Chapter I: The Mull of Cantyre

“Both in character and in intellect the Bengalee is the Oriental Celt in
almost everything good or bad, except the Celt’s bravery.”—ALLARDYCE.

A pleasure trip to India seems to be one of the possibilities, still so novel as hardly to have taken a definite place in the British mind, which invariably conjures up dreary visions of burning plains, with everything that can tend to make life hateful. Long summer months, during which the fair fresh Western faces become paler, and more pale, as they lie gasping, under the monotonous swing of the punkah, dreading heat-apoplexy, should the weary “punkah-wallah” fall asleep (as he is only too likely to do), and living from dawn to sunset in such darkness as precludes the possibility of almost any occupation, even reading, while it greatly favours the inroads of every horrible variety of creeping animal life.

This being the general impression of Indian life, and certainly my own till a very short time ago, it is pleasant for once to glance at it through a rosier medium, and see how those who have times and seasons at their own disposal, may now visit this wonderful land, and store their minds with its grand pictures, without being subject to any of its miseries. For my own part, I can tell of a year of unmitigated enjoyment, during which my “panorama of travel” has carried me over twelve thousand miles, full of infinite variety, and with no greater trouble or inconvenience than often attends the simplest journey across country (and such monotonous country!) in Old England; and though an old proverb tells us that “east or west, hame is best,” it is a very good thing to arrive at that conclusion for oneself rather than accept an unproven dictum. I have returned from India, having seen more of its marvels than almost any old Indian of twenty years’ service, and yet have never felt one day of real heat, and have rarely seen a punkah in action. Nor have I made acquaintance with any species of venomous creature in its wild state except three harmless snakes, much like those familiar to us on English moors.

Of course, everyone who lands at Calcutta receives the homage always paid by the mosquito to the new-comer; but I never saw them anywhere else, nor found occasion to use those large bottles of “Essential Oil of Lavender” which I had proved to be the only safeguard from the plague of midges, which were the continual torture of my daily life in Skye. My experience of Indian climate, by dint of judicious locomotion, has been to prolong a balmy continuous summer, from one December till the next; and to this a second and a third might well be added, always wandering over new ground. Perhaps these wanderings gained an additional charm from the aimless, easy-going way in which I found myself, almost unconsciously, drifting from the Western Isles to the Eastern Hills. The only mistake was, drifting homeward in like manner; and only the rude shock of finding myself once more in the bitter snows of an English spring, awakened me all too quickly from this fascinating dream, to return to the prosaic commonplaces of ordinary life. Nevertheless, the dream has left the mind stored with multitudinous odds and ends, of picturesque scenes and thoughts, but all so jumbled and ravelled, that, like the tangled skeins in the old nursery story, it would need the touch of a fairy godmother to bring order but of such dire confusion. That good fairy will, I fear, not come to my aid, so I must unravel the threads as best I can. Should any prove interminably long-drawn yarns, you must recollect they were partly spun by jolly tars, who rarely know when to stop. For the most part they can be but a heap of short, broken threads, as diverse in colour as in quality, and so I fully expect that you will dismiss my journal, with a criticism akin to that once passed on an odd volume of Johnson’s “Dictionary,” by a hardheaded Scot, who for a whole week had been laid up with a broken ankle and with no other light reading. “Weel,” he said; “there’s no doubt the facts may be real interesting; but as a whole, it’s vara unconnected!”

Do you remember the sunny morning when we parted from you, under the blossoming old cherry-tree? little thinking then of all that would befall us, before you welcomed us home again. Our only plan was to spend some quiet weeks in the most out-of-the-world place we could find; one where my pencil might keep me busy, while my brother could rejoice in perfect idleness after a course of hard reading; and what spot more suitable than the Land’s End of Scotland, the dear bluff old Mull of Cantyre, which had already given us so many pleasant days?

So we started, but without reference to our neighbours, and soon found to our cost that they were keeping holy-day, or holiday, as the case might be. It was a Sacramental Fast—very solemn to one section of the community, but a very “fast” day to the majority. Thus it came to pass that every station was crowded, and the line blocked with extra trains, and hours before we reached Greenock, our steamer had quietly sailed down the Clyde. So far as we were concerned, we had good reason afterwards (and indeed at the time) to rejoice in the delay, as it enabled us to test for the last time what, alas! we may never claim again, the unfailing hospitality of one of our truest and oldest friends,—whose most unexpected death, one short month later, added one more great blank to those which all too quickly thin that precious list.[1]

The third morning found us under weigh, and by midday we were watching the changing lights on the Isle of Arran, or Ar-rinn—‘the land of sharp pinnacles’ most rightly named. Dark shadows were drifting over the granite peaks of Goatfell, which seemed to tower so high above the mist, though their actual height is only 2,875 feet. I little thought, while gazing wonderingly on the grim peaks of Ben Ghoil, the “mountain of the wind,” that I should soon be wandering among mountain ridges as shapely in form, and more than ten times their height. Here and there were little clusters of tiny brown huts, nestling in the shadow of the great hills, and human beings with collie dogs and flocks of sheep moved to and fro, like atoms scarcely visible. Nevertheless, the sight of these reminded us of Pennant’s quaint description of his visit to this island in the last century, when he speaks of the terrible prevalence of pleurisy, and describes its cure by bleeding—a process to which every inhabitant was subjected twice a year, in spring and autumn; a ceremony which was observed with the utmost regularity. He tells how “the Duke of Hamilton keeps a surgeon in his pay, who at those seasons makes a tour of the island. On his arrival at any farm, the people bare their arms, when they are bled into a hole made in the ground!” I think our modern Highlanders would object to such treatment almost as much as to the wages for which their grandfathers worked. For, according to the same authority, the farm men considered themselves well paid by thirty shillings a year, together with house, meal, and shoes; while the dairy-maids received thirteen shillings and fourpence, and common drudges only six and eight-pence.

As we passed gloomy Loch Ranza, with its fine dark background to the old ruined castle, once a royal hunting-seat, our attention was called to the boats of the oyster-dredgers; and we would fain have halted for a night to find out whether the oysters of Loch Ranza have the same ear for music as their brethren in the Firth of Forth, who require a continuous dredging-song to lull them to their doom, so that the wily fishers must perforce keep up an incessant monotonous chaunt, in which all their conversation must be carried on. Various collectors of old ballads have from time to time gone out for a night with the dredgers, hoping to add new songs to their store, but all agree in saying that the same words never occur twice unchanged; and so they only gain the bitter cold of a night in an open boat in one of the months “with an R,” which you perceive excludes all the bonnie summer nights. One allusion to this graceful old custom in fisher-life is found in a charming ballad which begins:—

“The herring loves the merry moonlight,
The mackerel loves the wind,
But the oyster loves the dredging song,
For he comes of a gentle kind.”

We passed various small vitrified forts, on prominent headlands, said to have been purposely burnt, so that by the action of fire, a rock-like solidity might be produced. These old ruins generally have the prefix “Dun”—a fort, as Dunaverty, which is at the furthest point of the peninsula.

Among the many theories which have been propounded concerning the traces of a bygone age, none is, to me, so attractive as that which assumes them to have originally been fire temples, the altars of Bel, or Bael, the Celtic Baal, or Sun-god. These vitrified circular masses are generally placed on some commanding height, often too near together to have been used as beacon lights. The stones are fused into glassy masses, the inside more perfectly vitrified than the outside, as would naturally be the case, if these raging fiery furnaces were the altars where fire burnt day and night, and where hundreds of animals and human sacrifices were offered at the great Baal festivals. It is said that long after Christianity was introduced in Britain, the fire worship was continued; and even human sacrifices were immolated on Bel’s devouring altars, the land long remaining in a strange twilight state, halting between two opinions—the grossness of heathen darkness, mitigated indeed by Christianity, but still very far from the light of perfect day; and the people in general resembling the “mixed multitude” which followed the Israelites in their Exodus, with some leaning to the new faith, but a strong hold on the old idolatries.

The golden sunset fell on Ailsa Craig, and the bold headland of Davaar, as we entered the fine land-locked harbour of Campbeltown, wherein lay many fishing-boats of all sizes, with rich brown sails. Again we bethought us of old Pennant, and his account of this crowded harbour, where as many as two hundred and sixty “busses” might be seen at once. I fear that the Cockney mind, picturing a ’bus of the present day, would be somewhat disappointed to find so very dull a little town. Campbeltown is chiefly remarkable for the amazing fact that its annual tax for whisky-duty amounts to £600,000; of which £350,000 is paid to the collector of Inland Revenue at Campbeltown, and the remainder in Glasgow and elsewhere. This is pretty well for “fire-water.” The whisky of Campbeltown and Islay bears a very high character, and the distillers give so high a price for good barley that there is no longer any inducement for the Highlanders to deal with the smugglers; who in very recent times had stills for mountain dew all over this part of the country, so extensive a seaboard affording good scope for their trade. The Hebrideans crossed from the Isles to Rhunahourine (the Heron’s Point), thence marching across the hills to Skipness in bands of thirty or forty armed men, whose rough shelties were laden with heavy creels containing the moonlight produce, which was then sent to Glasgow. The “stream in the moonlight which kings dinna ken” has not wholly ceased to flow, and I have heard of sundry mysterious presents of kegs of “the crathur,” very superior in quality to any that is to be procured from the large stills. But the days are gone by when the wild Skipness men thought it all fair play to fight their battles with a revenue cutter; and, having overpowered her crew, to turn them all adrift again without oars or tackle, to be tossed at the mercy of the waves! Some of the old stills are yet pointed out, or rather the caves and deep hollows where the smugglers used to work. Deep pits such as those where we have so often lingered, on hot summer days, in the dark fir woods above Dufftown (that paradise of wild flowers), where, amid richest purple heather, you note in one place a circle of white-stemmed birches, in another a fringe of golden broom and tangled wild roses, clustering round a deep, circular cup, where once the mountain dew was distilled, but where now the greenest and richest ferns nestle in the cool shade, while wood-doves murmur on every side. A pleasant resting-place, in truth.

To such as prize the rarest flora of our isle, that wood has one special interest, as being one of the very few places in Britain where the dainty little _Linnæa Borealis_ has, from time immemorial, uplifted her delicate hair-like stem and tiny pink bell from the low heather beneath which her long sprays of leaflets creep along the ground, only revealing her presence in the noonday, by the faintest fragrance, and reserving for the moonbeams her most honied breath. She is a coy beauty, not to be lured from her chosen home. Only on one small patch of moorland are those fairy blossoms to be found; a safe retreat, happily known to but few, too covetous admirers.

To return to Campbeltown, or as it was anciently called, Dalruadhein. Remote as it now seems to us, there was a time when it was the centre of Scottish life, and for upwards of three centuries it was, in fact, the capital of Scotland. This continued till the reign of Kenneth II., King of the Scots, who, having finally subdued the Picts, and merged both races in one kingdom, selected Forteviot, in Perthshire, as a more suitable capital.

These Dalriads seem to have come over from Ireland about the year 502 A.D., and to have founded that kingdom known in Scottish history as Alba; their power and numbers must have increased rapidly, for not long afterwards we hear how the King of Alba invaded Ireland and fought the great battle of Moyra, famous in old song. In fact, these Scots-Dalriads held their place as a strong Celtic race, till the Norsemen overran the land, and moulded existing institutions to suit their own convenience. In later days James IV. here held a Parliament, as “Parliament Close” still attests. There were, however, certain turbulent chiefs who would by no means render obedience to his laws; more especially one Macdonald, whose castle of Cean Loch stood on the very spot now occupied by the large Castle-hill Church. In order to keep this man in check, James V. came here in person, and repaired the old fort of Kil-Kerran, leaving in it such a garrison as might overawe all rebellious subjects. But before the King had got clear of the harbour, Macdonald sallied out of his castle, took possession of the fortalice, and, in the sight of the King, hanged the new governor from the walls.

This old castle of Kil-Kerran stood about a mile from Campbeltown. A very large old burial-ground, close by, still marks the spot where St. Kieran, the Apostle of Cantyre, first taught the people. St. Kieran was baptized by St. Patrick, and soon afterwards seems to have found his way to these shores, where, according to one account, he died fifteen years before St. Columba landed in Cantyre, though they are generally said to have come together. The cave in which he lived, the Cove a Khiaran, lies among the rocks so close to the sea, that you cannot enter it at high water. At all times it is a difficult, slippery scramble. Once there, you find a fine cave, with a dripping well, filling a rock basin with clear sparkling water, whence the Saint drank. And beside it, on a great stone, is a rudely sculptured cross, where, in the solitude of this grand wild temple, guarded from all human intruders by that barrier of mighty waters, he might worship his God undisturbed. Of his church, once the most important in Cantyre, little, if any, trace now remains; but two shafts of broken crosses, carved with galleys, figures and arabesques, are among the very ancient stones in the old kirkyard.

While speaking of saintly names associated with this town, I cannot forbear to remind you of one, who has so recently passed away from our midst, that the mention of his birthplace cannot fail to recall to multitudes (and assuredly to every Scotchman, of whatever denomination) the name of the great, and good, and genial Norman Macleod—a teacher as influential and beloved, and one as unsparing of his work, as the mightiest of those Celtic Fathers; one who needs no canonization at the hands of earthly Councils to rivet his hold on the affections and his influence on the life of multitudes, even of those who were never privileged to hear his voice, but who, nevertheless, were followed to the uttermost ends of the earth by his good and loving words—so tender, and yet so strong and invigorating—learning from him year by year something of deeper reverence for things human and divine, and perchance catching from his large-hearted liberality something of a broader and more glowing charity, such as would fain enfold the whole great world in its own boundless love. Truly, were it only for having given birth to one such son as he, Cantyre may henceforth claim to be not least among the provinces of Scotland. In the market-place of Campbeltown there stands a very fine cross of hard blue whinstone, covered with well-carved figures, foliage and runic knots, and bearing an inscription, but whether this is Saxon or Lombardic is still disputed. It is supposed to have been brought over from Iona, where at one time there stood 360 stone crosses, in the cemetery. These the Synod of Argyle, in A.D. 1560, pronounced to be “monuments of idolatrie,” and commanded that they should be thrown into the sea. Some, however, were rescued, and taken to old churchyards and market-places in the neighbouring islands, or on the mainland. They are all very similar, being monoliths, generally of whinstone, and covered with elaborate designs.

About two miles from Campbeltown lies the old kirkyard of Kilcousland, one of many which, to me, give an especial charm to these green shores; lying, as they do, almost within reach of the wild spray, which, dashing heavenward, falls in lightest showers over the rank grass and golden iris, and mossy stones, beneath which sleep so many forgotten generations. Kilcousland has no stones of especial interest, but many are quaint and old, and though the majority only show crowns and shields and grotesque death’s-heads-and-crossbones, and fat-faced cherubs with lumps of moss for their eyes, or else such growth of golden lichen as Old Mortality would have loved to scrape away, there are some devices which tell the daily work of the sleeper forcibly enough. Thus, a ploughman has quite a graceful grouping of reins and harness; a carpenter keeps his hammer and saw and sundry other tools; while poor Snip, the tailor, carries his shears and his goose to the end of time.

Why is it that this most useful of honourable trades should be connected in our minds with so many uncomplimentary sayings? The German proverb says that “If it rains while the sun shines, a tailor has gone to heaven!”—apparently an exceptional occurrence. Then we are told that the word “snob” is a contraction of the tailor’s motto “Sic Nobilitas.” From our cradle we are taught that, much as he may impress our childish mind, he is nevertheless only the ninth part of a man; and here we find him carrying a goose to the grave. On the broken shaft of an old cross, a carved galley tells of some forgotten Island chief, while a neighbouring stone bears a knight’s two-handed sword, surrounded with runic knotting.

The next tomb bears only a heavy dagger on a shield, no name to mark who sleeps beneath. The Saint to whom this spot was dedicated is said to have been a certain St. Constantine, a Scotch king slain by the Danes in 881. I sat for many hours in this calm “God’s-acre,” in the shade of the ruined church, watching the ever-changing colours of the quiet sea, lipping up to the foot of the green hill on which I rested; constant changes from blue to green, and purple and silvery greys, all blended by the reflection of every tint of sky and cloud according as the angle of the broken wavelet either mirrors these, or lets us see beneath its surface, into its own depths; giving us hints of the wonderful world below the waters. There were broken reflections, too, from the hills of Arran, and from Ailsa Craig, and now and then a white sail would round the light-house and enter the quiet haven. I thought of the words of one whose dying prayer was—

“Lay me beneath the grass,
Where it slopes to the south and the sea;
Where the living I love may pass,
And, passing, may think of me”—

and I thought that just such a churchyard as this was the resting-place for which she craved. It was a scene of great peace, and I lingered till the blue sky of noon had changed to that pale primrose against which each form of earth cuts with such intensity of colour; and the evening breeze, rustling among the tall flags, sounded like a mysterious whisper from the sleepers around me.

The fine old Castle of Saddell, with its kirkyard and ruined monastery, lie further along the coast, and here quaint sculptured tombs of ecclesiastics and warriors lie under shadow of some fine old trees close to the shore. Unhappily the monastery has proved a useful quarry for ruthless hands, and the modern dwelling-house has been in a great measure built at the expense of the church, all the hewn stones having been removed, and the offices paved with gravestones—a species of sacrilege unfortunately but too common even in these days. You remember with what difficulty our father stopped similar devastation at Kinloss Abbey, whose old stones were being fast converted into dykes and farm-buildings, one fine old stone coffin being used as a pig’s trough! And I am told that the same barbarous work goes on in many of these neglected burial-grounds, where the most beautiful old slabs are sometimes taken as convenient stones for fresh graves, and a modern name roughly chiselled over the weather-worn escutcheon of some brave knight of old. In many instances the stone is smoothed and cleaned, to begin with, as in the case of that beautiful stone at Hilton of Cadboll, where the elaborate tracery has been completely obliterated from one side, and replaced by an inscription to the memory of “Alexander Duff, Esq. and His Thrie Wives”! Often, these stones have been found convenient for modern gate-posts, sometimes built into bridges. In some cases the grey ruins of the old church are used by the neighbouring farmer as a convenient byre or sheep-pen, or even pigstye.

The Monastery of Saddell is one of considerable interest. It was founded in the twelfth century by one of the Lords of the Isles—whether by the great Somerled or by his son Ronald seems uncertain, but it very soon acquired a reputation for sanctity, and great men of old craved to be buried there. Of Somerled, and his wars with Godred, King of Man, both old Sagas and Gaelic legends tell many tales. There were terrible sea-fights, in one of which the Manx fleet of galleys was so sorely beaten, that Godred was compelled to yield all the Sudereys, or Southern Isles, including “Yla and Kintyre,” retaining only the island of Man itself. The wife of Somerled was a daughter of Olaf the Swarthy, King of Man and the Isles. Various accounts are given of the manner of his death, but whether in a sea-fight with pirates, or by assassination in his own tent, seems uncertain. One version is that he sailed with 160 galleys to besiege Renfrew, and fell in action with the Scottish army. In any case his body seems to have been brought to Saddell for burial, and laid where so many turbulent spirits now sleep in stillness, and the only unrest is that of the restless ocean.

“Now green o’er their bones the grass doth wave,
And the wild wind over their tombs may rave.”

In the castle is shown an old dungeon where Macdonald starved a luckless Irishman who had the misfortune to own too beautiful a wife. At first he only confined him in a granary; and the prisoner found means to get at the grain, and so was kept alive. Then he changed his prison; but through the barred window a kindly hen came daily, and gave him her egg. So the flickering flame of life still burned. Once more he was removed, and cast into this deep noisome cell, where nor bird nor beast could bring him supplies—and here at length he died, having gnawed his own flesh in the agony of his hunger. Then Macdonald gave him burial; and the beautiful wife, looking down from the high tower, espied the funeral, and asked whose it was; when she knew that it was her own liege lord, she cried in bitter anguish that she would be with him anon, and with one wild spring, she dashed herself from the battlements, and was buried by his side.

The ruins of another old prison still remain in the wood close by, and many tales of the treachery and vengeance of the lords of Saddell are told in connection with these grey walls. This part of Cantyre also has one or two traditions of Robert the Bruce; and the little Isle of Rachrin, off the Irish coast (distinctly visible from the Mull), was to him a haven of refuge in times of danger. In the old Fort of Dunaverty he also found warm welcome. A few scattered stones, on a rocky promontory, are all that now mark this old Castle of Dunaverty, “the Fort of Blood,” once a mighty stronghold of the Danes, whose fleets were wont to anchor near the opposite Isle of Sanda, still known to the Highlanders as the gathering-place of the Danes, by whom it was called Avoyn, the Island of Harbours. Upon it are the ruins of St. Annian’s Chapel, once a place of refuge, where all outlaws might find sanctuary. On the ruins of the Danish Fort a new castle was built by the Macdonalds, who held their own in Cantyre till the days of Montrose, whose cause they espoused even unto death. But when the star of the Covenanters was in the ascendant, and the Royalists were driven even to this Land’s End, Sir Allister Macdonald sailed for Ireland, there to raise new forces. He left his castle in the hands of his brother, with a garrison of three hundred men. Very soon General Leslie, with three thousand of Argyle’s men, advanced to besiege the old fort. Bravely it was defended, but after awhile Leslie discovered that the only well for the supply of the garrison lay outside the walls, and that the water was brought in artificially. Of course this was at once cut off, and not one drop was to be had to quench their raging thirst. It was midsummer, and even the kindly rains from heaven forgot to fall. Vainly were all eyes strained to watch for Sir Allister’s return, across the sea, whose cool green waves dashed their salt sea foam so mockingly in the faces of these dying men at their last extremity. Sir Allister had been slain in battle; so they might watch till they were weary, but all in vain.

At length they were forced to capitulate, and for five days were kept prisoners on their rock together with a hundred more who had been captured in a cave, or rather, smoked out of it, as the manner was. Leslie seems to have inclined to mercy towards the captives, but he was hounded on by a Puritan preacher, Nave by name, and knave by nature, who insisted on the slaughter “of these Amalekites.” At length his counsel prevailed, and all the helpless captives were either put to the sword or dashed from the precipice into the sea, where they lighted on hard, cruel, jagged rocks. And so they perished (all save one man, and one infant), and from time to time bleached bones and skulls are still washed up from the clefts of the rocks; and the fishers tell how, when the wind drifts the sand from the bank close by, heaps of human bones are sometimes seen, which the next kindly wind covers up again with a fresh layer of soft yellow sand.

The escape of the little infant was the only gleam of light in that day’s devilish work. Its nurse caught it up naked in her arms and fled along the shore. She was stopped by a Campbell, and vowed the child was hers: “It has the eye of the Macdonald” was the answer. Nevertheless, the heart of Craignish was soft, and, dividing his plaid, he gave her half for the naked baby and suffered her to escape. During those five days of waiting on the rock, another Macdonald drew near with a small body of men, to relieve the garrison. As soon as the piper perceived them, he struck up a note of warning to bid them turn back. Thus they were saved from the cruel fate that awaited their brethren; but the piper paid dearly for his tune, the enraged Campbells cutting off his fingers to prevent his playing any more such strains. Thus it was that Cantyre passed from the hands of the Macdonalds to those of the _gleed_ (squinting) Marquis of Argyle and his clansmen. It seemed as though Heaven’s righteous retribution sought them out, when, ere many years had past, a terrible plague came and utterly depopulated the whole of Cantyre. It was the same year that the Great Plague was raging in London. The pestilence swept over the land in visible form, as a great white cloud laden with death—just such a cloud as, in later days, has rested on Malaga, and other cities, in times of cholera; on Dumfries, for instance, where in 1843 the cholera raged for months, nor ever stayed its ravages till one-third of the inhabitants were laid in great pits in the overcrowded churchyards. And during all the time that the Angel of Death thus brooded over the city, a pestilential cloud hung like a death pall, floating in mid-air, above the circle of hills which enclose the city as in a cup. It was a dull heavy film, through which neither the foul air could escape nor could fresh air circulate, but all was dead stagnation; even the sunbeams passing through were discoloured, and fell with lurid glare upon the scene of horror below. The fever-cloud rested long on Cantyre, and left its traces for many generations. So sorely did Argyle’s estates suffer, that moneys were voted by Parliament for his relief, while the poorer folk received such help as the churches could collect.

A sunnier legend of Dunaverty in its palmy days tells how its chief rescued the fair daughter of the King of Carrickfergus from the pillion of O’Connor, the King of Innisheon, who had run away with her against her will. He restored her to her father, and continued his honoured guest till, in his turn, he claimed the maiden’s hand, and was cast into a dungeon to rue his presumption. Thence rescued by the damsel, he escaped to Dunaverty; but once more returning in quest of his love, found that she too was now in durance vile, for having aided his flight. So, like the hardy Norseman of old, he showed that neither bolt nor bar could part him from his own true love, and carried her safely across the sea to his own old castle. The wrathful king followed in his galley, with many mighty men of war, vowing swift vengeance. Happily counsels of peace prevailed, and the lady obtained pardon for her lord; so they all went back together to the Emerald Isle, and lived merrily to the end of the chapter, and their children became kings, from whom the Earls of Antrim claim descent.

The names of the old churches or cells, all about this country, are at once recognised by their prefix Kil—as Kil-Choman, Kil-Michael, Kilcoinan, Kilkeran, Kilcoivan, Kilkevan, Kilcousland, Kilraven, Killdavic, Kileolan, Kill-blaan, Kil-ewen, Killean, Kil-Kenzie; most of these have some carved stones—sometimes knights, sometimes ladies, always swords. On some we find the galley of the Isles; on others deer-hunts, hounds, otters, creatures like griffins with wonderful tails of scroll-work, winding about in intricate patterns of foliage or other tracery; sometimes birds fighting; sometimes shears or other implements of work. All, or almost all, are alike nameless, covering the dust of long-forgotten heroes. Some of those in the best preservation are in the chapel of St. Cormac at Kiels, in North Knapdale, where there are an unusual number of well-carved devices of all sorts. At some of these old churchyards there now remains literally no trace of the ancient cell, though they are still used as places of burial. As Wordsworth has it:—

“Of Church or Sabbath ties
No vestige now remains. Yet thither creep
Bereft ones, and in lowly anguish weep
Their prayers out to the wind and naked skies.
Proud tomb is none; but rudely sculptured knights
By humble choice of plain old times are seen
Level with earth, among the hillocks green.”

The majority, however, still retain some ruins of the old churches. Others, again, do not betray their character by their name, as Patchen, an enclosure among the sand-hills where the old tombs are half overgrown with bent, and half veiled with salt drifting sand. Many a sad story these churchyards of our seaboard could tell; of terrible nights in which all the breadwinners of a hamlet have been lost, and none but lads and women left to fight life’s battle. Such women, though! so brave and hardy; and withal so leal to the dead. In one of these quiet little churchyards in Yorkshire is a simple headstone, and the fishers will tell you that the man who lies there was drowned one awful night, and the sea did not give up her dead till the end of eleven weeks!—from December till March; and during all those bitter wintry days his wife followed every receding tide, scanning each ledge and crevice of the black rocks, each pool below the slippery tangled sea-weed. Vainly did the neighbours urge her to forego the hopeless search. Early and late the sad solitary woman was at her post, reckless of the beating storm and bitter frosty wind, still keeping her weary vigil; and at last, when almost despairing of success, her prayer was granted and the waves brought him to her feet. So she buried him in “mother clay,” and watched by the green mound for upwards of thirty years, ere she was laid by his side.

Of the old kirkyards in Cantyre, perhaps the most striking is one at the extreme end of the Moyle, near the ruined Fort of Dunaverty before alluded to; just such a one as that where King Arthur was laid, when sorely wounded in that battle among the mountains beside the winter sea—

“A ruined shrine, beside the place of tombs,
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,
Old knights. And over them the sea wind sang
Shrill, chill—with flakes of foam.”

This is Kilcolmkeil, or the Cell of St. Columba at Keil.

In defiance of the commonly received account of his having first landed on Isle Oronsay, near Colonsay, and having thence departed because he could still see Ireland, which he had vowed never to behold again, the tradition in Cantyre is that he first landed at this spot; and that, although in full view of the Irish coast, he here built this little church, where he preached for some time before he went to Iona, leaving his saintly mark on many a nook. The Highlanders still point out the “Bay of the Boat,” as the spot where his frail currach, of wickerwork covered with hides, first touched the shore, whence he was to make his way to the court of Connal MacCongail, King of the Northern Scots, to whom he was nearly related, being himself of the blood-royal. Connal and his people, being already Christians, gave him warm welcome, and sent him under safe escort to Brude, the King of the Picts. He too declared himself a Christian; and his chiefs and people were not slow to follow his example. Soon even Broichan, the Arch-Druid, was converted, having been cured by St. Columba of a dangerous and sudden illness.

The illness of Broichan was as miraculous as his cure. St. Columba had requested him to release a certain captive, an Irishwoman. This Broichan refused to do. Columba proceeding to the River Ness, took thence a white pebble, and, showing it to his companions, told them that the Angel of God had stricken the Arch-Druid with a sudden stroke, so that he lay nigh unto death, but that should he repent, he had only to drink a cup of water in which that pebble had been dipped, and he would assuredly recover. While he yet spake, two horsemen galloped up, bearing tidings from the king that all had befallen even as Columba had predicted. The holy man straightway sent messengers to the palace; they received the captive from the hand of the repentant Broichan, while he himself, having drunk of that mystic cup (whereon the pebble floated as though it had been a nut), was immediately made whole. That little pebble was afterwards preserved among the treasures of King Brude, and, retaining its miraculous power of floating on water, in common with other magical stones, it wrought divers wondrous cures. Thus it was that, when the king proposed to bestow on St. Columba the Innis-nan-Druid-a-nach, the Holy Isle of the Druids, he was suffered to hold it in peace, and without great opposition.

I am told that no part of Scotland is richer than Cantyre in relics of those pre-Christian times; cairns and barrows, monumental pillars erected above stone coffins, and rude urns containing the ashes of bodies that had been burnt, having been found in many of its green downs.

There seems every reason to believe that the honour of having first introduced Christianity to this district has been erroneously attributed to St. Columba, his tutor, St. Kieran, “the Apostle of Cantyre,” whose church and cave we saw near Campbeltown, having come over from Ireland with a colony of Christian Dalriads, who settled in Argyleshire, some fifty years before Columba, the fiery Abbot of Durrow, had quarrelled with and been banished from Ireland by the Ardriagh, or President of the Irish King. It seems that when attending a great meeting of the lords temporal and spiritual of the Green Isle, Columba was rash enough to take with him a young son of Aodh, King of Connaught, who was at enmity with the Ardriagh. Even the sanctity of the Abbot proved no protection for the young man, who was treacherously slain. Then followed war, in which Columba sided with the aggrieved father, and eventually received that command to quit Ireland which brought his fiery energies to the aid of the little Christian band of Dalriads in Cantyre; whence he moved onward to that Isle where, in after years, kings and rulers craved permission to lay their dust near that of one so holy.

St. Kieran is not the only pioneer of the faith whom we are apt to rob of honour due, while heaping veneration on St. Columba. How constantly we hear the latter spoken of, as though he first had brought to our western isles that light of Christianity, which thence radiated to the furthest corners of the mainland! So far from this being the case, we know that for a century before the birth of Columba, a series of duly ordained bishops had ruled over Scottish dioceses in various parts of the land; these being, for the most part, native Christians, who of their own accord had gone to Rome to study. Their existence as Christians gives some colour to the belief that, so early as the third century, Christ’s Name was known in this land.

The first bishop of whom we hear was that St. Ninian who, in the end of the fourth century, returned from Rome to his native county of Galloway, where, we are told, “he ordained presbyters, consecrated bishops, and organized parishes.” At Witehorn may still be seen his _Candida Casa_, the first Christian church built of stone in Britain. Here he was buried, about the year 430. In the following year St. Palladius was sent to this country as “Primus Episcopus to the Scots believing in Christ.”

The next great name that appears is that of St. Patrick (born about the year A.D. 373, at Kilpatrick near Dumbarton), who, having been captured by pirates and carried over to Ireland, seems then and there to have longed to Christianize the Hibernians. We hear that he escaped from slavery, and contrived to reach the shores of Gaul, where he studied the Scriptures for thirty-five years before he was ordained priest. Nor was it till he was about sixty years of age that he was sent back as bishop to commence his mission in the Emerald Isle. The patient student proved a long-lived teacher, and is said to have died at his post in his 120th year.

Early in the sixth century, we hear how St. Kentigern (better known to us as St. Mungo, the patron saint of the beautiful old Cathedral at Glasgow), fixed his see at the place where that city now stands. To him the credit seems due of first Christianizing part of Wales. He owed his early training to St. Serf, the Apostle of the Orkneys; so those remote Isles must have had their first rays of light long before the disciples of Iona went thither “as doves from the nest of Columba.” The fame of that most energetic worker certainly has no need to borrow lustre by defrauding his predecessors of their rightful share; doubtless, when he landed on this wild shore of Cantyre, his heart was gladdened by the knowledge that the light he strove to diffuse was already glimmering in divers corners of the land. This old Church of Kilcolmkeil (where first he taught the people) lies so close to the sea that the salt sea foam dashes over the old tombs, and the tough green bent creeps up amongst the stones, while bright sea pinks gleam through the mossy grass. A steep crag of reddish rock rises directly above it; and, just beyond, the bluff headland of the Moyle itself rises abruptly from the sea, which here scarcely ever knows calm, but seems to revel in its joyous liberty. There is not a sailor or a fisher on all this coast, or the opposite shores of Ireland (Antrim being but twelve miles distant) who does not dread the mighty green waves that are for ever raging in their ceaseless battle with the stern old Moyle. In quick succession the booming breakers burst on the unfeeling rocks, which have withstood them for such countless ages, and now fling them back once more. With swift rush the baffled waters fall back on the advancing wave, and thus reinforced renew the ceaseless; hopeless attack, then, “white with rage,” dash themselves to atoms, and fall in dazzling spray and foam over the cliff. If you count the waves, you will see that about every sixth is larger than the others, a chieftain in fact; and if, as it curls proudly over, you can catch a gleam of light through the transparent water, you will see its wonderful clear green, at the very moment that the land breeze carries back its crest in tossing spray, like the mane of some white sea-horse. Most beautiful of all is the moment when two waves, whose courses differ slightly, come to a violent collision, and dash their white spray heavenward, an encounter which you will here see to perfection, as two strong currents meet at this point. Perhaps if the sea is not very angry indeed, there will come a lull—an amnesty,—and the graves that were drenched with the salt sea spray will dry in the sunlight; and the shepherds can put off their boat, and row to the grassy islands to see how it fares with their sheep.

It was on one of these unwonted days of rest, that I found my way to Kilcolmkeil. You, who love the peace of nature even more dearly than I do, can picture the scene for yourself The beetling crag,—God’s-acre bathed in light,—earth and sky, gleaming with that clear shining that cometh after rain. And the hush and silence of the calm wide sea, noiselessly stealing on and on, till the great brown rocks, with their wealth of golden sea-weeds, lie hidden, like purple shadows, beneath the cool and quiet blue, and only a tiny edge of white rippling foam, marks the lip of the lazy wave as it glides to and fro, or brims over the ribbed sand, glancing and gleaming in the bright sunlight. Only here and there, the still surface of the waters is broken by a broad leaf of brown sea-ware, waving idly from the forest below, with quivering motion, like some curious wriggling sea-snake; or a floating tangle, like long human hair washed to and fro, suggests some fancy of the sea giving up her dead to this green resting-place. Now and then there is the quick flash of some white-winged gull, as it darts upon its prey, and then again floating upward, hangs idly poised in the sunny air.

Altogether it is a scene of most blessed peace, such as sinks into the heart with strange sweet power, soothing and lulling the turmoil of its cares. For there is no more dear companionship than that of the sea, which in its ever-changing moods seems almost like some human thing, that one day claims our sympathies with its own wild joys or sorrows, ready in its turn to weep or laugh with ours; to-day so calm and peaceful, laughing in the sunlight; to-morrow roused to mad excitement, lashing itself into wild rage; then, when its wrath is spent, subsiding as though repentant, lying still and silent beneath the cold mists, dreary and desolate and sad, like a sorrowful spirit, when all life’s energies are subdued.

They only who have been cradled and nurtured within sound of that ceaseless song of the wild waters can fully realize their subtle charm, or tell the unutterable yearning for their music,—the craving for their breadth, for their reflections of the great clouds,—for their incessant movement, which oftentimes comes over the spirit, when the body is tied to some monotonous inland region; the unspeakable longing for sight and sound of the great green waves, the tossing spray and screaming sea-birds, and the wild breeze that rushes past, laden with the salt sea brine. None else can understand the intensity of that passionate love which the sea and its shores can inspire—the thousand memories linked with those wide white sands—those slippery rocks—that brown, wet tangle, each leaf of which seems to have some hidden power whereby to twine itself round the innermost depths of the soul. None else can sympathize with the bitter disappointment of awakening from some blissful vision of shell gathering or idling by those great waters to find that in truth it was but a dream.

To such I say, if you would see Old Ocean in its glory, come to Cantyre; but those who desire true mountain scenery had better stay away, for when once you leave the seaboard and turn inland, you will find that you have left all beauty behind you; the great swelling green hills do indeed rise to a height of 2,000 feet; but the very name Cnoc Maigh, or the Hill of the Plain, suggests mere shapeless high ground. Much of this is arable, but at the time of our visit a sore pest was troubling the land, owing to the lack of frost in the previous winter. This was a gluttonous grub, which had appeared in countless myriads, and had eaten bare all the fair green crops, leaving only fields of parched red earth. Some of the farmers were brave enough to hazard a second sowing, but with small hope of better success.

But the glory of Cantyre lies in her dairy farms; the rich fine soil yielding abundant pasture, and supporting from twenty to thirty cows on each farm. It is a land flowing with milk and honey, with comfortable, well-to-do inhabitants who thankfully told us that the cattle plague had as yet never found its way to their shores. But though the farmer will offer you wine and spirits in abundance, you must not test his hospitality so cruelly as to expect such a bowl of creamy milk as any old “Caillach” in a black bothy would be proud to offer you, should she own but one gentle “Crummie.” At these great dairies, the farmer prides himself on his unbroken pans of rich milk, therein estimating prospective pounds of butter and cheese for market, with as strong a sense of their pecuniary value as any modern shooter (sportsman, I cannot say) counting heads after a good day’s battue; in which comparison, by the way, the farmer has, perhaps, the best of it; his rich green fields, and bevy of well-paid dairy-maids, leaving no room for invidious qualms, such as may sometimes afflict the seller of game which may possibly have fattened at the expense of tenants, and has certainly been bagged at that of guests, whose dog-carts too often return home after these modern days of butchery and game-dealing much lighter than they came. Just imagine the indignation of a genuine sportsman of the generous old school, on being referred to a head keeper for permission to buy at market price the bird that has just fallen to his own gun, slain by his own powder and shot! Yet such things are, even on Highland braes, in these degenerate times.

There are countless old legends attached to these green hills, and to the cliffs and caves along the shore; tales of the warrior and Nimrod, Fingal, and his faithful hound Bran; wonderful holes in the rock, that have served for his cooking pots, wherein to boil rude kettles formed of the skins of the deer, and filled with flesh, such as he loved to eat half raw, and caves that have been honoured by his presence; but these tales have been so carefully collected by our kinsman, Campbell of Islay, that all lovers of such lore need only refer to his writings. A quaint story is told of the old stone at Kilcouslan, with a hole in the centre; namely, that kindly old St. Couslan, who had a strong sympathy with luckless young couples, and very little for stern guardians, established a law that every runaway couple reaching this stone, and here joining hands, should be considered indissolubly tied. So here, you see, was a forerunner of Gretna Green, or else a trace of Scandinavian mythology, as the old Norse custom of betrothal bade the lovers join hands through a circular hole in a sacrificial stone. This was called the promise of Odin, and was practised in the northern Isles long after they had embraced Christianity.

On the other hand, St. Coivin gets the credit of the most wonderful law of divorce, namely, that all unhappy couples should, on a given night, meet at his cell, when they were all blindfolded, and started on a pell-mell race thrice sunwise round the church, suddenly the saint would cry “Cabhag!” _i.e._ seize quickly! and each swain must catch what lass he could, and be true to her for one whole year, at the end of which, if still dissatisfied, he might return to the saintly cell, and try a new assortment in the next matrimonial game at blind-man’s-buff! This disorderly proceeding has given no character of unwonted frolic to the peaceful and “dacent” inhabitants of the present day. No spot on earth could well be more calm than the shores of beautiful Macnahanish Bay, and the green woods and braes of Losset. The fields close to the house are white with narcissus, the uncultured growth of many generations; while genuine wild flowers, blue and green and gold, riot in the shelter of the glen, and all day long the mavis and merle pour forth their jubilant songs in the quiet wood.

It is curious to note how the absence of frost favours the growth of plants too delicate for our eastern coast. Camellias bloom in the open air, and great hedges of crimson fuchsia live securely all the winter, on the lee side of sturdy fir trees, whose upper branches, however, are all scorched by the blighting sea winds.

I wonder what peculiarity of atmosphere causes the wonderful splendour of the sunsets on this coast. You know how much we have always heard of the amazing glory of sunrise and sunset in the East, more especially during the rains. I may safely say that I have scarcely once neglected to do homage to these outgoings of morning and evening, but with perhaps two exceptions, I have seen nothing that could bear away the palm of beauty from our own skies; and I am more and more tempted to believe that these “odious comparisons” are due only to the different hours of rising and dining, which compel travellers to use their eyes in a way they quite forget to do when at home.

Have you not sometimes wondered at the dull hearts and blind eyes that could scarcely glance westward for one moment, though the golden gates seemed to have opened behind the heavy purple clouds, just flushed with rosy crimson; and all so quickly changing; softening and mellowing in the hazy sunset light, till earth, and sea, and sky, alike lay steeped in loveliness? Blind eyes they must be, that have not yet been opened to read the Divine Book of Nature, written day by day by the finger of GOD Himself; the GOD of Infinite variety, Whose worship men are so apt to reduce to a mere system of forms, of infinite sameness. Surely the mind that most dearly loves to drink in the beauty of the visible world, must be the most in sympathy with that of the Great Artist who delights in creating such refinements of beauty, “rejoicing in His work.” One advantage over the sunsets of the East we certainly possess, in the long beautiful hours of twilight, when the curlew and the plover alone are on the wing; and that still later hour “’twixt the gloaming and the mirk” when all voices of nature are hushed, except the grand old music of the sea, murmuring its endless harmonies to the wild bent hills.

I doubt if there is any spot in all the British Isles, where you may study Old Ocean in all its varied tempers, more perfectly than you can here, in beautiful Machrihanish Bay, which lies outspread before our windows, so that morning, noon, and night, we watch its changing moods. From earliest times this spot has been noted for the tremendous size and roaring of the waves, which on the slightest provocation seem to lash themselves to raging fury, and many a brave ship has perished here, deceived by the lowness of the land, and so lured on to destruction. The whole force of the broad Atlantic seems to sweep into the Bay, as the great wild waves rush onward, chafing in their tumultuous wrath, albeit with such “method in their madness;” rising and swelling so deliberately, as each mighty green billow curls and breaks, in a crest of gleaming foam; and the seething water dashes noisily over the shingle, bubbling and surging among the masses of rock which lie heaped in such grand confusion along the coast—or else tossing its spray in wild sport, right over the cliffs and caves, where the delicate ferns are nestling, to the green bank above, where the young lambs are learning to crop the sweet short grass from those dangerous ledges, and spring back, startled, by such chilling practical jokes.

The waves are not idle in their sport. They are washing up great masses of brown sea-ware, not carefully gathered with a loving hand, but torn up by the roots, from the great gardens in the ocean depths. And the poor kelp burners are watching anxiously to see what harvest they may hope to reap. Some have only their creels, rough wicker baskets, which they carry on their own shoulders, but here and there is a little cart, drawn by a strong pony; a willing little beast, which strains every nerve to drag its burden of wet, heavy weed, over the rough shingle, to some spot above high-water mark, where it may be spread over the grass or sand, and left for several days to dry; this is the most anxious time in the harvest, as anxious as haymaking, in this uncertain climate; for one heavy shower of rain will wash away all the precious salts and iodine and leave the beach strewn only with useless lumber. As soon as it is safely dried, the weed is heaped into little stacks, till the last moment, when the furnace is ready to burn it. It is not “all fish that comes to the net” of the kelp burner. Those broad fronds of brown wrack which strew the shore are useless to him. He only collects the masses of brown tangle covered with little bladders, and when the tide goes out, he will cut all that he can find growing on the rocks, and add it to his store; this being by far more valuable than that which is cast up by the sea.

Let us sit down awhile, and watch him burn those brown heaps which he collected last week. We cannot stand on the open shore, or the bent hills, for the wind is blowing inland with such violence, that we should be sent right across the Isthmus—but there is a green bank at the foot of the cliff, facing the sea, where hardly a breath of air stirs the blue bells and foxgloves; for the wind strikes the shore in front of it, and then seems to be thrown upward at a sharp angle to the top of the crag, and though we seem to be right in the wind’s eye, we shall really be in perfect shelter. This is a wrinkle, which holds good for all rocky coasts.[2]

Now the kelp burners have made their kiln—it is a long deep grave lined with large stones. First they sprinkle a light covering of dry weed over these stones, and coax it till it burns, then slowly they add a handful at a time, till the grave is filled, and heaped up, with a semi-fluid mass, which they stir incessantly with a long iron bar; and a very picturesque group they are, half veiled by volumes of white opal smoke which has a pungent marine smell. This work will go on for hours, and when all the tangle has been burnt, the kiln will be allowed to half-cool, and its contents cut into solid blocks which become as hard and as heavy as iron, and are then ready for the market. From this material, much carbonate of soda, iodine, and various salts are obtained. And it was formerly of very great value in the manufacture of soap, alum, and glass.

The great extent to which potass is now imported has however proved a very heavy loss to the kelp burners, whose hard work now brings in very small return. And years ago, the removal of the duty on Spanish barilla was a matter of ruin to many of the Islanders, chiefly those of Skye, where the weed contained a much smaller proportion of the precious salts, than on other shores, such as those of Orkney, and where, consequently, this manufacture has been almost entirely given up. The Orkney kelp is used in the manufacture of plate glass, and fetches double the price of that made in the Hebrides, which is only fit for soap. Within the last few years, the price of kelp has fallen to 4_l._ per ton. In former times 6_l._ was the average, though it varied from 2_l._ to 20_l._ This high price was of short duration, and only continued during a sudden failure in the supply of Spanish barilla. When you consider, with what infinite labour and risk this crop is gathered, and that every ton of kelp represents twenty-four tons of sea-weed, you must allow that there is pretty stiff work for the money, and that these kelp burners do not eat the bread of idleness.

Of all beautiful sandy shores, I know none to compare with the golden beach of Macnahanish Bay, where the broad firm strand stretches for miles along the coast, making the pleasantest drive that can well be imagined, close to the water’s edge, where the sand is hard and firm, and the rippling wavelets run up past the horses’ feet, and retreat again, till you become giddy with watching them, and are fain to look away across the mellow sea, to where the sun is sinking behind the hills of Islay, and the five blue peaks of Jura, endeared to you and to me by many early associations with those who have now gone from us. This drive along the sands being the shortest road to Tarbert, it is not only on fine days that it proves tempting, and sometimes the well-trained horses, who have never felt a whip, but work gladly in obedience to their master’s kind voice, have a difficult task to make their way; with blinding surf almost bewildering them.

Once, only once, the beautiful shore proved treacherous. A long line of shingle had been thrown up, by an unusually violent tempest, and great beds of wrack lay between that and the sea, till day by day fresh layers of sand were blown up, and washed up, and it all looked smooth and firm as usual. But underneath, the hidden weed lay rotting, and as we drove confidently along, suddenly we found ourselves sinking lower and lower into dangerous quicksands. The good steeds knew the danger, and with violent effort dragged us out into the deeper water; and so, got round the perilous bank, which stretched far along the shore. Happily the sea was dead calm, or we should have had a poor chance of escape, especially as we had tied the children into the carriage with a series of intricate knots, to prevent their jumping out to catch jelly-fish, and such-like treasures.

On the high ground overlooking the bay lies the old Kirkyard of Kilkevan, where St. Coivin’s strange games at blindfold love were played. It is one of the most interesting of those we saw, from the extreme beauty of some of the carved stones. Some of these bear the figures of knights, with sword, as long as that of Robert the Bruce, and devices of the chase or armorial bearings, carved all round them. Others have no figure, only one long sword; some have only daggers. There is no mark to tell who sleeps beneath, or whence came the stones, though the people have a tradition that they were brought from Iona,—which, indeed, is likely enough; not as the spoils of ruthless pillage, but as the handiwork of some of the holy brethren, well skilled in cunning stone-work, who doubtless supplied these monuments to such of their neighbours as were willing to pay for them. Be that as it may, the carvers and the knights have been alike forgotten for many long ages, and here they still lie, all facing the east—waiting. The restless agitation of the mighty waters has not troubled their sleep; though, to the idle dreamer who lies among the golden iris watching the broad lights and shadows passing quickly over old Ocean’s face, it seems such a constant emblem of the tossing and unrest of life, that he cannot well put away the thousand thoughts thus awakened, and as the murmurous echoes rise and fall with the breeze, they seem to whisper the words of an old song:—

“Like the wild ceaseless motion,
Of the deep heaving wave,
Is our heart’s restless beating,
From our birth to our grave.
Toss’d by strong stormy passions,
On the swift wind we flee,
Till life’s bark reach the haven
When is no more sea.”