Chapter III: The Quiraing

“Here by each stormy peak and desert shore,
The hardy Islesman tugs the daring oar.
Here rise no groves, and here no gardens blow,
Here e’en the hardy heath scarce dares to grow:
But rocks on rocks, in mist and storm arrayed,
Stretch far to sea, their giant colonnade,
With many a cavern sealed—the dreary haunt
Of the dun seal and swarthy cormorant.
Wild round their rifted brows with frequent cry,
As of lament the gulls and gannets fly;
And from their sable base, with sullen sound,
In sheets of whitening foam the waves rebound.”

· · · · ·

“There towers the wild Quiraing,
With its battlements grim and high;
And the mighty Storr, with its pinnacles hoar,
Standing against the sky.”

One thing I will say for Skye weather: whatever it does it does in thorough earnest. I went there intending to remain a week, but it was four months before I left its hospitable shores, and during all that time we had either drenching rain or broiling heat in about equal parts. On this, our first morning, we awoke late, with a happy consciousness that a steady downpour had commenced, and hour after hour passed without the faintest promise of a break. The laird of Kilmuir had sent his carriage for us at daybreak, but wary old John suggested the hope of a break in the clouds towards sunset, when sure enough it cleared, and we found the road in such first-rate order that the fifteen miles to Uig were accomplished with wonderful rapidity.

Uig is a deep bay, in the form of a horse-shoe, the points of which are two rocky headlands rising abruptly from the sea. The Lodge stands at the head of the bay, exactly in the centre, very few feet above the water level, so that at high tide you may throw a pebble from the window into the sea. Very pleasant on these sweet summer evenings, but I fancy that when wild storms rage outside the bay, their wrath, albeit spent in the outer world, must still sorely trouble these quiet waters, and lash the angry surf till it overleaps the low sea-wall, and throws its foam and tangle right up to the porch. On either side of the house a mountain streamlet rushes to the sea with ceaseless babble. Likewise on either side lie the two kirks, the Free Kirk, which is large and crowded, the Established, which is small and half empty. The service at each is in Gaelic, that combination of savage gutturals being the only language “understanded of the people.” But in consideration of the ignorance of about six inhabitants of the Lodge, each church allowed us a special English service every third Sunday. So after the Gaelic service had lasted about two hours we were expected to walk in, the rest of the congregation remaining stationary, though a very small proportion of the men and none of the women understood the English psalm, prayer, and “discoorse,” which followed, after which it was our turn to wait patiently while the Gaelic service came to a conclusion; and though to a southern ear there might be little beauty in the wild tunes to which those old Gaelic psalms are set, to me they seemed so thoroughly in harmony with the voices of wind and waves around us, that they acquired a charm often lacking in more perfect music. The tunes are nominally the same as some of those common in the Lowlands, but from the lips of a Gaelic-speaking race, they seem so entirely to assimilate with the language that it would be hard for even a practised ear to recognise their identity. This is partly owing to the fact that they are sung like a kind of litany, each line being first chanted by the precentor alone, and then taken up by the whole congregation. The verse generally begins in a low subdued tone, which gradually swells as it rolls on, then again the voices sink and die away in prolonged wild cadence. Thus each verse is sung in turn, and as the congregation is in no hurry to disperse, and the number of verses is unlimited, the singing seems to roll on endlessly in a soothing monotony like the sighing of the night wind.

A favourite psalm was the 65th, and its words seem as though written for some such sea-girt land; well watered, and with corn land, and rich pastures, and little hills covered with flocks. Many a time it was recalled to my mind when camping in the uttermost parts of the earth, and from some hill temple in the Himalayas the wild song of the Paharis (those genuine Highlanders) came floating up to my tent. What words they sung I knew not, doubtless hymns to rivers, and pine forests, and snowy mountains, but the voices and harmonies were identical, and they never failed to carry my thoughts back to the Western Isles.

Altogether there is a wonderful charm in the simplicity of these Highland churches, and even the custom which always strikes a stranger as so singularly unpleasant and unnatural, namely that of standing during public prayer, seems here to acquire a special interest, reminding us of those early days of the primitive Church, when the little band of Christians marked the first day of the week by standing at worship in token that on this day they were justified and freed from slavish dread by Christ’s resurrection; therefore, while they knelt on the other six days, they “deemed it impious”[24] to bend the knee or to fast on the Lord’s own day. The standing attitude was also adopted during Pentecost, but not observed uniformly by all the Churches, for we find the Council of Nice decreeing that “Because there are some who kneel on the Lord’s day, and in the days of Pentecost, in order that all things may be uniformly performed in every parish or diocese, it seems good to the holy synod that prayers be made to God standing.” So you see that in this matter, and perhaps also in some other respects, the simple worship of the isles comes nearer to the practice of the primitive Christians than does our own more attractive ceremonial.

One picturesque feature of these congregations is that a very large proportion of the older women still continue faithful to their clean white mutches and bright tartan shawls, and some bonnie lassies too, are not ashamed to make a fold of their plaid act as head-gear as their mothers did before them, instead of aiming at one invariable type of dress. The poetic snood, which in olden days was the distinguishing mark of every Highland maiden, has unfortunately quite disappeared, its place being usurped by the commonest hair-net; too often by much beflowered bonnets. This departure from the simple old head-gear was originally due to an order of the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland for awakening sleepers, whose powers of attention were exhausted by the length of the sermons. The Kirk Sessions thereupon prohibited all women from wearing plaids or hoods upon their heads in time of Divine service, that they might not sleep unobserved! These law-givers you perceive were _men_, who could not brook that the women-folk should have such an advantage over them.

They were decidedly selfish, too, in the matter of seats, for until long after the Reformation there were no pews in church save for the big magistrates and landowners. All men of low degree brought their own stools or benches to kirk with them; and the Kirk Sessions of 1597 forbade women to sit on the forms men would occupy. “All women must sit together in the kirk, and sit laigh,” that is, on the ground! and lest they should profit by this lowly posture, and sleep in peace, a church officer was ordered to go through the kirk with a long pole, to remove the plaids from the heads of all women, whether wives or maids. The same enactment is recorded in the year 1649, and at later intervals.

So you see this was another means to that end, which Bishop Burnet sought to ensure, when he found that “the gallants _would_ ogle the ladies of the Court,” and that these likewise _would_ look about them, instead of attending to what Queen Mary called “his thundering long sermons.” He persuaded Queen Anne to allow him to have all the pews in St. James’s Church raised so high that his captives could see nothing lower than the pulpit, an example which was shortly after adopted by many of his dry and longwinded brethren, to the lasting disfigurement of our churches. As to the effects of this legislation on the dresses of our lassies, of course once the plaids were put down by law, it was natural enough that southern fashions should creep in; and the inevitable bonnet with its “gum-flowers” now haunts you at every remotest corner.

I think one of the worst points in spreading civilization is the tendency to put away all distinctive national dress, and reduce all raiment to a dull uniformity. And the people in every land, who formerly wore their own accustomed dress with easy grace and dignity, now ape the stiff fashions of England and France; and a very unbecoming change it is, in almost every case.

The men of the isles are more faithful than the women, and retain their suit of sonsy dark blue homespun and broad bluebonnet. The kilt never seems to have found favour amongst them. Happily the number of black coats and hats is very limited, and you see at a glance that you are surrounded by a race of hardworking fishers and shepherds. The marvel is to see such families of well brushed-up lads and lassies—so many, and so well grown—and then to look at the tiny bothy whose roof is home, not to these only, but probably to other sons and daughters as well, who have gone to earn their bread on the mainland, or far over the seas, but whose hearts are so warm to the old home, and to those that gather round its single neuk, that no new ties will ever fill its place. A happy people in truth, to whom the home in childhood, how homely soever, will be the golden mile-stone from which to date each stage of life. And nowhere are the little ones more deeply cared for, and more heartily welcomed. Poor though the hearth may be, that house is reckoned poorest where the quiver is empty, for the Highlanders say that a home without the voices of children is dreary as a farm without sheep or kye.

The bothies are all much alike; there are generally two rooms: an outer one for cattle, and an inner one for the family, the whole enclosed by a double wall of rough unhewn stone, perhaps five or six feet thick, the interstices being crammed with heather. On the inner side of this wall rests a thatch of thick heather, probably encrusted with gold and brown moss, and with a crop of grass that would keep a cow; a crop which the thrifty housewife is careful to gather from time to time. The roof is tied on with a perfect net-work of ropes, and weighted by large stones, to resist the frightful gusts of wind, which would carry off any ordinary cottage roof. A wealthy man, and one who cares about trifles, may perhaps put up an old herring-barrel to act as a chimney, but as a general rule, there is none, and the blue smoke finds its way out where it can, or settles on the brown rafters, encrusting the hanging cobwebs with thick peat-reek which is a much more romantic decoration than our common domestic soot! When the roof has become so thoroughly saturated with this rich brown grease that a new thatch becomes necessary, the old one is broken up, and becomes very valuable as manure for the little crofts.

Owing to the great difficulty in obtaining timber, the real value of the house lies in its rafters; these are for the most part the gift of the sea; sometimes the masts of some old ship, whose crew lie deep beneath the waters; oftener some grand old tree torn up by the mighty tempests that months before raged over the western forests; thence floated by rushing torrents to the deep sea, to become the sport of the waves, and the home of strange creatures, animate and inanimate—barnacles and limpets and many-coloured weeds, which the builder has not thought it worth while to scrape off, so that when after a few months they have acquired the general rich brown hue of all within the house, they might very well pass muster as fine old oak carving. As to the roots and branches, you must not fancy that anything so precious is used for firewood; each little chip is turned to some good account; and the man who secures a good log of driftwood has found a prize indeed. Should he change his home from one village to another, he either carries his roof with him, or claims considerable compensation from his successor. Hence when a young couple are courting, their wooing and cooing is accompanied by a most serious search for wood, sticks, straw, and moss wherewith to build and thatch their future nest.

This lack of timber is one of the great grievances of the lairds, some of whom keep up a ceaseless struggle with nature, striving to make wood grow where she has determined to have none. It is vain to suggest that these bare moors are at least in this present era, the true character of the country, and that they might as well try to change an aquiline nose into a Roman one. The struggle still goes on, and good gold is sunk in hopeless plantations and great stone walls to protect them from the cutting sea blasts. By dint of these, the young trees are so far protected that they do get a fair start, but alas for the proud day when they attempt to overtop that kindly shelter! Very few days will pass before they are scorched and burnt up, as if by a furnace; and it seems pretty clear that except in a few sheltered nooks, such as Armadale, Dunvegan, and Greshernish, trees will not grow. This is the more remarkable, as there are traces in different parts of the Hebrides of the comparative abundance of timber in olden days, a fact to which Dean Munro alludes when, writing in A.D. 1594, he speaks of Pabba (now a low grassy island lying off Broadford), as being “full of wodes, and a main shelter for thieves and cut-throats.” With respect to more ancient forests, very extensive tracts exist where trunks and other remains of large trees are constantly dug up in the peat-moss, remains both of hardwood and of pine, the latter being invaluable as a substitute for candles, from the clear light of its resinous wood; and many a cosy home group gathers round the ingle neuk, listening to stories of the old days, while one, learned in legends of the past, tells how the Norwegians swept these coasts, and burnt all the old forests, leaving traces of their devastations even to this day, in the charred and blackened timber.

In many instances fine large trunks have been found under the present sea-level, covered with sea-weed and shells, a striking proof of the gradual encroachments of the ocean in certain districts. It is said that whole tracts of land, till recently under cultivation, have disappeared—or are now so covered with sand, as to be utterly worthless—very much in the same way as a great portion of the “Laich of Moray” was submerged by those fearful inundations at the close of the eleventh century, when, says Boethius, “the lands of Godowine, near the mouth of the Thames, and likewise the land of Moray in Scotland, together with many villages, castles, towns, and extensive woods both in England and Scotland, were overwhelmed by the sea, and the labours of men laid waste by the discharge of sand from the sea.”

The bonnie shores of Moray have, however, been shaken by many such commotions of the deep. We know that prior to 1695, those desert Culbyn Sand-hills, which are now the delight of naturalists and the haunt only of strange wild birds, were fruitful fields and gardens, clustering round an old manor-house, where dwelt a wealthy laird in the midst of his farms and his people; the owner of land so fertile, that it was called the granary of Moray. To this day, as the shifting sand-hills change from place to place, they reveal traces of cultivated land; sometimes of old fruit trees and dwelling houses, which, a few days later, are again buried deep beneath the sand; and many a time, after a strong wind has swept the land, I have myself walked on fields where every furrow was still clearly defined, but which on the morrow lay buried deep beneath twenty feet of desert sand.

Nor was this the latest freak of nature on that shore. Prior to the year 1701, the town of Findhorn stood upon a pleasant plain a mile north-west from its present situation, but now the bottom of the sea. This change was effected by a single tide, which burst through a great natural sand-bar at the mouth of the river, and forced open its present course, overwhelming the good fishing town. Happily, the inhabitants had so long suspected danger, that they had gradually forsaken their homes, so that few lives were endangered. Near the old town of Findhorn lay a level peat-moss, where many roots and trunks of large trees marked the forest that had once flourished there; and in the middle of this moor rose a conical artificial mound, about forty fathoms high, called the Douff-hillock. This now forms the bed of the ocean, which has encroached so far into the land, that instead of the fisher folk having a five miles’ walk direct to Burghead, they have to make a circuit of upwards of ten miles round the bay.

The latest attempt of the mighty waters to pass their appointed limits on our pleasant shores of Moray was in the year 1755, when the effects of the fearful earthquake at Lisbon made themselves felt even here; and it is recorded that in the parish of Dyke, a flock of sheep, though folded in their usual cot, and far beyond the reach of any ordinary tide, were one and all drowned. But to return to the peat-moss of the isles.

One curious inference drawn from the class of timber which formerly flourished in these islands is, that a very marvellous change in climate must have taken place in comparatively recent ages. This seems to corroborate certain statistical accounts of the temperature which have been preserved at Kilwinning, in Ayrshire, where, it is affirmed, that so great was the heat in the month of May, that farmers had to leave off ploughing at 8 A.M., and could not resume work before 4 P.M. The same account states that the harvest was finished in August—a very different story from our average nowadays, when a harvest-home in September marks a very satisfactory autumn; while, in too many instances, a very much later date might be given.

In the Hebrides the cereal crops are always a matter of risk, owing to the extreme probability of prolonged autumnal rains; and it is only too common to see the crops at the end of the season cut green, and only fit for fodder. In truth, the patience and perseverance of the poor cotters, who continue year after year to toil in such unprofitable soil, are qualities which continually call forth our wondering admiration. The general climate is, however, mild, with the same freedom from frost that we noticed in Cantyre; and this is said to be especially true of the remote Isle of St. Kilda, which is more fully subject to the warm currents of the Gulf Stream.

Nevertheless, strange things sometimes drift ashore, which tell rather of having floated down from chilling northern latitudes. Sometimes large fragments of ice, and once a great walrus found its way hither, having probably sailed along unsuspiciously on some detached fragment of his iceberg. His head is still preserved, as that of so rare a guest deserved to be. Two summers ago a great whale, sixty feet long, swam unsuspiciously right up Loch Scavaig, and there found himself so entangled and perplexed by the great black rocks, that he ran right ashore, and for two whole days wriggled and flopped about in the vain struggle to escape, lashing the sea, and overturning huge stones in his despair, and all the time roaring (so say the fishers) like an enraged bull, awakening the ghostly echoes of dark Corruisk, and disturbing the Sabbath calm of its misty mountains. Not till the third day did the poor brute cease to battle with his rocky prison, when he was espied by an amazed English tourist, who forthwith swam to the spot and climbed on to the whale’s back, whence he was shaken off by its last dying struggle. Then the natives assembled, and having finally despatched him, set to work in a fever of excitement to carry off the blubber from this heaven-sent prize. A small portion of this royal fish was left for Her Majesty, but many a lowly home was gladdened through the winter nights by the unwonted supply of oil, although so vast a quantity was suffered to escape, that the troubled sea all round was smoothed and calmed for many days. It was long enough after this dissection, before any one gifted with a sense of smell could again venture near that beautiful sea-loch!

Speaking of rare guests, you will not travel far in Skye before hearing anecdotes of the pompous Dr. Johnson and his little toadying companion. Almost the first thing that will be pointed out to you is Kingsburgh House, as being the place where Flora Macdonald entertained them. To us it had far more interest as being that in which, many years before, in the days of her youth and beauty, she and her princely maid, Betty Burke, had found shelter and safety. But we heard so many legends of Prince Charlie’s hair-breadth escapes among these islands, that I will tell you what we gathered on that subject in a more connected form. I do not mean to say that we withheld our tribute of admiration from the brave old man, the City-bred philosopher, who, at the age of sixty-four, forsook the luxury of London clubs, and, though suffering from his sight, and heavy alike from disease, and from his naturally unwieldy size, yet determined to behold with his own eyes those barren Hebrides, which had appeared to him in far-away visions, grey and dreamy, as he sat by his comfortable board in Fleet Street. So, like a true pilgrim, he started on that, then difficult, journey to Iona, and thence to Isles further still, tossing about on stormy nights in an open sailing-boat; riding rough Highland ponies, or even trudging wearily on tired feet over moor and mountain, through scenery that to him seemed only grim and savage. Nothing daunted by storms and discomforts, he pursued his way, seeking for Ossian and for trees. Fancy a man with no Gaelic hoping to find Ossian! He tested his drinking capacity against that of seasoned whisky-loving lairds, and tried to deepen the impression he had made on their women-folk by keepsakes of such light literature as odd volumes of arithmetic! The poor man even tried to get up a due appreciation of the pipes by standing with his ear close to the drone, enduring silent martyrdom without wincing, thinking thereby to test his fine ear for music!

Between Kingsburgh and Uig is an old ruin on a cliff overhanging the sea, a pleasant spot in which to bask away the sunny hours—the blue Cuchullins making a lovely background to the grey walls of Castle Ustian (or Hugh’s Castle), built in the time of James VI. by Hugh Macdonald as a place of refuge. It had no windows, or any means of access, except a small door high in the wall, to which its master climbed by a ladder, which he then pulled up after him; and could rest tolerably secure as long as his provisions lasted. Being next of kin to Donald Gorm Mòr, the chief, he seems to have been weary of waiting for dead men’s shoes; and, having induced some of his neighbours to form a conspiracy against his uncle, they formally drew up a bond, which they all signed.

This compact was left in the hands of one, Macleod. It seems that this man had previously received a bond from a cattledealer, for monies due to him, and on this being reclaimed, Macleod, who could neither write nor read, gave the drover the wrong document, which quickly found its way to the chief. He generously determined to meet this villainy with chivalrous goodness, and giving a public feast, invited all these traitors, who duly appeared. He then publicly produced the compact; confronted them with their own signatures, and forgave them. Hugh was solemnly sworn to fidelity along with the others, but being little touched by his uncle’s forgiveness, he soon embarked in a new plot, and the story runs that having written two letters, one to the chief in terms of deepest penitence, and the other to a co-traitor, devising fresh means for his assassination, he folded both letters, and addressed each to the other correspondent. His villainy being thus a second time detected, his uncle determined to secure his own safety, and before Hugh was conscious of his blunder, he was invited to return to the house of his chief, when he was seized and cast into a dark and noisome dungeon, where he was left for many hours without tasting food. When ravenous with hunger, an abundant meal of salt meat was lowered to him. And after awhile, when half mad from raging thirst, a cup followed. But it was the cup of Tantalus—empty, and only mocked his agony. After this no human step drew near again. And he was left to perish miserably in solitude, darkness, and unutterable anguish.

Returning to Uig, you pass the comfortable new Inn, just below which lies the narrow glen of the Conan; a clear, cool, stream, laughing and sparkling in the sunlight, or dreaming to quiet pools under the green shade of ferns, which grow in every cleft of the black, mossy rock; while the yellow broom throws its tremulous reflection on the fairy mirror, or, shaken by the breeze, drops its golden blossoms on to the brown water, startling the silvery trout, that lie on the white gravel below, and making them dart up stream to hide among the pebbles, over which the water frets and ripples, ere it speeds on its seaward way, rushing, tossing, twisting, and flashing in the light, as it hurries past.

“Making sweet music with the enamell’d stones,
Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge,
He overtaketh in his pilgrimage;
And so, by many winding nooks he strays,
With willing sport, to the wild ocean.”

If you watch quietly near this overhanging ledge of rock, you will see a motherly old wild duck swim out with all her brood, darling little balls of brown and yellow fluff, with eyes like black diamonds, rejoicing in their young lives. Presently from among the sedges a water-ouzel will dive right into the stream, in pursuit of some delectable beetle; or the ring-ouzel may fly down from his home among the heathery cliffs, to that flat granite rock, where he will drink and lift up his head to the sun as if giving thanks, and then drink again; sometimes come the lovely black and white Oyster Catchers, with scarlet bills and legs (Sea-Peewits we call them, when they make their spring home on the gravelly banks of the rushing Spey), and the air rings with their wild cries.

As you wander up this bonnie burn-side, you will come upon rich masses of honeysuckle, trailing up the rocks, and hanging down to the water’s edge. And hidden in this sweet tangle of whispering leaves and blossoms, are dainty homes in the woodbine, where young birds are chirping the “Lays of the Commissariat” to their busy foraging mothers.

To all lovers of wild flowers, these islands must have an especial charm, for their infinite variety and beauty. There are rare flowers for collectors, but you and I care more for those we have known from our childhood, and the sweet braeside is all covered with them. The delicate purple rock geranium, and the white Stellaria (the Star of Bethlehem) grow thickest among “the moist and reedy grass” in these shady nooks; and Our Lady’s Mantle holds its large dewdrop in each leafy cup.

The fragrant Bog-Myrtle (or rather, Sweet Gale), lies in green patches, scenting the air; while over every heather tuft, the gossamer spider has spun its delicate web, and you wonder how so frail a tissue can support the thousand diamond-like dew-drops, which glisten and sparkle all over it. The Canna grass or Bog Cotton also waves its soft downy plumes, seeming to sprinkle a shower of snow above the dark peat-moss, an emblem dear to many an old Scotch ballad-writer.

The Grass of Parnassus is here in abundance, but you must go to drier banks to find the loveliest flower of all, the pure white star which crowns that delicate slender stem, from which grows a second star of green leaves, two or three inches below the blossom. I only know it as the “Trientalis Europæa.” Far too fine a name for so graceful and delicate a blossom.

When we reach the Falls of the Conan, where the merry waters dash noisily over the dark rock, we will turn aside into a quiet “dell without a name,” where a multitude of conical fairy hillocks rise on every side of us, like innumerable tumuli of some giant race of bygone days. They are all exactly alike in shape, only differing in size; all clothed with short grass, and worn into countless concentric rings, which I fancy must be sheep walks, though they look like water marks, or indeed like human handiwork, like the steps of the Pyramids on a small scale. The only other place where I am aware of the existence of a similar formation is near Loch Torridon, where, in a valley known in Gaelic as that of the thousand hills, the same green knolls rise in endless groups round a central loch.

The highest of these Skye hillocks is crowned by a precipitous rock, called Castle Ewan, so marvellously resembling a fortified castle, that it is difficult to believe some ghostly masons have not been at work. The hillocks are essentially grassy, “with daisies powdered o’er” as old Chaucer says, but in the little valleys between them, there is the same wealth of wild flowers in endless variety. Here are carpets of purple and white Orchis, and golden globe flowers, veiled by the lace-like blossoms of wild parsley; while the honeyed fragrance of the pink bog-heather attracts a humming swarm of bees. The delicate blue butterflies hover like floating harebells over the large pearly-white Gowan, with the golden heart—the wishing-flower the children call it, when they test their little loves by its fortune-telling leaves.

You will hardly find a pleasanter resting-place than one of these grassy knolls, where you can lie in peace and listen to nature’s stillness—“the many-mingled sounds of earth, which men call silence,”—the sounds of the moorlands, the shiver and rustle of grasses, ferns and tall iris-leaves bending before the faint breeze; and the hum of insect life, with that ceaseless undertone of murmuring sea and rivulet, alike invisible. Presently, from their burrow under the fairy hillock, come a family of young rabbits—little, soft, coaxy things—playing all manner of merry antics; springing and leaping like merry kittens, and nibbling at the rich grasses. One sits close to us,

“Fondling its poor harmless face,”

while the others scamper off to a feast of Dandelion, and, as they touch the feathery tufts of silken down, the whole air is filled with fluffy parachutes, wafted about with every breath; and thistle-down too is floating in soft white clouds.

Do you know how the thistle came to be chosen as the emblem of Scotland? The old tradition is, that when a Scottish garrison was in danger of being surprised by a Danish foe, a barefooted Dane, creeping along in the darkness of night, trod to the sharp prickles of a thistle, and, yelling with the shock of sudden pain, aroused the drowsy sentinel; and the garrison thus saved, adopted the emblem and motto which afterwards became that of the nation.

As we turn homeward from this happy valley, a light curl of blue smoke betrays a lonely sheiling, more picturesque than cosy, I fear. It is built as a lean-to against a great boulder of rock, the honeysuckle has clambered over the heather roof; outside it is a study for a painter, but within, it is dark and dingy, and thick with the rich brown peat-reek of ages. It does own a chimney, through which you will see more of the blue sky than through the tiny window; and when your blinded eyes can distinguish anything, a ray of light (from the chimney) will show two nice old wives—“caillachs,” the Gaelic folk would say—who sit spinning in the corner. They are very deaf, and “have no English,” so your friendship will probably begin and end with a smile and a grip from a kindly old hand that has done plenty of good work in its day. Probably they will offer you a hot oat-cake, for the poorest hut would fain show hospitality to a stranger.

The other stream which flows into Uig Bay is the Rah, whose chief attraction is a very picturesque waterfall—no great thing on a dry day, but after a good night’s rain, when there is something of a spate, and it comes roaring, rushing, and tumbling, as if from the blue sky, down between the black cliffs where the ravens build, into a deep basin, whence it boils over and makes a second fall, and then swirls and bubbles round the great boulders of grey rock, whose golden lichens and brown mosses gleam through the spray—then, I think, it is a thing of beauty, and worth pausing a few moments to see, from some spot nearer than the high-road, along which the tourists hurry to Quiraing; _that_ being the thing to do; and to be done, like all sight-seeing, as quickly as possible.

We narrowly escaped bequeathing to the spot such a legend as would have drawn thither all future tourists. For one morning, while I was quietly painting, and my brother scrambling about the rocks overhead, suddenly _something_ flashed past me, and I looked up just in time to see him disappear in the black water below. As we knew nothing of its depth, the first terror was that he would probably strike his head upon a rock, and it was with a sense of thankful relief that, long before I could clamber down from my own somewhat dangerous perch, I saw a white face rise, and in a few moments more, he managed to scramble out, with no worse hurt than a bruised knee.

A few days later we found our way to the Quiraing, which afterwards became a very favourite haunt. It is a stupendous mass of rock (amygdaloidal trap, which is a black rock speckled with white), the grassy hill ending abruptly in a precipitous rock face, whence green banks slope down to the sea. Its general form, and that of its neighbour, “The Storr Rock,” is much the same as Salisbury Crags, which must be familiar to every one who has passed through Edinburgh. The Storr has one gigantic detached needle about 160 feet in height, which stands out clear against the sky like a huge horn, quite separate from the cliff, and visible for many miles on either side.

The Quiraing, in addition to one giant needle, has a perfect wilderness of huge detached masses of rock of every conceivable form. These are striking enough, even when seen in the bright sunshine; but after a rainy night, when fleecy white mists curl and wreathe themselves, like spirit drapery, round each weird form, and vapours steam up from the grass at your very feet till you hardly know where you stand, and every object is magnified tenfold, the feeling of awe and mystery becomes almost overpowering. Sometimes a fantastic white shroud suddenly hides the whole scene, and you see nothing but the grass and rushes under foot. Then a rift in the cloud shows you the blue sea, lying in calm sunlight far below, dotted with islands, and perhaps the white sail of a yacht. Suddenly a fairy hand draws back the curtain, and close to you is a rock, like a huge lion couchant, and behind it a tall pillar, with a kneeling figure, which reminds one of St. Simon Stylites. Another moment, and these have disappeared; but in their place three giant figures, with curled wigs and flowing robes, have slowly emerged from the mist. They are unmistakably a king and queen, and the lord chancellor; who, however, stands uncourteously _dos à dos_ to his sovereign, but facing a solemn and shadowy old Druid priest, who sits gravely guarding his rock sanctuary.

These, and a hundred more, are among the quaint rock forms that jut up from that wonderful confusion like figures in a dream, suggesting the work of some antediluvian wizard, whose spell had suddenly petrified all living things, and thus bequeathed to us these weird groups of fossil giants. Geologists, however, give us a more commonplace reason for this strange formation. They tell how, between these masses of black trap rock, and the columnar trap which crests the sea-cliffs, there lie beds of soft shale and crumbly limestone and oolite; and that as these slowly wear away, the superincumbent mass of rock breaks up, and remains standing in huge isolated blocks and pinnacles like gigantic castles and figures. This process is slowly, but continually going on, and therefore, year by year, these strange rock forms must multiply, as the breaking up of each winter’s frost loosens fresh masses of crag.

To see the Quiraing from the upper road conveys a very poor notion of it; and though the scramble to the foot of the rocks lies over slippery grass and sharp-cutting stones, it well repays the fatigue. Behind the great needle there is a cleft in the rock hardly seen from below. You must scramble up here, over the same sharp fragments of disintegrated rock—a most toilsome process, and one very trying to shoe-leather—and at last you reach the summit; and, standing in the cleft of the mighty cliff which towers above you on either side, you look down into a great cup of greenest pasture, closed in on every hand by the great black crag. In the middle of this amphitheatre lies one gigantic mass of rock, a huge oblong about forty feet high. The top of this is perfectly flat, and carpeted with the richest green grass, smooth as a lawn, and measuring about three hundred feet in length, by half that width. This rock is the Quiraing _par excellence_; and though the meaning of the word is uncertain, it seems to imply that it was the sheep-fold of some one once famous, who, driving his flocks thither at the approach of danger found here rich pasture and a safe hiding-place from foray and raid, at a height of upwards of a thousand feet above the sea, which washes the base of the green hill. As you look down from this high post, through some cleft between the great rock spires and towers, your eye wanders first over a succession of grassy slopes and hillocks, till it rests on that broad, gleaming surface—

“With its multitudinous sparkle,
And its countless laughing ripple.”

all dotted with islands—some near, some faintly visible in the far horizon; while, looking towards the mainland, you discern the great hills of Ross and Sutherland. That the islands are tolerably numerous, we are well aware, having in our infancy been taught that the Hebrides are 490 in number. This, of course, includes every rocky islet as far south as Bute and Arran, whereon pasturage for even one sheep may be found. Of these, 120 are inhabited.

I spent many delightful days alone in this rocky wilderness, enjoying its beauty and its solitude beyond description; and, above all, its intensity of silence, rarely broken, save by the crowing of some cheery old grouse calling its mate, or by the quick whiz of their wings as they shot past me—sounds which, to a child of the moorland, are about the pleasantest that can be heard, associated, as they are, with many a sunny day among the heathery hills. Moreover, there is such a charm in the feeling of out-and-out patriotism of the one bird that is essentially British, and that positively refuses to exist in any corner of the earth save his native moors, where he and his family have from time immemorial lived their jolly and independent lives.

As a general rule, tourists visiting the Quiraing only come by the coach, and “do” the rocks in a couple of hours, during which a fair amount of whisky is consumed, and the echoes are awakened by discordant shouts and songs. It rarely occurs to them to stop a night at the Uig Inn; so when the steamer lands them at Portree, they drive upwards of twenty miles, returning the same day. The excellent roads make this easy enough; and at the time of our visit, rival coaches had reduced one another’s prices to such a pitch, that they were carrying passengers at one penny per mile! Whether, like the Kilkenny cats, they succeeded in devouring one another, or whether either survived, I cannot tell.

But this I know—that he who would learn the lesson of the hills, must go forth from the multitude, and learn it in silence and solitude; that nature’s voice may whisper to him in sweet low tones that cannot be discerned, amid the jarring sounds of human mirth. Never more forcibly than in this place does one realize the truth and beauty of such a description as that given by Wordsworth of a solitary wanderer, with soul absorbed in intensest sympathy with nature, looking down on such a scene as this, and revelling in its utter loneliness:

“From the naked top
Of some bold headland, he beheld the sun
Rise up and bathe the world in light! He looked—
Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth
And ocean’s liquid mass, in gladness lay
Beneath him; far and wide the clouds were touched,
And in their silent faces could he read
Unutterable love. Sound needed none,
Nor any voice of joy; his spirit drank
The spectacle,—sensation, soul, and form,
All melted into him; they swallowed up
His animal being; in them did he live,
And by them did he live; they were his life.”

Sometimes while you sit here entranced, only conscious of

“What a strange delight is out,
When nothing human is about.”

a shadow will pass over, and as you look up you may see the great golden eagle soar from its eyrie on the highest crag, cleaving the air with strong steady wing (measuring perhaps six feet from tip to tip) and now scanning Duntulm’s lambs, which would be tempting prizes to carry back to the eaglets in their nest of rushes and heather. Sometimes the osprey sails along, for it, too, breeds among these cliffs; but it makes for the river, and would rather catch fish for itself, like an honest bird, than molest the flocks. The kite is less scrupulous, and glides along, marking where the weak and sickly lamb may become his prey. The shepherds call him the _gled_, because of his smooth gliding flight. One sight for which I vainly watched both here and in the Himalayas, is that of the eagle teaching her eaglets to fly, ready, the moment the young wings are weary, to fly below, and stay them from falling—a fact alluded to with such force and beauty in that last song of Moses, sung in the waste howling wilderness on the eve of his last ascent to the Arabian mountains, where he was to die alone on Mount Nebo, and where the eagle looking down from his lonely eyrie, would strengthen his own spirit with the lesson of faith and trust he had just been teaching to his people.

There is no lack of variety in the drives about Kilmuir, and the same good roads in every direction show the wish of the proprietor to open up the country. The most beautiful is one along the sea-coast, passing above the rock needle, known as “The old man of Scudaboro,” who rises from the sea, and whether in tempest or in calm, keeps ceaseless watch, though the human garrison have for many a long century forsaken their vitrified fort, traces of which you may still note on the green hill-top. Beyond rises the red headland of Idrigal, one of the points of Uig Bay. A short distance further comes Monkstadt, so called from an old monastery which once stood on an islet in the lake close by, on which some ruins can still be traced. To the modern house various Jacobite legends are attached.

Passing onward along the coast, with the sea on one hand, and on the other a confused wall of broken-down cliff and great rocks, we come to the ruins of old Duntulm Castle, the Castle of the Grassy Hillock, one of the finest holdings of the old Lords of the Isles, and indeed their original home, built on the site of an old Viking fort. Like all this coast, it is now the property of the Laird of Kilmuir, and the modern house is rented by one of those wealthy farmers, whose names are as familiar at the cattle shows of the mainland as they are in the isles. The old castle has been uninhabited since 1715, and is now quite a ruin, and like all the ancient dwellings, it conveys a wonderful idea of discomfort. Tiny rooms in the thickness of the wall, and little space for luxury in such crowded quarters. Whether the ladies wrought tapestry for their walls I know not; but servants, called rush-bearers, were kept on purpose to strew the floors every morning with fresh rushes. This in due time led to the invention of rush or grass matting, and so to the use of other materials for carpeting. A curious trace of this old custom still lingers among the English lakes, where at certain churches, such as Ambleside and Grasmere, one Sunday in the year is still known as Rush-bearing Sunday. Here, in the memory of old folk now living, it was customary on this day to strew the churches with a thick layer of green rushes, which were left undisturbed for a twelvemonth, by which time they had accumulated a fair amount of mother earth! I believe the strewing is now quite given up, but the day is marked by picturesque processions, in which the children carry crosses and other ecclesiastical emblems, made of rushes and flowers. The inhabitants of the castle commanded a grand sea-view, overlooking the channel of the Minch, the rocky Shiant Isles, and those of Uist, Harris, and Lewis; while its site on perpendicular basalt cliffs, rising from the sea, proved a very grand natural fortification.

If we continue our drive along the same wild and beautiful road, it will take us round the foot of the Quiraing by the green hills of Flodigarry to the inn at Loch Staffin; thence two miles of slow ascent and infinite beauty will bring us to the brow of the hill, whence we first caught sight of the wonderful rock wilderness. I have sometimes sat at this spot throughout the beautiful long day without seeing a living creature save a group of picturesque lassies, in the usual short petticoat and white bed-gown, with bare feet and bright scarlet or white handkerchief on their glossy hair, half hidden by the huge bundle of heather, which they would have to carry six or eight miles, that the men might rethatch their bothies. Though their usual habit is to dart off the road and hide on the approach of any gentry, they would rest a while near me, to watch the lady making maps, and laugh and chatter to me in Gaelic, of which I knew about three words, one of which—i.e. _meanichulagan_, the small flies, alias midges—was a sure bond of sympathy, for these little miscreants are the very torture of life in Skye. You have only to brush over the heather, and even if by any accident they were at rest, up they start in ravenous armed myriads, making work utterly impossible, till at last, with fevered blood, and face and hands literally swollen by their attacks, you probably have to leave the spot to which you had attained with such toil and trouble, and make for home or the sea-shore as fast as ever you can. Never before had we been filled with so righteous a personal detestation to Beelzebub, the god of flies! Never had we so devoutly sympathised with those old Greeks, who considered the office of Fly-disperser to be work enough and to spare for one of their gods, and told him off accordingly![25] We tried every conceivable mixture to drive them away, and even sent to a London physician for special antidotes for our tormentors, but all prescriptions failed, and the only thing approaching to relief is always to carry a small bottle of essential oil of lavender, with which to rub your face and hands. It dries so rapidly that there is no danger of greasing your paper, and the scent which to human beings is rather pleasant seems unendurable to the midges. After we made this discovery, every sportsman carried a tiny phial, as the best defensive ammunition. Did it ever occur to you that the merry mazy Reel of Tulloch owes its common name of Hoolaghan to these lightsome airy little midge dancers?

One day while I was sitting as usual on the lonely hillside, I was amazed to see first one group, then another and another, of tidy folk in their Sunday best, coming in an almost continuous stream along the bleak road from Portree. Then I found that there was to be a sacramental preaching on the hillside many miles away. It was to last a week, and this great multitude was gathering from every farm and village in the district. Many of the people had walked thirty miles, and would stay two or three days; though where a hundredth part of them could hope to find cover I cannot imagine. Doubtless vast numbers must have slept in the open air, and happily the weather was hot and dry. The multitude of carts and curious vehicles of all sorts which passed this day and the next was really amazing, and such primitive carts and harness! A bit of rope or twisted bent from the nearest hillock, with a stick to act as crupper! Sometimes a very good dog-cart would pass, full of well-dressed people, the old mare trotting cheerily along, followed by her foal, and every now and then stopping to give it a drink!

I was present at one of these great sacramental gatherings, when, about three thousand people had assembled on the wild coast of Rosshire; and a more picturesque scene I have rarely beheld. It recalled visions of the old Covenanters. As your eye glanced over the bleak expanse of hills, you marvelled whence that great concourse of human beings could have assembled, till you heard that not only every shepherd’s hut in the district, but almost every island and village within forty miles, had sent its pilgrims to the preaching; some by boat, some on foot. Not the able-bodied only, but some poor half paralysed creatures, who took days of hard walking and crawling (sometimes literally crawling on all fours), dragging their weary steps down those steep paths, that they might sit at the feet of some favourite, trusted teacher, and, with child-like intensity of interest, drink in the old, old story from his lips. The preachings were as usual to extend over several days. But it was on the great day of the feast that we found our way there, when on the green sward was set the long table covered with fair white linen, round which were gathered a great company of devout worshippers, passing the sacred cup and bread from hand to hand. From time to time a Gaelic psalm was raised, the precentor singing every alternate line alone, and the mass of voices taking up the wild tune, low at first, then swelling into full chorus, and again dying away, like the booming of waves in some ocean cave. The people were all seated on the grass, or clustering in groups up the side of the hill, which formed a natural amphitheatre of grey rocks or fading russet brackens, whose “calm decay” was in keeping with the great peace of all around. The majority of the old wives wore the cleanest of white mutches; some with large white handkerchiefs tied over them and great blue cotton umbrellas, for though it was an October afternoon, the heat of the sun was sickening. Nevertheless the men all sat bareheaded, looking up to the preacher with earnest weather-beaten faces, the warm colours of their hair and beards recalling the russet of the withering brackens around them. Whatever their occupation, nearly all were dressed in the uniform dark blue cloth peculiar to our sea-faring folk.

On the rocky hill above, groups of little rough Highland cattle were feeding, wondering doubtless at such an invasion of their solitude. Close by flowed a tiny streamlet of purest crystal, yielding precious store to all the thirsty multitude. At our feet lay the great calm ocean, on which the sun’s glittering reflection was changing from quicksilver to molten gold. Beyond, faintly seen through the hot misty haze lay the grand Skye hills, all mirrored as clearly as the near cliffs or the countless islands. From the little _clachan_ of black bothies on the shore the blue smoke rose in transparent columns, and there was quiet on every side. Only the distant cry of myriad sea-birds, or the nearer song of the laverock, broke that great stillness, and now and then the crow of black cock or grouse, or the heavy flap of a heron floating past on leaden wing, fell on the listening ear. There was something in the scene that insensibly carried the mind back to the multitudes who assembled on the mountains, or by the lakes of Judea, in those early days before the name of “Christian” had been yet bestowed on the new sect.

One marked change, however, there must be in this modern teaching from that of those early days when the disciples, continuing steadfast in the apostles’ doctrine, met _daily_ for the breaking of bread and prayer, a custom which we know was adhered to by the early Church in Rome, Milan, and Spain, and which was retained by the African Church at least until the time of St. Augustine, that is to say, for the first four hundred years after the feast was instituted. In all these churches it was optional whether the Holy Communion should be celebrated daily or weekly. The majority of Christians seemed to have received twice a week, but in no case was less than one celebration in the week thought of.

These modern Christians have but one such meeting in the year, and out of the three thousand assembled on the hillside, only eighty were communicants, the youngest of whom was a shepherd upwards of forty years of age. Painful as it always is to witness the crowds that pour out of our great city churches whenever the “comfortable words” of invitation are about to be spoken (recalling the sad reproach once uttered by their Lord when of the ten whom He had cleansed one only would return to give Him thanks), it seems more painful still to know that these who have gathered from so far to hear His Word, are actually deterred from approaching His table by the impracticable standard of “fitness” exacted by their teachers, the awful warnings known as “Fencing the Tables,” whereby the sick and sad-hearted are turned away sorrowing; while those only whom a human standard declares to be whole, may approach the feast of the Great Physician. This state of things seems to grow worse rather than better, if it be true that not very many years ago these great gatherings sometimes numbered ten thousand souls, of whom two thousand were communicants. In this respect, at least, the Northern Highlands would do well to take a lesson from the Lowlands.

Among the various reminders of simple old manners which still exist, both on the Isles and on some parts of the mainland, is a curious form of ordeal by oath, whereby any lad or lass whose character has been aspersed, may go to the house of the minister, and in presence of one or two of the principal inhabitants, swear that he or she is guiltless of the misdemeanour laid to her charge. After this, any one repeating the same, is held guilty of wilful calumny. Many of the common household goods still in use, more especially in the Outer Hebrides, are also suggestive of olden days. Such, for instance, is the old quern or handmill consisting of two hard gritty grindstones, laid horizontally one above the other; the grain is poured between them, through a hole in the centre of the upper stone, which is made to revolve rapidly by a wooden handle. I suppose this was somewhat akin to the old English handmill or Thamis, the wood of which was wont to ignite in the hand of a swift worker, thus giving rise to the saying, concerning an idler, that “_he_ would never set the Thamis on fire,” a proverb often quoted with small thoughts of its origin.

It is strange to think that these poor little handmills should ever have been an object of jealousy to our legislators. Yet in old days various laws were passed advising the lairds to compel their tenants to bring their grain to the water-mills; and also, empowering the miller to search out and break any querns he could find, as being machines that defraud him of his toll. So far back as the thirteenth century, the laws of Alexander III provide, that no man shall presume to grind _quheit_, _maishloch_ or _rye_ with handmill, except he be compelled by storm; and even in this case he is bound to pay a certain tax to the miller!

The modern miller who cares to behold his ancient rivals may see good specimens in our antiquarian museums, without a voyage to those remote corners of the earth, but it is only here, that he may still see them in active work, and hear the wild plaintive songs with which “the two women grinding at the mill” wile away the monotonous hours. Wilder still are the songs sung by a whole troop of lassies when _waulking_ cloth; that is, when a dozen women sit on the ground, in two rows, feet to feet, with a ribbed wooden board between them, whereon is laid the newly woven woollen web; then with their bare feet the women work the cloth to and fro, till they have rolled it to a right consistency, their song growing louder and louder as they warm to their work, so that a casual observer is extremely apt to imagine that he has suddenly stumbled on the inmates of some private lunatic asylum.

But more primitive than all, are the agricultural implements of the Isles; especially the Caschrom or wooden plough, consisting of a bent handle four or five feet long, to which is attached a piece of wood like a long pointed foot shod with iron, and this is propelled by the ploughman’s own foot. Sometimes it is made more like a spade, which digs into the ground, instead of scratching it. And with this curious tool, the curious little fields or small crofts are worked. The only marvel is that it should act at all, but the soil is light and rich—so light that after rains which would convert most places into morasses, half an hour’s sun makes the dust fly, and in order to produce the rich soil we see the people dig sea-weed into the earth as a manure. When the fields are thus ploughed by hand, a couple of lassies will yoke themselves to the harrow, and work cheerily for hours, then, perhaps, “travel” nine miles across the hills carrying on their back some heavy box just brought by the steamer, or else with a heavy sack of potatoes, or a creel of peats. I really believe the people infinitely prefer the use of their old tools, to any new-fangled improvements introduced by the bigger farmers, for their heart’s delight is to take plenty of time over their work. They are quite ready to plod away to any extent, and are hard working and hard living—but oh! how slow. They have as little notion of the value of time as a Hindoo. But if you let them take their own way and don’t hurry them, they will willingly endure any amount of hunger and cold and weariness without a murmur, as beseems thoroughbred Islesmen and Highlanders; who would have fallen low indeed in their own eyes, should they betray symptoms of any such weakness. And they are real gentlemen in their way, with delicate inborn tact and all the naturally courteous instincts of good breeding; and, moreover, with a keen perception of all that marks true breeding in others; as well as the pride born of self-respect.

This is the true secret which does so puzzle Englishmen of the perfectly familiar intercourse existing between class and class, yet never breeding contempt; every detail connected with the laird’s kith and kin, being treated by all the people as a matter of personal interest. They take pride in his well being, and if there be evil doings, they will veil them rather than let a stranger suspect any cause for blame.

No one can go much among them, without being touched by their leal allegiance to the old blood, the hereditary owners of the soil; even when (as alas! is too often the case) the Sassenach and his gold have the sway, and hold the broad lands, possibly to the great benefit of the tenantry, and certainly to their enrichment, as the Saxon is considered fair game, and may be fleeced to the utmost possible limit; whereas a fellow Highlander is rarely overcharged, except along the regular tourist’s routes, where the “morale” of the people is always rapidly destroyed, and even the children are taught by travellers to run beside the coaches and beg. Once get off the tourist beat, though it may be only just to the other side of the loch, and the hospitable cottage wife will still offer you the bowl of creamy milk, for which she expects no return. But that the Egyptian should be spoiled, is considered all fair, and I fear the old Highland pride is scarcely proof against the many tempting opportunities for reaping a golden autumnal harvest.