hardier scale than even that of their east-coast brethren.

Among the men who still lingered on the shore were several who in old days had accompanied one of my brothers in dangerous bird’s-nesting expeditions, when their strong arms had helped to lower him by ropes over cliffs and rocky ledges where the osprey and golden eagle had made their nests. These men one by one came up, in their kind rough way, each with some loving word to tell of “him that’s awa’” (as they say)—and for whose sake I found such genuine kindness wherever I wandered on these wild coasts. Kind hearts they are in truth. Leal to those whom they deem worthy of honour. And, as we have well proven, in times of trouble and in the hour of death, they can be gentle and tender, watching by a sick-bed with a patient unwearied love passing the love of woman. All honour be to such true metal, in however rough a mould it may be cast.

Among the many islands in the immediate neighbourhood, the group called the Shiant Isles is worthy of note. They are about 500 feet high, faced with columnar basalt, much less regular than that of Staffa. In some places, where the pillars have fallen, the rock to which they were attached has a smooth surface, as if the columnar form were merely superficial. The puffin and the guillemot, and myriads of sea-fowl of every description here make their homes, and hold undisputed possession of the site of a ruined chapel, where some ascetics of olden days had made their lonely cells. One of the islands has good pasturage, and I believe a shepherd generally lives on the spot.

Very similar is the Isle of Flodigarry, also called Eilan Alteveg, whose pillars are unusually large, but the lower part is generally divided into sections like a heap of gigantic millstones. Here formerly stood a chapel sacred to St. Turos, but of its ruins we saw no trace. All these islands and headlands have the same very striking form—namely, a long sloping face of smooth grass to the west and a precipitous face eastward. The placing with regard to the points of the compass varies, however, at different parts of the coast.

Sometimes, as you row silently along, you may catch a glimpse of a quiet seal basking on his favourite rock. He is so shy, that he will probably have vanished before you have well made him out; but if wounded, and compelled to meet a foe at close quarters, a grip from his powerful jaws proves him not altogether a helpless victim. I believe it is a common error to suppose that it is to this seal that we are indebted for our beautiful soft brown seal-skin coats. The fur seal[32] (Genus Otary; so-called from possessing an external ear) is found only in the Pacific and Southern Oceans, chiefly in the neighbourhood of the Falkland and South Shetland Isles; its silky brown fur underlies a compact coat of soft brownish-grey hair. Some of our coats are also made from the fur of the sea-otter,[33] which is a native of Behring’s Straits, twice the size of the common otter; its fur is a rich black tinged with brown. Nevertheless our own seal possesses a silvery coat, hidden beneath his rough grey hair, which is in great demand; this, together with his warm inner coating of blubber, has proved fatal to his peace, and he is now comparatively rare, greatly to the satisfaction of the salmon fishers, whose nets he often destroys in pursuit of the fish, to say nothing of his actually frightening the latter away from the coast.