Chapter VII: The Outer Hebrides (3)

Of course, the people are dependent on the sea-fowl, whose flesh they salt and eat, and whose feathers not only supply their bedding—but, together with dried fish, enable them to buy tea and tobacco from the outer world. Their most successful times and seasons for capturing these wild beautiful birds, are the storms, when mad hurricanes are raging, and tossing the sea spray over the land. Then the very birds are bewildered, and instead of flying straight to their nests in the cliff, are swept beyond their mark, and the islander (who is patiently lying on his back on the very verge of the cliff, with his head to the sea, armed with a long pole), strikes the bird with swift dexterous hand, and rarely misses his aim. It is curious, in thinking how our luxuries come from other men’s toils, to trace even our warm downy featherbeds to such battling with bitter cold and tempest as falls to the lot of these fowlers.

One mile from South Bernera lies the Isle of Mingalay, whose black crags and precipices are even grander than those of its neighbours, rising a thousand feet from the sea. These also, are in summer, literally white with the myriads of sea-fowl of every species, while the whole air seems to quiver with the soft fluttering cloud of white and grey wings. The account of their proceedings is very curious. The orderly manner in which each tribe keeps possession of its own allotted space; and the regularity with which in the first week of February all the birds arrive, devote some hours to house-cleaning, then vanish again, only returning at intervals till May, when they lay their eggs. Then come the cares of their vast nursery and the education of the young birds, and when that is completed, the whole legion departs, no one knows whither, but the islanders sadly watch the last quivering cloud vanish on the horizon, while a melancholy silence reigns on the great cliffs, and for seven months, the mad tossing waves have it all to themselves, and are the only signs of life and motion as the snowy surges dash through every cleft and fissure of the dark rocks.

One trace of olden days remains on South Bernera, to puzzle antiquarians. It is a wall about thirty feet high and two feet in thickness, stretching right across the precipitous end of the island just beyond the light-house, for what purpose no one can imagine. The stones of which it is built, are described as being ten inches long, wedge-shaped at both ends, and fitting into each other with extreme regularity and nicety.[60]

But it is time we should return from this flight to the uttermost isles, to the cattle market at Loch Maddy, where we left the snowy _Gannet_ surrounded by sister-yachts and brown-winged fishing smacks, while lesser craft plied to and fro, filling the lonely harbour with unwonted stir and bustle. How pleasant it was to row away from this idly-busy scene, and float dreamily along some winding fjord, never knowing how far inland it would carry us; passing one moment through a channel as narrow as it was shallow; then opening into a deep, wide, brackish lagoon; an eerie place in rainy weather, but to-day all glorified by the light that gilds each weed and broken bank! Overhead hovered a cloud of restless birds, breaking the dreamy silence with the wild clamour of their querulous cries; and along the reedy shore, a mother eider duck was teaching her fluffy young ones the art of swimming. Sometimes shy seals steal up these creeks, but the stir of the market had driven them miles away, though no sound could reach these quiet havens. We paddled idly along, drinking in the perfect stillness of the glad sunshine; watching its glancing rays reflected from the water on the shadowy rock face, in rippling trickles of light. Here and there long tendrils of honeysuckle trailed almost to the water’s edge, and ever and anon the quick motion of large white wings, stirred the breathless air, and honeyed fragrance of the woodbine came wafted towards us, like some whisper of Heaven—some

“Sweet thought in a dream.”

Then once more turning towards the more open sea, we watched the sunlight playing on the opal waters, which, defying all vulgar theories of colour, vary their tints according to some law of their own, changing from deepest blue to clearest green, or richest purple, according as the white sand, or the golden sea-weed, are the hidden treasures that lie beneath their depths. The yellower the tangle, the deeper the purple; and lest you should be tempted to doubt the secret of that strange rich colouring, here and there some tall giant of that marine forest raises its head to the upper world, and its glossy fronds float on the surface in lines of quivering light.

Towards evening a light breeze sprang up, and, the market being over, the many-coloured sails quickly dispersed, with their lowing cargoes; and the beautiful little cattle were well tossed about ere they reached their new homes on far-distant isles. The _Gannet_ likewise took advantage of the favouring breeze, and once more sailed for Skye, coming in for a very curious tidal current off Waternish Head. The sea on either side was perfectly calm, when suddenly, the steersman found he had work enough on hand, and for about two miles we passed through grand three-sided waves, which came dashing right over the deck—very grand and beautiful. Then we found ourselves once more in calm water.

The sunset was one of never-to-be-forgotten loveliness. Intensely brilliant gold and yellow, with soft misty clouds, giving place to brightest rose-colour, ere yet the blue groundwork of the sky had paled. And the hills were flooded with softened crimson, and every tint was reflected in the waters, till twilight crept on, and the whole surface of ocean became like clear green liquid glass. Then in the beautiful moonlight we rounded Dunvegan Point, and at midnight anchored in the quiet harbour.

Long before the rosy flush of morning had faded into the wan grey day, I was off in the wee boat, and got a sketch of the old castle, then, landing, roamed about the woods and noted the usual wealth of wild flowers, more especially the golden mimulus which was growing in rank profusion.

I returned on board just as the morning pipes were tuning up with the usual “Hi! Johnnie Cope,” to which in due time MacLeod’s piper gave answer from the castle terrace. I must say that those who object to pipe music as being discordant can never have heard it with the right accompaniments of time and place; and if there be one corner of Scotland more than another where its wailing pathos is thoroughly in keeping with the wild beauty of nature, it is in these isles, where, I grieve to say, it is much discouraged by some of the ecclesiastical authorities, who imagine that “the mirth of tabrets, and the joy of harp” are in some mysterious manner the parents of evil, and that the bagpipes are the very incarnation of mischief. Evidently the tradition which tells how the shepherds played their pipes at Bethlehem finds small favour with them, and the Christmas piping of the Italian _pfifferari_ in memory thereof would doubtless be held criminal indeed. I believe that in Barra, and South Uist, where the majority of the people are Roman Catholics, the merry-hearted still have a fair share of “music and dancing.”

In Skye, Harris, and North Uist, however, these vanities are discouraged to such an extent, that the mirth of the land is gone. No longer do we hear of a piper following the reapers in the harvest field, and keeping behind the slowest workers to cheer and animate them. The pipes are being put down most effectually, or, at least, are being subjected to a most unfair persecution. Would that it might work its usual result, and that the persecuted pipes might sound once more on every hillside in Scotland. Meanwhile I hear of one instance after another in which the luckless musicians have refused to tune up as of old, in accordance with promises extorted by their wives and other spiritual guides. Even the public-houses have in divers cases ejected the piper (though perfectly sober) the moment he volunteered a tune. Whisky, he and his companions might have in abundance, but such ungodly mirth was not to be tolerated in a Christian man’s house. The dismal history of the dancing elder of North Knapdale, in Argyleshire, who in 1868 was formally excommunicated from the Free Kirk for the sin of dancing a reel at his son’s wedding, is an instance which happens to have become public, because the worthy farmer, whose minister had declared “that dancing was a scandal; a sin and bitter provocation to the Lord,” had the courage to appeal to a higher court, and succeeded in getting the first sentence reversed.

I fear that excellent minister must have had a very low opinion of those old Hebrew prophets who made use of such metaphors as to promise the Virgin of Israel that she should again go forth adorned with her timbrels in the dances of them that make merry, and that both old men and young should rejoice together with her in the dance. Moreover he must find a dire stumbling-block in those sounds of music and dancing which followed the killing of a certain fatted calf. Probably, like that elder brother, he would have turned away from the door.

But though the voice of song is silenced, the light wine of the country is by no means at a discount; whether in the street or the bothy it holds full sway, and whatever noise of rejoicing may greet your ear, probably owes its origin to the barley bree.

There was formerly a piper’s college in Skye, which gave regular diplomas to its best men.[61] It was under supervision of the MacCrimmons, who from generation to generation held office as MacLeod’s hereditary pipers. There was a certain cave where MacCrimmon’s disciples were wont to study, alone and unheard. A rock overhanging the sea was the piper’s seat, where he might practise unmolested to his heart’s content, with such wild surroundings, waves, cliffs, and echoes as might best teach him to interpret Nature’s own rare melodies. The college endowment was a farm, which MacLeod gave rent-free. When the value of land rose he ventured to reclaim a portion of the ground, an insult which the minstrels could not brook, so they arose and went their ways, leaving their rock music-hall to the seals and cormorants.

MacDonald’s pipers, the MacCarters, had a similar college at Peingowen. Their practising-ground was a green hillock called Cnocphail. Various other families were noted for their hereditary talent as pipers, but the names of these two are well-nigh as historical as those of their masters. That piper’s golden age is, now alas! a thing of the past. Not past, however, is the inspiring power of the shrill notes which stir the inmost heart of every true-born Highlander. So well did the English know their influence that when, after the dispersion of Prince Charlie’s troops, the unhappy pipers tried to plead that they had not carried arms against the king, it was decided that their pipes were truly instruments of war. And so, in truth, they may be called, for no Highland regiments would advance to battle without the pipes to inspirit them, and often the piper has fallen in the thickest of the fire while cheering his comrades to victory with his most soul-inspiring music.

There have been instances (as in the case of the 78th Highlanders at Argaum) when it has been necessary to silence the pipes as the only means of restraining the men from breaking the line and rushing upon the foe before the time. In various other cases, the sudden burst of “the gathering” has been the signal for such a charge as has caused the foe to fly utterly discomfited. Among the stories of old days are several memories of the pipers at Waterloo; how the pipe major of the 92nd stood on a hillock where the shot was flying like hail, without thought of danger, only bent on cheering his comrades with the inspiriting notes. One of his brother pipers received a shot in the drone at the beginning of the battle, whereupon, half mad with rage, he drew his broadsword, and rushed into the thickest of the fight to wreak vengeance on the destroyers of his precious pipes, whose fate he soon shared. When the piper of the 71st was advancing at the battle of Vimiera, he was wounded in the leg by a musket-ball, and utterly disabled. Nevertheless he swore his pipes should do their work, and sitting on the ground, he managed, in spite of his pain, to keep up such warlike notes as might best inspire his brethren, and well they fought that day.

At the storming of Ciudad Rodrigo it is recorded that McLauchlan, piper to the 74th Highlanders, being foremost in the escalade, marched calmly along the ramparts, playing “The Campbells are coming,” till a shot, piercing his bagpipe, silenced its music. He quietly sat down on a gun-carriage, and, amid a storm of shot and shell, repaired the damage, and speedily tuned up again, to the entire discomfiture of the foe, for as Scott has it—“When the pibroch bids the battle rave,” “Where lives the desperate foe that for such onset staid?”

“... For with the breath which fills
Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers
With the fierce daring, which instils
The stirring memory of a thousand years,
And Evan’s,—Donald’s fame, rings in each clansman’s ears!”

You remember Napier’s high praise of the brave Highland regiments, who rushed to the charge “with colours flying, and pipes playing, as if going to a review.” Those who have led them in our own day, can best say how well this character has been kept up.

However little a Southron may be able to enter into this passionate enthusiasm for what, to his ear, seems shrill discord—he must bear in mind that, just as in him, the scent of a flower, or a few chords of old melody, will sometimes waken up a long train of forgotten memories; so, to one whose earliest love has been for the wild mists and mountains, these strains bring back thoughts of home, and the memory of the dead and of the absent comes floating back as on a breath from the moorland, mingling with a thousand cherished, early associations, such as flood the innermost heart with hidden tears.

How often we have heard of men whose lives have been spent toiling in far-away lands till all home memories seemed dimmed; yet to whom, in hours of weakness, and pain, and death, the dear mountain-tongue, came back, and with it, the longing that the wild music they loved in boyhood, might soothe their last hours.

You and I may bear witness how, twice within one year, as we watched the last weary sufferings of two of the truest Highlanders that ever trod heather, we have noted the same craving for “the dear old pipes,” and the satisfied calm that drove away the tossing restlessness, as shrill pibroch, and wild, wailing lament succeeded one another, and at last brought sweet peaceful sleep, which doctors’ opiates had failed to procure. Nor can we ever again listen to those piercing notes without a vision of an early morning when a dark funeral procession sailed up a misty loch, and thrilling pibrochs re-echoed from hill to hill, awakening the sea-birds, which circled round the boat with plaintive cries, as though they too were wailing for the “going away” of one who loved all wild and beautiful things and creatures.

Dunvegan is the quaintest medley of the architecture of every age; each proprietor, from the ninth to the nineteenth century, having left his mark on the old castle. Its position is very fine, with surroundings of wood, Skye’s rarest treasure, and standing on a mass of grey rock which juts out into the sea; land-locked, and on this morning calm as a mirror, reflecting each line of the old building as the water lips round the foot of the crag. When the tide ebbs, there will be a broad belt of the richest brown and gold tangle, and yellow sand.

Before we had finished breakfast, the young master of MacLeod came alongside in his canoe to bid us welcome; and the pleasant greetings of old friends soon consoled us for the pitiless rain which now commenced.

As we landed, and passed up the steep ascent to the castle, visions of Vikings came over us, and of the turbulent feasts and frays which these old walls have witnessed. We entered by a drawbridge—an object always suggestive of days of sudden danger and of siege. And there are dungeons, of course, in the thickness of the walls—so-called dungeons at least—though like those at Gordonstown, where, in the dear old days of our childhood, we played such merry games at hide and seek, I fancy these were rather devised for the safety of their inmates, than for the imprisonment of their foes.

The foes of the MacLeods were generally the Macdonalds; for in spite of frequent intermarriages, the two clans were perpetually at feud, “putting wedding rings on each other’s fingers, and dirks into each other’s hearts.”

Thus, the old Norse and the Celtic nature are fully combined in these races; for the MacLeods were originally pure Norsemen, bearing such names as Torquil and Thormod; while the Macdonald who built the old castle was a Celt. He gave his daughter (his only child) in marriage to MacLeod of Harris; and on one occasion, when rowing across the Minch to meet his son-in-law and grandchild, the two galleys came into collision in a thick mist. Tradition says that the dutiful daughter bade her husband steer on and strike her father’s smaller ship. Be that as it may, the little galley did sink, and Macdonald was drowned. Then MacLeod rowed over to Dunvegan, and took possession of it in the name of his wife.

Above the doorway of one of the offices is an old stone carving, where the arms of Macdonald are quartered with those of MacLeod, commemorating one of those strange political marriages which resulted in so little peace.

Through these the MacLeods, as well as the Macdonalds, claim descent from that old hero of many legends, the great Somerled, whose ruined castle we marked at Saddell in Cantyre. He was the youngest and fairest son of Godfrey, king of Argyle—a mighty hunter, to whom the men of the Western Isles made offer of their homage, if he would come over to Skye, and be their chief. Somerled was standing beside a dark river when the Islesmen found him. He pondered for awhile on their words, then made answer, that if in yonder dark pool he caught a clean run salmon, he would go with them. If not, he would remain where he was.

In a few moments, a silvery fish lay on the bank, and a shout of joy from his new subjects proclaimed him their chief. Then he forsook his father’s halls, and his beloved chase, and led his men to conquer neighbouring isles. Wild deeds of valour by land and sea, soon made his fame ring far and near; and in due time he became both Thane of Argyle and Lord of the Hebrides. At his death, his eldest son Ronald, became Lord of the Isles, while Dougal, the second son, succeeded to the territories on the mainland, and founded the family of MacDougal of Lorn; making his chief stronghold at the Castle of Dunstaffnage; thence ruling his country with an iron hand. Not that he was allowed to hold it undisturbed. On the opposite shore of Loch Awe, the Campbells were already established, and Cailean Mòr, the great Colin, Knight of Lochow, was not one tamely to own any superior. So there were fights and forays; fire and bloodshed, even till the days of the Bruce, against whom MacDougal fought with desperate hate, to avenge the murder of his wife’s father, the Red Comyn. Then the misty heights of Ben Cruachan, its dark passes, and the darker lake below, re-echoed the shouts of conflict, on many a hard-fought day. Dunstaffnage was besieged and taken, and the broad lands of Argyle were forfeited, and, after being held for awhile by the Stewarts, were conferred on the Campbells, who had proved staunch supporters of the Bruce in his dark hours of trouble. On Sir Neil Campbell, who had fought “shouther to shouther”[62] with the king at Bannockburn, he bestowed the hand of his sister, the Lady Mary Bruce; nor was it long before the Chieftainship of Argyle and the Lordship of Lorne likewise passed into the same strong keeping. By a wise stroke of policy in love, Colin the first Earl of Argyle wooed and wedded the Lady Isabel, daughter of the Lord of the Isles, and consequently a direct descendant of Somerled, thus sealing the peace between the boar’s head of the Campbells and the galley of the isles.

To return to the MacLeods. In their sea-girt fortress, among the treasures of Dunvegan is a green fairy flag, which some materialists believe to be only a relic of the crusades, a consecrated banner of the Knights Templars, but which all true Highlanders affirm to have been a gift to some ancestral MacLeod, from a fairy maiden. She promised that on three distinct occasions when he or his clan were in danger, he might wave the flag with certainty of relief. MacLeod proved false to his fairy, and married a mere commonplace human maiden, whereupon his spiritual wife waxed wroth, and ordained that every woman in the clan should give birth to a dead child, and all the cattle should have dead calves. Then a loud and bitter wail rang through the green valleys and along the shores, and MacLeod, in sore tribulation, bethought him of the flag. The fairy proved more true to her words than her lover had been to his, so she withdrew her spell, and the clan once more flourished. Then came a terrible battle, when MacLeod and his men were well-nigh routed, and again, though he must have been sorely ashamed of himself, he waved the flag, and the victory was his. Why the flag was not waved for the third time, when the isles were ruined by the failure of the kelp trade; or during the potato famine, MacLeod best knows. Perhaps he thought it well to save one “last tune in the old fiddle.” At all events the green flag still lies in its old case, and is such a treasure as no other laird can show.

There is also a precious drinking cup, bearing date A.D. 993. It stands about ten inches high, on silver feet, and is curiously wrought in wood with embossed silver, once studded with precious stones, and still retaining some bits of coral. It bears an inscription, telling how certain old Norsemen died, trusting in Christ’s mercy; and within the cup, the letters IHS are four times repeated. Hence we infer its original use as a chalice—though for many a long year it has crowned the wildest scenes of revelling and drunkenness; such as were held in these wild fastnesses up to very modern days. Another drinking trophy is Rorie Mhor’s horn; an ox’s horn with silver rim, which holds about five English pints; the old custom was that every young chief should prove his metal by draining this horn, filled to the brim with claret, at a draught—but in this degenerate age of shams, a false lining within the horn enables the chieftain to pledge his vassals in a much shallower goblet. Big Sir Roderick was one of James VI.’s knights, and his royal master seems to have taken an amiable interest in his sobriety, for we find his name in an order of the Privy Council for 1616, when it was enacted that MacLean of Duart, and Sir Rorie MacLeod should not use in their houses more than four tun of wine each; Clanranald was limited to three tun, and Coll, Lochbuy, and Mackinnon, were allowed but one. An attempt at compulsory reformation, which must have encouraged smuggling to an unwonted degree.

The horn is not the sole remaining trace of the Big Knight. Part of the castle was built by him, and a waterfall close by is still known as Rorie Mhor’s nurse, because he loved its lullabies to hush his slumbers! On the opposite side of the loch are two high hills, known as MacLeod’s Tables; and on their broad flat tops, the pure white snow lies unmelted, for long months, as though it were some spotless fairy napery. MacLeod has his maidens also, three dark rocks rising from the sea, which, when seen through foam and mist, bear some fanciful likeness to the mermaids, whose murmurous songs should soothe the dreams of the old sea kings.

Near these rock-maidens is a cave, which for some time was the prison of the unhappy Lady Grange, wife of the Lord Justice Clerk; whose sad history is stranger than any fiction. In an evil hour she became aware that her husband and many of his friends were in league with the Jacobites in 1715. MacLeod and Macdonald agreed for their mutual safety, to remove her to some distant district and announce her death. So violently was this effected, that two of her teeth were knocked out in the struggle. The unhappy lady was conveyed to Durinish, and kept in this dreary cave, whence she was removed to Uist; and then to St. Kilda, where she remained seven years. Just imagine this! Seven years in St. Kilda!! Dreading lest any clue to her existence might be discovered, her persecutors now brought her back to Uist, and to Skye, whence she contrived to despatch a letter to England, rolled up in a hank of wool. The chance purchaser of this wool forwarded the letter, which thus reached its destination safely, and deliverance seemed at hand. A government boat was despatched in search of her, but failed in its quest, and her jailors carried her back to Innis-fada, the long island, carrying in the boat with her, a rope with noose and heavy stone attached, wherewith to sink her to the lowest depth of the sea, rather than suffer her to be rescued. The poor lady finally died in Skye, and was buried in the old kirkyard of Trumpan.

We would fain have prolonged our cruise, but that tyrant of the age, the post, recalled us once more to Uig, where all was calm and peaceful as usual. There were the same picturesque lassies, whose one short “coatie” and bare legs, were seen running along the wet shore; while head and shoulders were lost beneath the great creel, overflowing with such a pile of green grass, and pink clover, with large white hemlocks and daisies, as seemed only a huge nosegay, with a sickle stuck in the middle of it.

If you speak to one of these little foragers, a bright face will glance up from under a scarlet handkerchief—but she will not attempt to answer, for though the lassies as well as the lads learn English at the “schule,” and can read it pretty well, hardly one can translate a sentence; and the girls, living in Gaelic homes do not find that necessity for English, which compels their brothers to pick it up. These were our last days in the sunny bay; and they recall pleasant memories of rowing and fishing—and of long beautiful evenings when ofttimes we wandered up to some green headland, thence looking across the calm sea to the distant isles, all wrapt in that deep peace which specially belongs to the gloaming—the hour

“When sweet and slumb’rous melodies o’er land and water creep,
As Nature sits with half shut eyes, singing herself to sleep.”

Thence returning to the little lodge by a path, skirting fields of tall brown rye grass and sweet clover, the chosen home of the corn crake, who, through all the dewy night, watches among the long grasses, and utters her harsh grating cry, jarring to most ears—though to some, dear through association, more like the croaking of a frog than the note of a little brown bird, guarding the nest where sleep her brood of quaint, black, long-legged little ones.

Wakeful though _she_ may be, _we_ must sleep now, to be ready for the morrow’s cruise.