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SCOTTISH REMINISCENCES


      *      *      *      *      *      *

  PUBLISHED BY

  JAMES MACLEHOSE AND SONS, GLASGOW

  Publishers to the University.

  MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD., LONDON.

  _New York_,     _The Macmillan Co._
  _London_,       _Simpkin, Hamilton and Co._
  _Cambridge_,    _Bowes and Bowes._
  _Edinburgh_,    _Douglas and Foulis._

  MCMVIII.

      *      *      *      *      *      *


SCOTTISH   ·   REMINIS-
CENCES  ❧   ❧  BY SIR
ARCHIBALD·GEIKIE·K.C.B.






Glasgow · James · MacLehose
and · Sons · Publishers · to
The  ·  University  ·  1908

First Edition, April, 1904.
Reprinted April 1904, 1905, 1908.

Glasgow: Printed at the University Press
by Robert MacLehose and Co. Ltd.




FROM THE PREFACE.


One who has sojourned in every part of a country and for sixty years
has mingled with all classes of its inhabitants; who has watched the
decay and disappearance of old, and the uprise of new usages; who has
been ever on the outlook for illustrations of native humour, and who
has been in the habit all along of freely recounting his experiences to
his friends, may perhaps be forgiven if he ventures to put forth some
record of what he has seen and heard, as a slight contribution to the
history of social changes.

Literature is rich in Scottish reminiscences of this kind, so rich
indeed that a writer who adds another volume to the long list runs
great risk of repeating what has already been told. I have done my
best to avoid this danger by turning over the pages of as many books
of this class as I have been able to lay hands upon. In the course of
this reading I have discovered that not a few of the ‘stories’ which
I picked up long ago have found their way into print. These I have
generally excluded from the present volume, save in cases where my
version seemed to me better than that which had been published. But
with all my care I cannot hope to have wholly escaped from pitfalls of
this nature.

No one can have read much in this subject without discovering the
perennial vitality of some anecdotes. With slight and generally local
modification, they are told by generation after generation, and always
as if they related to events that had recently occurred and to persons
that were still familiarly known. Yet the essential basis of their
humour may occasionally be traced back a long way. As an example of
this longevity I may cite the incident of snoring in church, related at
p. 86 of the following chapters, where an anecdote which has been told
to me as an event that had recently happened among people now living
was in full vigour a hundred years ago, and long before that time had
formed the foundation of a clever epigram in the reign of Charles II.
Another illustration of this persistence and transformation may be
found in the anecdote of the wolf’s den (p. 292). The same recurring
circumstances may sometimes conceivably evoke, at long intervals,
a similar sally of humour; but probably in most cases the original
story survives, undergoing a process of gradual evolution and local
adaptation as it passes down from one generation to another.




CONTENTS.


                                                                   Pages

  CHAPTER I.

  Social changes in Scotland consequent on the Union of the
    Crowns. Impetus given to these changes after Culloden in
    the eighteenth century, and after the introduction of
    steam as a motive power in the nineteenth. Posting from
    Scotland to London. Stage coach travelling to England.
    Canal travelling between Edinburgh and Glasgow. Loch
    Katrine in 1843. Influence of Walter Scott. Steamboats
    to London. Railroads in Scotland. Effects of steamboat
    development in the West Highlands,                              1–37


  CHAPTER II.

  Traces of Paganism in Scotland. Relics of the Celtic
    Church; ‘Deserts.’ Survival of Roman Catholicism in
    West Highlands and Islands. Influence of the Protestant
    clergy. Highland ministers. Lowland ministers. Diets of
    catechising. Street preachers,                                 38–76


  CHAPTER III.

  The sermon in Scottish Kirks. Intruding animals in country
    churches. The ‘collection.’ Church psalmody. Precentors
    and organs. Small congregations in the Highlands. Parish
    visitation. Survival of the influence of clerical
    teaching. Religious mania,                                    77–106


  CHAPTER IV.

  Superstition in Scotland. Holy wells. Belief in the Devil.
    Growth of the rigid observance of the Sabbath. Efforts
    of kirk-sessions and presbyteries to enforce Jewish
    strictness in regard to the Sabbath. Illustrations of the
    effects of these efforts,                                    107–141


  CHAPTER V.

  Litigiousness of the Scots. Sir Daniel Macnee and
    jury-trial. Scottish judges, Patrick Robertson, Cullen,
    Neaves, Rutherford Clark.                                    142–155


  CHAPTER VI.

  Medical Men. Sandy Wood. Knox. Nairn and Sir William Gull.
    A broken leg in Canna. Changes in the professoriate
    and students in the Scottish Universities. A St.
    Andrews Professor. A Glasgow Professor. Some Edinburgh
    Professors--Pillans, Blackie, Christison, Maclagan,
    Playfair, Chalmers, Tait. Scottish Schoolmasters.            156–184


  CHAPTER VII.

  Old and new type of landed proprietors in Scotland.
    Highland Chiefs--Second Marquess of Breadalbane; late
    Duke of Argyll. Ayrshire Lairds--T. F. Kennedy of Dunure;
    ‘Sliddery Braes’; Smith of Auchengree. Fingask and
    Charles Martin. New lairds of wealth,                        185–204


  CHAPTER VIII.

  Lowland farmers; Darlings of Priestlaw. Sheep-farmers. Hall
    Pringle of Hatton. Farm-servants. Ayrshire milk-maids.
    The consequences of salting. Poachers. ‘Cauld sowens
    out o’ a pewter plate.’ Farm life in the Highlands. A
    Skye eviction. Clearances in Raasay. Summer Shielings
    of former times. Fat Boy of Soay. A West Highlander’s
    first visit to Glasgow. Crofters in Skye. Highland ideas
    of women’s work. Highland repugnance to handicrafts,         205–238


  CHAPTER IX.

  Highland ferries and coaches. The charms of Iona. How to
    see Staffa. The Outer Hebrides. Stones of Callernish.
    St. Kilda. Sound of Harris. The Cave-massacre in Eigg.
    Skeleton from a clan fight still unburied in Jura.
    The hermit of Jura. Peculiar charms of the Western
    Isles. Influence of the clergy on the cheerfulness of
    the Highlanders. Disappearance of Highland customs.
    Dispersing of clans from their original districts.
    Dying out of Gaelic; advantages of knowing some Gaelic;
    difficulties of the language,                                239–273


  CHAPTER X.

  The Orkney Islands. The Shetland Islands. Faroe Islands
    contrasted with Western Isles. ‘Burning the water.’ A
    fisher of men. Salmon according to London taste. Trout
    and fishing-poles. A wolf’s den,                             274–293


  CHAPTER XI.

  Scottish shepherds and their dogs. A snow-storm among
    the Southern Uplands. Scottish inns of an old type.
    Reminiscences of some Highland inns. Revival of roadside
    inns by cyclists. Scottish drink. Drinking customs now
    obsolete,                                                    294–320


  CHAPTER XII.

  Scottish humour in relation to death and the grave.
    Resurrectionists. Tombstone inscriptions. ‘Naturals’ in
    Scotland. Confused thoughts of second childhood. Belief
    in witchcraft. Miners and their superstitions. Colliers
    and Salters in Scotland were slaves until the end of the
    eighteenth century. Metal-mining in Scotland,                321–346


  CHAPTER XIII.

  Town-life in old times. Dirtiness of the streets. Clubs.
    Hutton and Black in Edinburgh. A feast of snails. Royal
    Society Club. Bailies ‘gang lowse.’ Rothesay fifty years
    ago. James Smith of Jordanhill. Fisher-folk of the Forth.
    Decay of the Scots language. Receipt for pronouncing
    English,                                                     347–369


  CHAPTER XIV.

  The Scottish School of Geology. Neptunist and Vulcanist
    Controversy. J. D. Forbes. Charles Maclaren. Hugh Miller.
    Robert Chambers. W. Haidinger. H. von Dechen. Ami Boué.
    The life of a field-geologist. Experiences of a geologist
    in the West Highlands. A crofter home in Skye. The Spar
    Cave and Coruisk. Night in Loch Scavaig,                     370–409


  CHAPTER XV.

  Influence of Topography on the people of Scotland.
    Distribution and ancient antagonism of Celt and Saxon.
    Caithness and its grin. Legends and place-names. Popular
    explanation of boulders. Cliff-portraits. Fairy-stones
    and supposed human footprints. Imitative forms of flint.
    Scottish climate and its influence on the people.
    Indifference of the Highlander to rain. ‘Dry rain.’ Wind
    in Scotland. Salutations on the weather. Shakespeare on
    the climate of Morayland. Influence of environment on the
    Highlander,                                                  410–439


  Index,                                                         440–447




CHAPTER I.

  Social changes in Scotland consequent on the Union of the Crowns.
    Impetus given to these changes after Culloden in the eighteenth
    century, and after the introduction of steam as a motive power
    in the nineteenth. Posting from Scotland to London. Stage coach
    travelling to England. Canal travelling between Edinburgh and
    Glasgow. Loch Katrine in 1843. Influence of Walter Scott.
    Steamboats to London. Railroads in Scotland. Effects of steamboat
    development in the West Highlands.


When on the 5th of April, 1603, James VI. left Edinburgh with a
great cavalcade of attendants, to ascend the throne of England, a
series of social changes was set in motion in Scotland which has
been uninterruptedly advancing ever since. Its progress has not been
uniform, seeing that it has fluctuated with the access or diminution
of national animosities on the two sides of the Tweed, until, as these
sources of irritation died away, the two nations were welded into one
by the arts of peace. Looking back across the three centuries, we can
recognise two epochs when the progress of change received a marked
impetus.

[Sidenote: NATIONAL ANIMOSITIES]

The first of these dates from the failure of the Jacobite cause in
1746. At Culloden, not only were the hopes of the Stuarts finally
extinguished, but a new period was ushered in for the development of
Scotland. The abolition of the heritable jurisdictions, the extension
of the same organised legal system over every part of the kingdom,
the suppression of cattle-raids and other offences by the Highlanders
against their lowland neighbours, the building of good roads, and the
improvement of the old tracks, whereby easy communication was provided
across the country, and especially through the Highlands between the
northern and southern districts--these and other connected reforms
led to the gradual breaking down of the barrier of animosity that
had long kept Highlander and Lowlander apart, and by thus producing
a freer intercourse of the two races, greatly strengthened the
community as a whole, whether for peace or for war. On the other hand,
the landing of Prince Charles Edward, the uprise of the clans, the
victory of Prestonpans, and the invasion of England could not fail to
revive and intensify the ancient enmity of the English against their
northern neighbours. This animosity blazed out anew under the Bute
administration, when fresh fuel was added to it from the literary side
by Wilkes and Churchill. Nevertheless the leaven of union was quietly
at work all the time. Not only did Scot commingle more freely with
Scot, but increasing facilities of communication allowed the southward
tide of migration to flow more freely across the Border. English
travellers also found their way in growing numbers into that land
north of the Tweed which for centuries had been at once scorned and
feared, but which could now be everywhere safely visited. What had been
satirised as

                            The wretched lot
    Of the poor, mean, despised, insulted Scot,

came to be the subject of banter, more or less good humoured. The
Englishman, while retaining a due sense of his own superiority, learnt
to acknowledge that his northern neighbour did really possess some good
qualities which made him not unworthy of a place in the commonwealth,
while the Scot, on his side, discovered that his ‘auld enemies’ of
England were far from being all mere ‘pock-puddings.’ As the result
of this greater intimacy of association, the smaller nation was
necessarily drawn more and more to assimilate itself to the speech and
ways of its larger, wealthier, and more advanced partner.

But the decline in Scottish national peculiarities during the hundred
years that followed Culloden was slow compared with that of the second
epoch, which dates from the first half of last century, when steam as
a motive power came into use, rapidly transforming our manufacturing
industries, and revolutionising the means of locomotion, alike on land
and sea. Scott in his youth saw the relics of the older time while they
were still fairly fresh and numerous, and he has left an imperishable
memorial of them in his vivid descriptions. Cockburn beheld the last
of these relics disappear, and as he lived well on into the second
of the two periods, he could mark and has graphically chronicled the
accelerated rate of change.

[Sidenote: SOCIAL TRANSFORMATIONS]

Those of us who, like myself, can look back across a vista of more than
three score years, and will compare what they see and hear around them
now with what they saw and heard in their childhood, will not only
realise that the social revolution has been marching along, but will
be constrained to admit that its advance has been growing perceptibly
more rapid. They must feel that the old order has indeed changed, and
though they may wish that the modern could establish itself with less
effacement of the antique, and may be disposed with Byron to cry,

    Out upon Time! who for ever will leave
    But enough of the past for the future to grieve,

they have, at least, the consolation of reflecting that the changes
have been, on the whole, for the better. Happily much of the
transformation is, after all, external. The fundamental groundwork
of national character and temperament continues to be but little
affected. The surface features and climate of the country, with all
their profound, if unperceived, influences on the people, remain with
no appreciable change. Even the inevitable wave of evolution does not
everywhere roll on with the same speed, but leaves outlying corners and
remote parishes unsubmerged, where we may still light upon survivals of
an older day, in men and women whose ways and language seem to carry
us back a century or more, and in customs that link us with an even
remoter past.

[Sidenote: MODES OF TRAVEL]

It would be far beyond my purpose to enter into any discussion of the
connection between the causes that have given rise to these social
changes and the effects that have flowed from them. The far-reaching
results of the introduction of steam-machinery in aggregating
communities around a few centres, in depopulating the country
districts, and in altering the habits and physique of the artizans,
open up a wide subject on which I do not propose to touch. My life has
been largely passed in the rural and mountainous parts of the country,
where increased facilities for locomotion have certainly been the
most obvious direct source of change to the inhabitants, though other
causes have undoubtedly contributed less directly to bring about the
general result. It has been my good fortune to become acquainted with
every district of Scotland. There is not a county, hardly a parish,
which I have not wandered over again and again. In many of them I have
spent months at a time, finding quarters in county towns, in quiet
villages, in wayside inns, in country houses, in remote manses, in
shepherds’ shielings, and in crofters’ huts. Thrown thus among all
classes of society, I have been brought in contact with each varying
phase of life of the people. During the last twenty years, though no
longer permanently resident in Scotland, I have been led by my official
duties to revisit the country every year, even to its remotest bounds.
I have also been enabled, through the kindness of a yachting friend,
to cruise all through the Inner and Outer Hebrides. These favourable
opportunities have allowed me to mark the gradual decline of national
peculiarities perhaps more distinctly than would have been possible to
one continuously resident. As a slight contribution to the history of
the social evolution in Scotland, I propose in the following chapters
to gather together such reminiscences as may serve to indicate the
nature and extent of the changes of which I have been a witness, and to
record a few illustrations of the manners and customs, the habits and
humour of the people with whom I have mingled.

My memory goes back to a time before railways had been established
in Scotland, when Edinburgh and Glasgow were connected only by a
coach-road and a canal, and when stage-coaches still ran from the two
cities into England. I may therefore begin these reminiscences with
some reference to modes of travel.

Probably few readers are aware how recently roads practicable for
wheeled carriages have become general over the whole country. In the
seventeenth century various attempts were made to run stage-coaches
between Edinburgh and Leith, between Edinburgh and Haddington,
and between Edinburgh and Glasgow. But these efforts to open up
communication, even with the chief towns, appear to have met with such
scant support as to be soon abandoned. The usual mode of conveyance,
for ladies as well as gentlemen, was on horseback. A traveller writing
in 1688 states that there were then no stage-coaches, for the roads
would hardly allow of them, and that although some of the magnates
of the land made use of a coach and six horses, they did so ‘with so
much caution that, besides their other attendance, they have a lusty
running footman on each side of the coach, to manage and keep it up
in rough places.’ It was probably not until after the suppression of
the Jacobite rising in 1715 that road-making and road-repair were
begun in earnest. For strategic purposes, military roads were driven
through the Highlands, and this important work, which continued until
far on in the century, not only opened up the Highlands to wheeled
traffic, but reacted on the general lines of communication throughout
the country.[1] By the time that railways came into operation the main
roads had been well engineered and constructed, and were fitted for all
kinds of vehicles.

[Sidenote: LOCOMOTION TO ENGLAND]

Before the beginning of the railroad period, the inhabitants of
Scotland had three means of locomotion into England. Those who were
wealthy took their own carriages and horses, or hired post-horses from
stage to stage. For the ordinary traveller, there were stage-coaches on
land and steamboats on the sea.

With a comfortable carriage, and the personal effects of the occupants
strapped on behind it, posting to London was one of the pleasant
incidents of the year to those who had leisure and money at command.
Repeated season after season, the journey brought the travellers into
close acquaintance with every district through which the public road
passed. They had a far greater familiarity with the details of these
districts than can now be formed in railway journeys. They knew every
village, church, and country-house to be seen along the route, and
could mark the changes made in them from year to year. At the inns,
where they halted for the night, they were welcomed as old friends,
and made to feel themselves at home. This pleasant mode of travelling,
so graphically described in _Humphry Clinker_, continued in use among
some county families long after the stage-coaches had reached the
culmination of their speed and comfort. My old friend, T. F. Kennedy of
Dunure, used to describe to me the delights of these yearly journeys
in his youth. Posting into England did not die out until after the
completion of the continuous railway routes, when the failure of
travellers on the road led to the giving up of post-horses at the inns.

[Sidenote: STAGE-COACHES TO LONDON]

One of my early recollections is to have seen the London coaches
start from Princes Street, Edinburgh. Though railways were beginning
to extend rapidly over England, no line had yet entered Scotland, so
that the first part of the journey to London was made by stage-coach.
There was at that time no line of railway, with steam locomotives,
leading out of Edinburgh. Stage-coaches appear to have been tried
between London and Edinburgh as far back as 1658, for an advertisement
published in May of that year announces that they would ‘go from the
George Inn without Aldersgate to Edinburgh _in Scotland_, once in
three weeks for £4 10s., with good coaches and fresh horses on the
roads.’ In May, 1734, a coach was advertised to perform the journey
between Edinburgh and London ‘in nine days, or three days sooner than
any other coach that travels the road.’ An improvement in the service,
made twenty years later, was thus described in an advertisement which
appeared in the _Edinburgh Evening Courant_ for July 1st, 1754:

  ‘The Edinburgh Stage-Coach, for the better accommodation of
  Passengers, will be altered to a new genteel two-end Glass Machine,
  hung on Steel Springs, exceeding light and easy, to go in ten days in
  summer and twelve in winter; to set out the first Tuesday in March,
  and continue it from Hosea Eastgate’s, the _Coach and Horses_ in Dean
  Street, Soho, London, and from John Somerville’s in the Canongate,
  Edinburgh, every other Tuesday, and meet at Burrow-bridge on Saturday
  night, and set out from thence on Monday morning, and get to London
  and Edinburgh on Friday. In the winter to set out from London and
  Edinburgh every other Monday morning and to go to Burrow-bridge on
  Saturday night; and to set out thence on Monday morning and get to
  London and Edinburgh on Saturday night. Passengers to pay as usual.
  Performed, if God permits, by your dutiful servant,

                                        ‘HOSEA EASTGATE.

  ‘Care is taken of small parcels according to their value.’

Before the end of the century the frequency, comfort, and speed of the
coaches had been considerably increased. Palmer, of the Bath Theatre,
led the way in this reform, and in the year 1788 organised a service
from London to Glasgow, which accomplished the distance of rather more
than 400 miles in sixty-five hours. Ten years later, Lord Chancellor
Campbell travelled by the same system of coaches between Edinburgh
and London, and he states that in 1798 he ‘performed the journey
in three nights and two days, Mr. Palmer’s mail-coaches being then
established; but this swift travelling was considered dangerous as well
as wonderful,--and I was gravely advised to stop a day at York, “as
several passengers who had gone through without stopping had died of
apoplexy from the rapidity of the motion.” The whole distance may now
(1847) be accomplished with ease and safety in fourteen hours.’[2]

[Sidenote: EDINBURGH AND GLASGOW COACHES]

Passengers between Edinburgh and Glasgow before the days of railways
had a choice of two routes, either by road or by canal. As far back as
the summer of 1678, an Edinburgh merchant set up a stage-coach between
the two cities to carry six passengers, but it appears to have had
no success. In 1743, another Edinburgh merchant offered to start a
stage-coach on the same route with six horses, to hold six passengers,
to go twice a week in summer and once in winter. But his proposal
does not appear to have met with adequate support. At last, in 1749,
a kind of covered spring-cart, known as the ‘Edinburgh and Glasgow
Caravan,’ was put upon the road and performed the journey of forty-four
miles in two days. Nine years later, in 1758, the ‘Fly,’ so called on
account of its remarkable speed, actually accomplished the distance
in twelve hours. The establishment of Palmer’s improved stage-coaches
led to a further advance in the communications between Edinburgh and
Glasgow, but it was not until 1799 that the time taken in the journey
was reduced to six hours. In my boyhood, before the stage-coaches
were driven off by the railway, various improvements on the roads, the
carriages, and the arrangements connected with the horses, had brought
down the time to no more than four hours and a half.[3]

Much more leisurely was the transit on the Union Canal. The boats were
comfortably fitted up and were drawn by a cavalcade of horses, urged
forward by postboys. It was a novel and delightful sensation, which
I can still recall, to see fields, trees, cottages, and hamlets flit
past, as if they formed a vast moving panorama, while one seemed to
be sitting absolutely still. For mere luxury of transportation, such
canal-travel stands quite unrivalled. Among its drawbacks, however, are
the long detentions at the locks. But as everything was new to me in
my first expedition to the west, I remember enjoying these locks with
the keenest pleasure, sometimes remaining in the boat, and feeling it
slowly floated up or let down, sometimes walking along the margin and
watching the rush of the water through the gradually opening sluices.

[Sidenote: LOCH KATRINE IN 1843]

Both the stage-coaches and the passenger boats on the canal were
disused after the opening of the Edinburgh and Glasgow Railway in
the spring of 1842. A few weeks subsequent to the running of the
first trains, the _Glasgow Courier_ announced that ‘the whole of the
stage-coaches from Glasgow and Edinburgh are now off the road, with the
exception of the six o’clock morning coach, which is kept running in
consequence of its carrying the mail bags.’

Steamboats had not yet been introduced upon the large freshwater lakes
of Scotland, except upon Loch Lomond, when I visited the Trossachs
region for the first time in 1843. I was rowed the whole length of Loch
Katrine in a boat by four stout Highlanders, who sang Gaelic songs, to
the cadence of which they kept time with their oars. It was my first
entry into the Highlands, and could not have been more impressive.
The sun was almost setting as the boat pushed off from Stronachlachar
and all the glories of the western sky were cast upon the surrounding
girdle of mountains, the reflections of which fell unbroken on the
mirror-like surface of the water. As we advanced and the sunset tints
died away, the full autumn moon rose above the crest of Ben Venue, and
touched off the higher crags with light, while the shadows gathered
in deepening black along the lower slopes and the margin of the water.
Before we reached the lower end of the lake the silvery sheen filled
all the pass of the Trossachs above the sombre forest. The forms of
the hills, the changing lights in the sky, and the weird tunes of the
boatmen combined to leave on my memory a picture as vivid now as when
it was impressed sixty years ago.

No more remarkable contrast between the present tourist traffic in
this lake region and that of the early part of last century could
be supplied than that which is revealed by an incident recorded as
having occurred about the year 1814, four years after the publication
of Scott’s _Lady of the Lake_. An old Highlander, who was met on
the top of Ben Lomond, said he had been a guide from the north side
of the mountain for upwards of forty years; ‘but that d----d Walter
Scott, that everybody makes such a work about!’ exclaimed he with
vehemence--‘I wish I had him to ferry over Loch Lomond: I should be
after sinking the boat, if I drowned myself into the bargain; for ever
since he wrote his _Lady of the Lake_, as they call it, everybody goes
to see that filthy hole Loch Katrine, then comes round by Luss, and I
have had only two gentlemen to guide all this blessed season, which
is now at an end. I shall never see the top of Ben Lomond again!--The
devil confound his ladies and his lakes, say I!’[4]

[Sidenote: SCOTT AND THE HIGHLANDS]

If this indignant mountaineer could revisit his early haunts, his
grandchildren would have a very different story to tell him of the
poet’s influence. For one visitor to his beloved mountain in his
day there must now be at least a hundred, almost all of whom have
had their first longing to see that region kindled by the poems and
tales of Scott. No man ever did so much to make his country known
and attractive as the Author of _Waverley_ has done for Scotland.
His fictitious characters have become historical personages in the
eyes of the thousands of pilgrims who every year visit the scenes he
has described. In threading the pass of the Trossachs, they try to
see where Fitz James must have lost his ‘gallant grey.’ In passing
Ellen’s Isle, they scrutinise it, if haply any relics of her home have
survived. At Coilantogle Ford they want to know the exact spot where
the duel was fought between the King and Roderick Dhu. At Aberfoyle
they look out for the Clachan, or some building that must stand on its
site, and their hearts are comforted by finding suspended to a tree on
the village green the veritable coulter with which Bailie Nicol Jarvie
burnt the big Highlander’s plaid. So delighted indeed have the tourists
been with this relic of the past that they have surreptitiously carried
it off more than once, and have thus compelled the village smith each
time to manufacture a new antique.

Before steam navigation was introduced, packet ships sailed between
Leith and London carrying both passengers and goods. But as the time
taken on the journey depended on winds and waves, these vessels
supplied a somewhat uncertain and even risky mode of transit. Thus in
November, 1743, an Edinburgh newspaper announced that the Edinburgh
and Glasgow packet from London, ‘after having great stress of weather
for twenty days, has lately arrived safe at Holy Island and is soon
expected in Leith harbour.’

[Sidenote: STEAMBOATS TO LONDON]

The first steamboats that plied between Leith and London were much
smaller in size and more primitive in their appointments than their
successors of to-day. Mineral oil had not come into use, and animal and
vegetable oils were dear. Hence the saloons and cabins were lighted
with candles, and, as wicks that require no snuffing were not then in
vogue, it may be imagined that the illumination could not be brilliant,
and that candle grease was apt to descend in frequent drops upon
whatever happened to lie below. The Rev. Dr. Lindsay Alexander used to
tell that when he once accompanied a brother clergyman in the steamboat
to London, they were unable to obtain berths in any of the state-rooms,
and had to content themselves each with a sofa in the saloon. In the
middle of the night he was awakened by a groaning which seemed to come
from the sofa of his elderly friend. Starting up, he enquired if the
doctor was in pain. The answer came in a shaky voice: ‘I’m afraid--I’ve
had--a stroke--of paralysis.’ In an instant the younger man was out of
bed, calling for a light, as the candles had all burnt themselves into
their sockets. When the light came, the reverend gentleman was seen to
have been lying immediately below the drip of a guttering candle, and
the drops of tallow, falling on his cheek, had congealed there into
a cake that had gradually spread up to his eye. As he could not move
the muscles of his face, the poor man’s imagination had transferred
the powerlessness to the rest of his side. With the help of the
steward, however, the hardened grease was scraped off, and the doctor,
recovering the use of his facial muscles, was able once more to drop
off to sleep.

[Sidenote: RAILWAY RIVALRY]

Railroads have been unquestionably the most powerful agents of social
change in Scotland. From the opening of the first line down to the
present time, I have watched the yearly multiplication of lines,
until the existing network of them has been constructed. Had it been
possible, at the beginning, to anticipate this rapid development, and
to foresee the actual requirements of the various districts through
which branch-lines have been formed, probably the railway-map would
have been rather different from what it now is. Some local lines would
never have been built, or would have followed different routes from
those actually chosen. The competition of the rival companies has led
to a wasteful expenditure of their capital, and to the construction
of lines which either do not pay their expenses, or yield only a
meagre return for the outlay disbursed upon them. A notable instance
of the effects of this rivalry was seen in the competition of two
great companies for the construction of a line between Carnwath on
the Caledonian system and Leadburn on the North British. The country
through which the route was to be taken was sparsely peopled, being
partly pastoral, partly agricultural, but without any considerable
village. When the contest was in progress, a farmer from the district
was asked to state what he knew of traffic between Carnwath and
Dolphinton, a small hamlet in Lanarkshire. His answer was, ‘Od, there’s
an auld wife that comes across the hills ance in a fortnicht wi’ a
basket o’ ribbons, but that’s a’ the traffic I ken o’.’ The minister
of Dolphinton, being eager to have a railway through his parish, set
himself to ascertain the number of cattle that passed along the road
daily in front of his manse. He was said to have counted the same
cow many times in the same day. The result of the competition was a
compromise. Each railway company obtained powers to construct a new
line which was to run to Dolphinton and there terminate. And these
two lines to this hamlet of a few cottages, and not as many as 300
people, were actually constructed and have been in operation for many
years. Each of them has its terminal station at Dolphinton, with
station-master and porters. But there were not, and so far as I know,
there are not now, any rails connecting the two lines across the road.
This diminutive village thus enjoys the proud preeminence of being
perhaps the smallest place in the three kingdoms which has two distinct
terminal stations on each side of its road, worked by two independent
and rival companies.

Not long after the opening of the North British line to Dolphinton,
I spent a day at the southern end of the Pentland Hills, and in the
evening, making my way to the village, found the train with its engine
attached. The station was as solitary as a churchyard. After I had
taken my seat in one of the carriages, the guard appeared from some
doorway in the station, and I heard the engine-driver shout out to him,
‘Weel, Jock, hae ye got your passenger in?’

[Sidenote: EARLY DAYS OF RAILWAYS]

The opening of a railway through some of these lonely upland regions
was a momentous event in their history. Up till then many districts
which possessed roads were not traversed by any public coach nor by
many private carriages, while in other parishes, where roads either
did not exist or were extremely bad and unfit for wheeled traffic, the
sight of a swiftly-moving train was one that drew the people from far
and near. Some time, however, had to elapse before the country-folk
could accustom themselves to the rapidity and (comparative) punctuality
of railroad travelling. When the old horse-tramways ran, it was a
common occurrence for a train to be stopped in order to pick up a
passenger, or to let one down by the roadside, and it is said that this
easy-going practice used to be repeated now and then in the early days
of branch-railways. An old lady from Culter parish, who came down to
the railway not long after it was opened, arrived at the station just
as the train had started. When told that she was too late, for the
train had already gone beyond the station, she exclaimed, ‘Dod, I maun
rin then,’ and proceeded at her highest speed along the platform, while
the station-master shouted after her to stop. She was indignant that he
would not whistle for the train to halt or come back for her.

Railway construction in the Highlands came later than it did in the
Lowlands, and entered among another race of people with different
habits from those of their southern fellow-countrymen. The natural
disposition of an ordinary Highlander would not often lead him to
choose the hard life of a navvy, and volunteer to aid in the heavy work
of railway construction. The following anecdote illustrates a racial
characteristic which probably could not have been met with in the
Lowlands. During the formation of one of the lines of railway through
the Highlands a man came to the contractor and asked for a job at the
works, when the following conversation took place:

‘Well, Donald, you’ve come for work, have you? and what can you do?’

‘’Deed, I can do onything.’

‘Well, there’s some spade and barrow work going on; you can begin on
that.’

‘Ach, but I wadna just like to be workin’ wi’ a spade and a
wheelbarrow.’

‘O, would you not? Then yonder’s some rock that needs to be broken
away. Can you wield a pick?’

‘I wass never usin’ a pick, whatefer.’

‘Well, my man, I don’t know anything I can give you to do.’

[Sidenote: LIGHT LABOUR]

So Donald went away crestfallen. But being of an observing turn of
mind, he walked along the rails, noting the work of each gang of
labourers, until he came to a signal-box, wherein he saw a man seated,
who came out now and then, waved a flag, and then resumed his seat.
This appeared to Donald to be an occupation entirely after his own
heart. He made enquiry of the man, ascertained his hours and his
rate of pay, and returned to the contractor, who, when he saw him,
good-naturedly asked:

‘What, back again, Donald? Have you found out what you can do?’

‘’Deed, I have, sir. I would just like to get auchteen shullins a week,
and to do that’--holding out his arm and gently waving the stick he had
in his hand.

A desire to select the lightest part of the work, however, is not
peculiar to the Celtic nature, but comes out, strongly enough,
sometimes, in the Lowlands, as was illustrated by the proposal of a
quarryman to share the labour with a comrade. ‘If ye ram, Jamie,’ said
he, ‘I’ll pech’; that is, if his friend would work the heavy iron
sledge-hammer, he himself would give the puff or pant with which the
workmen accompany each stroke they make.

The unpunctuality of the railways, the dirtiness of the carriages on
branch lines, and the frequent incivility of the officials are only too
familiar to all who have to travel much upon the system of at least one
of the Scottish companies. A worthy countryman who had come from the
north-east side of the kingdom by train to Cowlairs, was told that the
next stoppage would be Glasgow. He at once began to get all his little
packages ready, and remarked to a fellow-passenger, ‘I’m sailin’ for
China this week, but I’m thinkin’ I’m by the warst o’ the journey noo.’

It must be confessed, however, that the railway officials often have
their forbearance sorely tested, especially in the large mining
districts, where the roughness and violence of the mob of passengers
can sometimes hardly be held in check, and where the temptation to
retaliate after the same fashion may be difficult to resist. Having
also to be on the watch for dishonesty, they are apt to develop a
suspiciousness which sometimes, though perhaps needlessly, exasperates
the honest traveller. Occasionally their sagacity is scarcely a match
for the knavery of a dishonest Scot. Thus, a man, when the ticket
collector came round, was fumbling in all his pockets for his ticket,
until the official, losing patience, said he would come back for it.
When he returned, noticing that the man had the ticket between his
lips, he indignantly snatched it away. Whereupon a fellow-passenger
remarked, ‘You must be singularly absent-minded not to remember that
you had put your ticket in your mouth.’ ‘No sae absent-minded as ye wad
think,’ was the answer; ‘I was jist rubbin’ oot the auld date wi’ my
tongue.’

[Sidenote: STEAMBOATS ON WEST COAST]

Perhaps the most striking evidence of the effect of increased
facilities for locomotion and traffic upon the habits of the population
is presented by the western coast of the country, or the region usually
spoken of as the West Highlands and Islands. Few parts of Britain are
now more familiar to the summer tourist than the steamboat tracks
through that region. Every year thousands of holiday-makers are carried
rapidly and comfortably in swift and capacious vessels through that
archipelago of mountainous land and blue sea. They have, as it were,
a vast panorama unrolled before them, which changes in aspect and
interest at every mile of their progress. For the most part, however,
they obtain and carry away with them merely a kind of general and
superficial impression of the scenery, though the memory of it may
remain indelibly fixed among their most delightful experiences of
travel. They can have little or no conception of the interior of those
islands or of the glens and straths of the mainland, still less of
the inhabitants and their ways and customs. Nor, as they are borne
pleasantly along past headland and cliff, can they adequately realise
what the conditions of travel were before the days of commodious
passenger-steamers.

[Sidenote: DAVID HUTCHESON’S SERVICES]

When Johnson and Boswell landed in Skye in the year 1773, there was
not a road in the whole island practicable for a wheeled carriage.
Locomotion, when not afoot, was either on horseback or by boat. The
inland bridle-tracks lay among loose boulders, over rough, bare
rock, or across stretches of soft and sometimes treacherous bog. The
boats were often leaky, the oars and rowlocks unsound, the boatmen
unskilful; while the weather, even in summer, is often boisterous
enough to make the navigation of the sea-lochs and sounds difficult or
impossible for small craft. And such continued to be the conditions in
which the social life of the West Highlands was carried on long after
Johnson’s time. During the first thirty or more years of last century
the voyage from the Clyde to Skye was made in sailing packets, and
generally took from ten to fifteen days. It was not until steamboats
began to ply along the coast that the scattered islands were brought
into closer touch with each other and with the Lowlands. To the memory
of David Hutcheson, who organised the steamboat service among the
Western Highlands and Islands, Scotland owes a debt of gratitude.
The development of this service has been the gradual evolution of
some seventy years. Half a century ago it was far from having reached
its present state of advancement. There were then no steamers up the
West Coast to Skye and the Outer Hebrides, save those which carried
cargo and came round the Mull of Cantyre. During the herring season,
and about the times of the cattle-markets, the irregularities and
discomfort of these vessels can hardly be exaggerated. When the decks
were already loaded perhaps with odoriferous barrels of herring,
and when it seemed impossible that they could hold anything more,
the vessel might have to make a long detour to the head of some
mountain-girdled sea-loch to fetch away a flock of sheep, or a herd of
Highland cattle. At most of the places of call there were no piers.
Passengers had accordingly to disembark in small boats, sometimes at
a considerable distance from high-water mark, to which, perhaps in
the middle of the night, they scrambled across sea-weed and slippery
shingle.

As a steamboat called at each place in summer only once, in later
years twice, in a week, and in winter only once in a fortnight, the
day of its arrival was eagerly looked forward to by the population, in
expectation of the supplies of all kinds, as well as the letters and
newspapers, which it brought from the south. You never could be sure at
what hour of the day or night it might make its appearance, and if you
expected friends to arrive by it, or if you proposed yourself to take
a passage in it, you needed to be on the watch, perhaps for many weary
hours. In fine weather, this detention was endurable enough; but in the
frequent storms of wind and rain, much patience and some strength of
constitution were needed to withstand the effects of the exposure. The
desirability of having waiting-rooms or places of shelter of any kind
is even yet not fully realised by the Celtic mind.

[Sidenote: ‘SOMETIMES SOONER, WHILES EARLIER’]

The native islander, however, seemed never to feel, or at least would
never acknowledge these various inconveniences. It was so great a boon
to have the steamers at all, and he had now got so used to them that
he could not imagine a state of things different from that to which he
had grown accustomed. Nor would he willingly allow any imperfections
in David Hutcheson’s arrangements, on which he depended for all his
connection with the outer world. I remember a crofter in the island of
Eigg, who, when asked when the steamer would arrive, replied at once,
‘Weel, she’ll be comin’ sometimes sooner, and whiles earlier, and
sometimes before that again.’ The idea of lateness was a reproach which
he would not acknowledge.

William Black, the novelist, used to tell of an English clergyman
who, having breakfasted and paid his bill at Tobermory, was anxious
for the arrival of the steamboat that was to take him north. He made
his way to the pier, and walked up and down there for a time, but
could see no sign of the vessel. At last, accosting a Highlander, who,
leaning against a wall, was smoking a cutty-pipe, he asked him when the
Skye steamer would call. Out came the pipe, followed by the laconic
answer, ‘That’s her smoke,’ and the speaker pointed in the direction
of the Sound of Mull. The traveller for a time could observe nothing
to indicate the expected vessel, but at last noticed a streak of dark
smoke rising against the Morven Hills on the far side of the island
that guards the front of the little bay of Tobermory. When at last the
steamer itself rounded the point and came fully into sight, it seemed
to the clergyman a much smaller vessel than he had supposed it would
be, and he remarked to the Highlander, ‘That the Skye steamer! that
boat will surely never get to Skye.’ The pipe was whisked out again to
make way for the indignant reply, ‘She’ll be in Skye this afternoon,
if nothin’ happens to Skye.’ The order of nature might conceivably go
wrong, but Hutcheson’s arrangements could be absolutely depended upon.

[Sidenote: WEST-COAST STEAMBOATS]

The captains of these steamers were personages of some consequence on
the west coast. Usually skilful pilots and agreeable men, they came to
be on familiar terms with the lairds and farmers all along their route,
whom they were always glad to oblige and from whom they received in
return many tangible proofs of recognition and good-will. At the end
of a visit which I had been paying to friends on the south coast of
Mull, the captain, to whom my kind host had previously written, brought
his vessel a little out of his way in order to pick me up. The shore
being full of rocks and reefs, my boat had to pull some distance out to
the steamer, so that the tourist passengers had time to gratify their
curiosity by crowding to one side to see the cause of this unusual
stoppage. When the boat came alongside its cargo was transhipped in the
following order: first a letter for the captain, next a live sheep,
then a portmanteau, and lastly myself. There were many inquisitive
glances at the scantiness of my flock, but the sheep had been sent as
a present from my host to the captain, in recognition of some little
services which he had lately been rendering to the family.

I have known a number of these captains, and have often been struck
with their quiet dignity and good nature in circumstances that must
have tried their temper and patience. They had much responsibility, and
must often have had anxious moments in foggy or stormy weather. Now
and then a vessel met with an accident, or was even shipwrecked, but
the rarity of such always possible mishaps afforded good proof of the
skilful seamanship with which the Hutcheson fleet was handled. There
was always a heavy traffic in goods. Scores of cases, boxes, barrels,
and parcels of all conceivable shapes and sizes had to be taken on
board and distributed at the various places of call. Live stock had
to be adequately accommodated, and the varying times and direction of
the tides had to be allowed for. Then there was the tourist-traffic,
which, though small in those days compared with what it has now grown
to, required constant care and watchfulness. Not improbably the human
part of his cargo gave a captain more trouble than the rest. The
average tourist is apt to be selfish and unreasonable, ready to find
fault if everything does not go precisely as he wished and expected.
He is usually inquisitive, too, and doubtless asks the same questions
that are put to the captain and seamen of the ship season after season.
He has formed certain anticipations in his own mind of what he is to
see, and when these are not quite realised he wants to know why. A
common hallucination among travellers south of the Tweed clothes every
Highlander in a kilt, and surprise is often expressed that the ‘garb
of old Gaul’ is so seldom seen. The answer of one of David Hutcheson’s
officers should suffice for all who give vent to this surprise: ‘Oh
no, nobody wears the kilt here but fools and Englishmen.’

[Sidenote: TOURISTS ON WEST COAST]

Various anecdotes are in circulation about the passengers and crew of
these western steamboats. One of these narratives, of which different
versions have been told, relates how on a dull, drizzling, and misty
evening, when every attention had to be given to the rather intricate
navigation, a lady began to ask questions of the man at the wheel. He
answered her as briefly as possible for a time; but, as she still plied
him with queries, he at last lost his temper and abruptly desired her
to go to the nether regions. She retired in high dudgeon and sought out
the captain, insisting that the man should be discharged, and that she
would report the matter to Mr. Hutcheson. The captain tried to soothe
her, expressing his own regret at the language that had been used to
her, and assuring her that he would make the man apologise to her for
his conduct. She thereupon went down to the saloon and poured out her
indignation to some of her fellow-passengers. In the midst of her talk,
a man in dripping oilskins and cap in hand appeared at the door, and,
after some hesitation and looking round the company, advanced to the
irate lady and said, ‘Are you the leddy I tellt to gang to hell? Weel,
the captain says ye needna gang yet.’ Such was the apology.

I well remember, when as a lad of eighteen I first visited Skye, that
the steamer carrying the usual miscellaneous cargo in the hold and
on deck, after rounding the Mull had made so many calls, and had so
much luggage and merchandise to discharge at each halt, that it was
past midnight of the second day before we came into Broadford Bay. The
disembarkation was by small-boat, and as we made our way shorewards,
the faces of the oarsmen were at every stroke lit up with the pale,
ghostly light of a phosphorescent sea. The night was dark, but with
the aid of a dim lantern one could mount the rough beach, where I was
met by a son of the Rev. John Mackinnon of Kilbride, with whom I had
come to spend a few weeks. We had a drive of some five miles inland,
enlivened with Gaelic songs which my young friend and his cousin
screamed at the pitch of their voices. At a certain part of the road
they became suddenly silent, or only spoke to each other in whispers.
We were then passing the old graveyard at Kilchrist; but when we
had got to what was judged a safe distance beyond it and its ghosts,
the hilarity began anew, and lasted until we came to our destination
between two and three o’clock in the morning.

[Sidenote: THE TELEGRAPH IN HIGHLANDS]

The introduction of the electric telegraph naturally aroused
much curiosity in the rural population as to how the wires could
carry messages. A West Highlander who had been to Glasgow and was
consequently supposed to have got to the bottom of the mystery, was
asked to explain it. ‘Weel,’ said he, ‘it’s no easy to explain what you
will no be understandin’. But I’ll tell ye what it’s like. If you could
stretch my collie dog frae Oban to Tobermory, an’ if you wass to clap
its head in Oban, an’ it waggit its tail in Tobermory, or if I wass to
tread on its tail in Oban an’ it squaked in Tobermory--that’s what the
telegraph is like.’




CHAPTER II.

  Traces of Paganism in Scotland. Relics of the Celtic Church;
    ‘Deserts.’ Survival of Roman Catholicism in West Highlands and
    Islands. Influence of the Protestant clergy. Highland ministers.
    Lowland ministers. Diets of catechising. Street preachers.


The social history of Scotland has been intimately linked with the
successive ecclesiastical polities which have held sway in the country.
Nowhere can the external and visible records of these polities be more
clearly seen than among the Western Isles, for there the political
revolutions have been less violent, though not less complete, than in
other parts of the country, and the effacement of the memorials of
the past has been brought about, more perhaps by the quiet influence
of time, than by the ruthless hand of man. First of all we meet with
various lingering relics of Paganism; then with abundant and often
well-preserved records of the primitive Celtic Church; next with
evidence of the spread of the Roman Catholic faith; further with the
establishment of Protestantism, but without the complete eradication of
the older religion; and lastly with the doings of the various religious
sects into which the inhabitants are now unhappily divided.

[Sidenote: RELICS OF PAGANISM]

Various memorials of Paganism may be recognised, to some of which
further reference will be made in a later chapter. Of these memorials,
the numerous standing stones are the most conspicuous, whether as
single monoliths, marking the grave of some forgotten hero or dedicated
to some unknown divinity, or as groups erected doubtless for religious
purposes, like the great assemblage at Callernish in the Lewis. Besides
these stones, many burial mounds, resting-places of the pagan dead,
have yielded relics of the Stone and Bronze Ages. In some respects more
impressive even than these relics, are the superstitious customs which
still survive amongst us, and have probably descended uninterruptedly
from pagan times; such, for instance, as the practice of walking
around wells and other places three times from east to west, as the
sun moves, and the practice of leaving offerings at the springs which
are resorted to for curative purposes. Some of these customs were
continued by the early Celtic Church, persisted afterwards through the
Roman Catholic period, and even now, in spite of all the efforts of
Protestant zeal, they have not been wholly extirpated.

[Sidenote: DESERTS OF THE CELTIC SAINTS]

The vestiges of the early Celtic Church, by which Paganism was
superseded, are specially abundant in the Highlands. Even where all
visible memorials have long since vanished, the name of many a devoted
saint and missionary still clings to the place where he or she had a
chapel or hermitage, or where some cell was dedicated to their memory.
The names of Columba, Bridget, Oran, Donan, Fillan, Ronan, and others
are as familiar on the lips of modern Highlanders as they were on those
of their forefathers, although the historical meaning and interest of
these names may be unknown to those who use them now. When, besides
the name attached to the place, the actual building remains with which
the name was first associated in the sixth or some later century, the
interest deepens, especially where the relic stands, as so many of them
do, on some small desolate islet, placed far amid the melancholy main,
and often for weeks together difficult or impossible of approach,
even now, with the stouter boats of the present day. Such places, like
those off the west coast of Ireland, were sought for retirement from
the work and worry of the world, where the missionary devoted himself
to meditation and prayer. The numerous Deserts, Diserts, Dysarts,
and Dyserts in Ireland and Scotland are all forms of the Gaelic word
_Disert_, derived from the Latin _Desertum_, a desert or sequestered
place, and mark retreats of the early propagandists of Christianity.
It fills one with amazement and admiration to contemplate the heroism
and self-devotion which could lead these men in their frail coracles
to such sea-washed rocks, where there is often no soil to produce any
vegetation, and where, except by impounding rain, there can be no
supply of fresh water.

Perhaps the most striking of these ‘deserts’ in Scotland is to be
found on the uninhabited rock known as Sùla Sgeir, which rises out of
the Atlantic, about forty miles to the north of the Butt of Lewis.
Though much less imposing in height and size than the Skellig off the
coast of Kerry, it is at least four times further from the land, and
must consequently have been still more difficult to reach in primitive
times. I had a few years ago an opportunity of landing on this rock,
during a yachting cruise to the Faroe Islands. With some little
difficulty, on account of the heavy swell, I succeeded in scrambling
ashore, and found the rock to consist of gneiss, like that of the Long
Island. My arrival disturbed a numerous colony of sea-fowl. The puffins
emerged from their holes, and sat gazing at me with their whimsical
wistful look. Flocks of razo-bills and guillemots circled overhead,
filling the air with their screams, while the gannets, angry that
their mates should be disturbed from their nests, wheeled to and fro
still higher, with mocking shouts of ha! ha! ha! A dank grey sea-fog
hung over the summit of the islet. Everything was damp with mist and
clammy with birds’ droppings, which in a dry climate would gather as a
deposit of guano. Loathsome pools of rain-water and sea-spray, putrid
with excrement, filled the hollows of the naked rock, while the air
was heavy with the odours of living and dead birds. The only things of
beauty in the place were the tufts of sea-pink that grew luxuriantly in
the crannies. Some traces of recent human occupation could be seen in
the form of a few rude stone-huts erected as shelters by the men who
now and then come to take off the gannets and their eggs, and who when
there lately had left some heaps of unused peat behind them.

[Sidenote: THE SAINT OF SULA SGEIR]

Yet this desolate, bird-haunted rock, with the heavy surf breaking
all round it and resounding from its chasms and caves, was the place
chosen by one of the Celtic saints as his ‘desert.’ His little rude
chapel yet remains, built of rough stones and still retaining its roof
of large flags. It measures inside about fourteen feet in length by
from six to eight in breadth, with an entrance doorway and one small
window-opening, beneath which the altar-stone still lies in place.
There could hardly ever have been a community here; one is puzzled to
understand how even the saint himself succeeded in reaching this barren
rock, and how he supported himself on it during his stay. He came, no
doubt, in one of the light skin-covered coracles, which could contain
but a slender stock of provisions. When these were exhausted, if the
weather forbade his return to Lewis or to the mainland, he had no fuel
on the rock to fall back upon, with which to cook any of the eggs or
birds of the islet, and there was no edible vegetation, save the dulse
or other sea-weeds growing between tide-marks.

With the decay and dissolution of the Celtic Church, probably many
of the chapels erected by that community were forsaken and allowed to
fall into ruin. But some continued to be used, and were even enlarged
or rebuilt, when the Church of Rome established its rule over the whole
country. Architecture had meanwhile made an onward step. The buildings
erected by the emissaries of Rome presented a strong contrast to those
which they replaced, for they were solidly built with lime, in a much
more ornate style, with a freer use of sculpture and on a much larger
scale. The old church of Rodil, in Harris, for example, belonging
perhaps to the thirteenth century, is full of sculptured figures; while
the Cathedral of Iona would hold some dozens of the primitive cells.

In various parts of the country evidence may be seen that the Celtic
sculptured stones had ceased to be respected, either as religious
monuments or as works of art, when the Roman Catholic churches were
erected. At St. Andrews, for example, the old chapel of St. Regulus,
probably built between the tenth and twelfth centuries, was allowed
to remain, and it still stands, roofless indeed, but in wonderful
preservation as regards the masonry of its walls. But of the crosses
that rose above the sward around it, many of them delicately carved
with interlaced work in the true Celtic style, some were broken up and
actually used as building material for the great Cathedral which was
begun in the year 1160. Again, at St. Vigeans, in Forfarshire, a large
quantity of similar sculptured stones of the Celtic period was built
into the masonry of the twelfth-century church erected there under the
Latin hierarchy.

[Sidenote: ROMAN CATHOLICISM IN HEBRIDES]

The Roman Catholic faith, which once prevailed universally over the
country, still maintains its place on some of the islands, particularly
Barra, Benbecula, and South Uist, and in certain districts of the
mainland. In Eigg, about half of the population is still Catholic, the
other half being divided between the Established and Free Churches. The
three clergymen, Protestant and Roman Catholic, when I first visited
the island, were excellent friends, and used to have pleasant evenings
together over their toddy and talk. The Catholic memorial chapel to
the memory of Lord Howard of Glossop was determined ‘to be erected in
one of the Catholic islands,’ and Canna was chosen as its site. The
building has been placed there, and with its high Norman tower now
forms a conspicuous landmark for leagues to east and west. But the
crofter population is gone, and with it Catholicism has disappeared
from Canna, though some five crofter families still live on the
contiguous island of Sanday.

In my peregrinations through the Catholic districts of the west of
Scotland I have often been struck with some interesting contrasts
between them and similar regions in Ireland, where Catholic and
Protestant live together. The Scottish priests have always seemed to me
a better educated class and more men of the world than their brethren
in Ireland. Students who have been trained abroad have their ideas
widened and their manners polished, as is hardly possible in the case
of those who leave their villages to be trained at Maynooth, whence
they are sent to recommence village life as parish priests. Again,
there has always appeared to me to be in the West Highlands far less of
the antagonism which in Ireland separates Catholics and Protestants.
They live together as good neighbours, and, unless you actually make
enquiry, you cannot easily discriminate between them.

[Sidenote: SCOTTISH PROTESTANT CLERGY]

No feature in the social changes which Scotland has undergone stands
out more conspicuously than the part played in these changes by the
clergy since the Reformation. This clerical influence has been both
beneficial and baneful. On the one hand, the clergy have unquestionably
taken a large share in the intellectual development of the people,
and in giving to the national character some of its most distinctive
qualities. For many generations, in face of a lukewarm or even hostile
nobility and government, they bore the burden of the parish schools,
elaborating and improving a system of instruction which made their
country for a long time the best educated community in Europe. They
have held up the example of a high moral standard, and have laboured
with the most unremitting care to train their flocks in the paths of
righteousness.

On the other hand, the clergy, having from the very beginning of
Protestantism obtained control over the minds and consciences of
the people, have naturally used this powerful influence to make
their theological tenets prevail throughout the length and breadth
of the land. They early developed a spirit of intolerance and
fanaticism, and with this same spirit they succeeded in imbuing their
people, repressing the natural and joyous impulses of humanity,
and establishing an artificial and exacting code of conduct, the
enforcement of which led to an altogether hurtful clerical domination.
While waging war against older forms of superstition, they introduced
new forms which added to the terrors and the gloom of life. These
transformations were longest in reaching their climax among the
Highlands and Islands, but have there attained their most complete
development, as will be further pointed out in a later chapter.
Happily, in the Lowlands for the last two hundred years, their
effects have been slowly passing away. The growth of tolerance and
enlightenment is increasingly marked both among the clergy and the
laity. But the old leaven is not even yet wholly eradicated, though it
now works within a comparatively narrow and continually contracting
sphere.

[Sidenote: SCOTTISH MINISTERS]

Nevertheless, even those who have least sympathy with the theological
tenets and ecclesiastical system of the Scottish clergy must needs
acknowledge that, as earnest and indefatigable workers for the
spiritual and temporal good of their flocks, as leaders in every
movement for the benefit of the community, and as fathers of families,
these men deserve the ample commendation which they have received.
Their limited stipends have allowed them but a slender share of the
material comforts and luxuries of life, and comparatively few of them
have enjoyed opportunities to ‘augment their small peculiar,’ yet they
have, as a whole, set a noble example of self-denial, thrift, and
benevolence. Secure at least of their manses, they have contrived ‘to
live on little with a cheerful heart,’ respected and esteemed of men.
While supplying the material wants of their people, as far as their
means would allow, they have yet been able to provide a good education
for their families, and to

    Put forth their sons to seek preferment out;
    Some to the wars, to try their fortune there;
    Some to discover islands far away;
    Some to the studious universities.

The ‘sons of the manse’ are found filling positions of eminence in
every walk of life.

With all this excellence of character and achievement, the clergy of
Scotland have maintained an individuality which has strongly marked
them as a class among the other professions of the country. This
peculiarity is well exemplified in the innumerable anecdotes which,
either directly or indirectly connected with clergymen, form so large
a proportion of what are known as ‘Scotch Stories.’ If we seek for
the cause of the prominence of the clerical element in the accepted
illustrations of Scottish humour, we shall hardly find it in any
exceptional exuberance of that quality among the reverend gentlemen
themselves, taken as a body, though many of their number have been
among the most humorous and witty of their countrymen. As they were
long drawn from almost every grade in the social scale of the kingdom,
they have undoubtedly presented an admirable average type of the
national idiosyncrasies, though they are now recruited in diminishing
measure from the landed and cultured ranks of society. Their number,
their general dispersion over the whole land, their prominence in their
parishes, the influence wielded by many of them in the church-courts
and on public platforms, and the free intercourse between them and the
people, have all helped to draw attention to them and to their sayings
and doings. Moreover, since dissent from the National Church began, the
clergy have been greatly multiplied. In each parish, where there was
once only one minister, there are now two or even more.

[Sidenote: CLERICAL CHARACTERISTICS]

A Scots proverb avers that ‘A minister’s legs should never be seen,’
meaning that he should not be met with out of the pulpit. So long as
he remains there, he stands invested with ‘such divinity as doth hedge
a king’: unassailable, uncontradictable, and wielding the authority of
a messenger from God to man. The very isolation and eminence of this
position call attention to any merely human qualities or frailties
which he may disclose in ordinary life. His parishioners, though
inwardly glad if he can shed upon them ‘the gracious dew of pulpit
eloquence,’ at the same time delight to find him, when divested of
his gown and bands, after all, one of themselves; and while they
enjoy his humour, when he possesses that saving grace, they are not
unwilling sometimes to take his little peculiarities as subjects for
their own mirthful but not ill-natured remarks. He may thus be like
Falstaff, ‘not only witty himself, but the cause that wit is in other
men.’ Hence the clerical stories may be divided into two kinds: those
in which the humour is that of the ministers, and those in which it
is that of the people, with the ministers as its object. In the first
series, there is perhaps no particular flavour different from that
characteristic of the ordinary middle-class Scot, though of course the
many anecdotes of a professional nature take their colour from the
calling of those to whom they relate. In the second division, however,
a greater individuality may be recognised. Whether it be from a sort of
good-humoured revenge for his incontestible superiority in the pulpit,
there seems to be a proneness to make the most of any oddities in the
minister’s manners or character. The contrast between the preacher
on Sunday and the same man during the week--it may be absent-minded,
or irascible, or making mistakes, or getting into ludicrous
situations--appeals powerfully to the Scotsman’s sense of humour. He
seizes the oddity of this contrast, expresses it in some pithy words,
and thus, often unconsciously, launches another ‘story’ into the world.
His humour, as in Swift’s definition,

        Is odd, grotesque, and wild,
    Only by affectation spoiled;
    ’Tis never by invention got;
    Men have it when they know it not.

It is in the country, and more particularly in the remoter and less
frequented parishes, that the older type of minister has to some
extent survived. We meet with him rather in the Highlands than in the
Lowlands. He cultivates his glebe, and sometimes has also a farm on his
hands. He has thus some practical knowledge of agriculture, is often a
good judge of cattle, and breeds his own stock.

[Sidenote: A HIGHLAND MINISTER]

The best example of a Highland clergyman I ever knew was the Rev. John
Mackinnon, minister of the parish of Strath, Skye, to whose hospitable
house of Kilbride I have already referred as my first home in the
island. He succeeded to the parish after his father, who had been
its minister for fifty-two years, and he was followed in turn by his
eldest son, the late Dr. Donald, so that for three generations, or
more than a hundred years, the care of the parish remained in the same
family. Tall, erect, and wiry, he might have been taken for a retired
military man. A gentleman by birth and breeding, he mingled on easy
terms with the best society in the island, while at the same time his
active discharge of his ministerial duties brought him into familiar
relations with the parishioners all over the district. So entirely had
he gained their respect and affections that, when the great Disruption
of 1843 rent the Establishment over so much of the Highlands, he kept
his flock in the old Church. He used to boast that Strath was thus the
Sebastopol of that Church in Skye.

The old manse at Kilchrist, having become ruinous, was abandoned; and,
as none was built to replace it, Mr. Mackinnon rented the farm and
house of Kilbride. There had once been a chapel there, dedicated to
St. Bridget, and her name still clings to the spot. Behind rises the
group of the Red Hills; further over, the black serrated crests of
Blaven, the most striking of all the Skye mountains, tower up into the
north-western sky, while to the south the eye looks away down the inlet
of Loch Slapin to the open sea, out of which rise the ridges of Rum and
the Scuir of Eigg. The farm lay around the house and stretched into the
low uplands on the southern side of the valley. The farming operations
at Kilbride will be noticed in a later chapter.

[Sidenote: A HIGHLAND MINISTER’S WIFE]

In the wide Highland parishes, where roads are few and communications
must largely be kept up on foot, the minister’s wife is sometimes
hardly less important a personage than her husband, and it is to her
that the social wants of the people are generally made known. Mrs.
Mackinnon belonged to another family of the same clan as the minister,
and was in every way worthy of him. Tall and massive in build, with
strength of character traced on every feature of her face, and a
dignity of manner like that of a Highland chieftainess, she was born
to rule in any sphere to which she might be called. Her habitual look
was perhaps somewhat stern, with a touch of sadness, as if she had
deeply realised the trials and transitoriness of life, and had braced
herself to do her duty through it all to the end. But no Highland heart
beat more warmly than hers. She was the mother of the whole parish,
and seemed to have her eye on every cottage and cabin throughout its
wide extent. To her every poor crofter looked for sympathy and help,
and never looked in vain. Her clear blue eyes would at one moment fill
with tears over the recital of some tale of suffering in the district,
at another they would sparkle with glee as she listened to some of the
droll narratives of her family or her visitors. She belonged to the
family of Corriehatachan, and among her prized relics was the coverlet
under which Samuel Johnson slept when he stayed in her grandfather’s
house. That house at the foot of the huge Beinn na Cailleach has long
ago disappeared; some fields of brighter green and some low walls mark
where it and its garden stood.

The younger generation at Kilbride consisted of a large family of
stalwart sons and daughters, whose careers have furnished a good
illustration of the way in which the children of the manses of Scotland
have succeeded in the world. The eldest son, as above stated, followed
his father as minister of Strath; another became proprietor of the
_Melbourne Argus_; a third joined the army, served in the Crimea, and
in the later years of his life was widely known and respected as Sir
William Mackinnon, Director-General of the Army Medical Department, who
left his fortune to the Royal Society for the furtherance of scientific
research.[5] Most of the family now lie with their parents under the
green turf of the old burial-ground of Kilchrist. Miss Flora, the
youngest daughter, was gathered to her rest not many months ago. The
later years of her life had been spent by her at her beautiful home
of Duisdale in Sleat, looking across the Kyle to the heights of Ben
Screel and the recesses of Loch Hourn. She was a skilled gardener and
had transformed a bare hillside into a paradise of flowers and fruit.
She lent a helping hand to every good work in the parish, managed the
property with skill and success, and knew the pedigree and history of
every family in the West Highlands. When I paid her my last visit,
feeling sure it would be the last, it was sad to see her once tall
muscular frame bowed down with illness and pain, and to find her alone,
the last of her family left in Skye.

[Sidenote: HIGHLAND MANSES]

In former days, before inns had multiplied in the Highlands, and
especially before the advent of the crowds of tourists, and the
inevitable modern ‘hotels,’ the manses were often the only houses,
other than those of the lairds, where travellers could find decent
accommodation. Their hospitality was often sought, and it became in
the end proverbial. Kilbride was an excellent example of this type of
manse. Not only did it receive every summer a succession of guests who
made it their home for weeks at a time, but every visitor of note was
sure of a kindly welcome, even if he were unexpected. Astonishing is
the capacity of these plain-looking Highland houses. When the company
assembles at dinner it may seem impossible that they can all find
sleeping quarters under the same roof. Yet they are all stowed away not
uncomfortably, sleep well, and come down next morning with appetites
prepared to do full justice to a Highland breakfast.

In those Highland parishes where Gaelic is still commonly spoken, two
services are held in the churches on Sunday, the first in that language
and the second, after a brief interval, in English. This practice
was followed in Strath. In the days of the Celtic Church, a chapel
dedicated to Christ stood in the middle of the parish and was known
as Kilchrist. On the same site, the Protestant Church was afterwards
erected, and continued to be used until towards the middle of last
century. But, like the adjacent manse, it fell into disrepair and was
ultimately allowed to become the roofless ruin which stands in the
midst of the old graveyard of Kilchrist. Instead of rebuilding it,
the heritors, about the year 1840, resolved to erect a new church at
Broadford, nearer to the chief centre of population. For two Sundays
in succession the services are held at Broadford; on the third Sunday
they take place at a little chapel in Strathaird, on the western side
of the parish, for the benefit of a mixed crofter and fishing community.

[Sidenote: SUNDAY SERVICES IN SKYE]

At the Gaelic service in the Broadford church, a prominent feature
used to be the row of picturesque red-cloaked or tartan-shawled old
women, who, sitting in front immediately below the pulpit, followed the
prayers and the sermon with the deepest attention, frequently uttering
a running commentary of sighs and groans, while now and then one could
even see tears coursing down the wrinkles into which age and peat-reek
had shrivelled their cheeks.

The Sundays at Strathaird were peculiarly impressive. The house party
from the manse--family, guests and servants--walked to the shore of the
sea-inlet of Loch Slapin, embarked there in rowing boats, and pulled
across the fjord and along the base of the cliffs on the opposite side.
No finer landscape could be found even amidst the famous scenery of
Skye,--the pink and russet-coloured cones and domes of the Red Hills,
and the dark pinnacles and crags of Blaven behind us, and the blue
islands that closed in the far distance in front.

During the long incumbency of the minister’s father, no built place of
worship existed in Strathaird. The little chapel of the early Celtic
Church, of which the memory is preserved in the name Kilmaree, had long
disappeared, and the clergyman used to preach from a recess in the
basalt crags, with a grassy slope in front on which his congregation
sat to hear him. My host, however, in the early years of his tenancy
of the parish, had succeeded in getting a small church erected wherein
his people could be sheltered in bad weather. I can recollect one of
these Sundays when the weather was absolutely perfect--a cloudless
blue sky, the sea smooth as a mirror, and the air suffused with the
calm peacefulness which seems so appropriate to a Sabbath. We were a
large but singularly quiet party, as we steered for the little bay of
Kilmaree, each wrapped up in the thoughts which the day or the scene
suggested. As we approached our landing place, we were startled by two
gun-shots in rapid succession on the hillside above us. The sound would
under any circumstances have intruded somewhat harshly into the quiet
of the landscape. But it was Sunday, and such a thing as shooting on
the Lord’s day had never been heard of in Strath. An Englishman had
rented the ground for the season, and he and his wife were now out with
their guns. The surprise and horror with which this conduct was viewed
by the minister and his family soon found an echo through the length
and breadth of the parish.

[Sidenote: THE MINISTER OF GLENELG]

The sacramental season brought together to Kilbride some of the other
clergymen of Skye, whom it was always a pleasure to meet. They were a
race of earnest, hardworking, and intelligent men,[6] though, having
remained in the Establishment, they would have been stigmatised by
the seceding party as ‘Moderates’ who had clung to their loaves and
fishes, in spite of the example of the Free Kirk. I remember being
especially struck by Mr. Macrae of Glenelg and Mr. Martin of Snizort.
With Mr. Macrae I had afterwards more intercourse. Over and above his
ministerial duties, to which he conscientiously devoted himself, his
great delight in life was to be on the sea. He had a little yacht
or cutter, on which he lived as much as he could, and which, as it
passed up and down the lochs and kyles, was as familiar as Hutcheson’s
steamers. He was never happier than when, with his two daughters, he
could entertain some friend on a cruise in these waters, and tell
what he knew about the ruins and legends of the district--the Pictish
towers, the mouldering Barracks, the traditions of 1715 and 1745, the
Spanish invasion, the battle of Glen Shiel, the naval pursuit and
the battering down of Eilean Donan Castle. Once when I was staying
at Inverinate, the minister landed there from his little vessel, and
hearing that I wished to examine a piece of the Skye shore south of
Kyle Rhea, was delighted to offer to convey me there and back next
day. My host jocularly remarked that the visit would be sooner made
by land and crossing the Kyle at the ferry, than by trusting to the
minister. The little cruise, however, was arranged, according to Mr.
Macrae’s desire, and he duly dropped anchor in front of Inverinate next
morning. We started early, and, with a gentle south-easterly breeze and
unclouded sky, made good progress down Loch Duich. But the wind soon
fell, and we crept more and more slowly past the ruined Eilean Donan
into Loch Alsh. There could not have been a more glorious day for a
lazy excursion, or a nobler landscape to gaze upon, as hour slipped
after hour. Behind us rose the great range of the Seven Sisters of
Kintail, in front were the hills of Sleat with the Cuillins peering up
behind them, all suffused with the varying tints of the atmosphere.
It was a source of keen interest to watch how the hues of peak and
crag which one had actually climbed, were transformed in this aerial
alembic, and one felt the truth of Dyer’s beautiful lines:

    Mark yon summits, soft and fair,
    Clad in colours of the air,
    Which to those who journey near,
    Barren, brown, and rough appear.

[Sidenote: A NAUTICAL MINISTER]

The worthy minister, in his capacity of experienced yachtsman,
playfully indulged in the usual whistling incantations that are
supposed by the nautical imagination to propitiate Æolus, but without
success. The air became so nearly motionless as to be able to give only
an occasional sleepy flap to the sail. But we continued to move almost
imperceptibly towards our destination, borne onward by the last efforts
of the ebbing tide. By the time we had reached the open part of Loch
Alsh, however, and had come well in sight of the coast I intended to
traverse, the tide turned and began to flow. Gradually the yacht was
turned round with her prow directed up the loch, and to our disgust
we saw ourselves being gradually carried back again. Helpless on a
perfectly smooth sea, and without a breath of wind, we had to resign
ourselves to fate, and got back opposite to Inverinate just in time for
dinner.

[Sidenote: A BACHELOR MINISTER]

Another Highland minister of a very different type lived on the shores
of Loch Striven--a long inlet of the sea which runs far up among the
mountains of Cowal, and opens out into the Firth of Clyde opposite
to Rothesay. He was a bachelor and somewhat of a recluse, with many
eccentricities which formed the basis of sundry anecdotes among his
colleagues. One of these reverend brethren told me that the erection
of a volunteer battery on the shore of Bute, where it looks up Loch
Striven, greatly perturbed the old minister, for the reverberation of
the firing rolled loud and long among the mountains. One morning before
he was awake, the chimney-sweeps, by arrangement with his housekeeper,
came to clean the chimneys. Part of their apparatus consisted of a
perforated iron ball through which a rope was passed, and which by
its weight dragged the rope down to the fireplace. By some mistake
this ball was dropped down the chimney of the minister’s bedroom,
where, striking the grate with a loud noise, it rebounded on the
floor. The rattle awoke the reverend gentleman, who, on opening his
eyes and seeing, as he thought, a cannon-ball dancing across the room,
exclaimed, ‘Really, this is beyond my patience; it is bad enough to
be deaved with the firing, but to have the shot actually sent into my
house is more than I can stand. I’ll get up and write to the commanding
officer.’

As he had a comfortable manse and a fair stipend, various efforts
were made by the matrons of the neighbourhood to induce the minister
to take a wife, and he used innocently to recount these interviews to
his co-presbyters, who took care that they should not lose anything
by repetition to the world outside. One of these interviews was thus
related to me. A lady in his parish called on him, and after praising
the manse and the garden and the glebe, expressed a fear that he must
find it a great trouble to manage his house as well as his parish.
He explained that he had an excellent housekeeper, who took great
care of him, and managed the household to his entire satisfaction.
‘Ah, yes,’ said the visitor, ‘I’m sure Mrs. Campbell is very careful,
but she canna be the same as a wife to you. You must often be very
lonely here, all by yourself. But if you had a wife she would keep
you from wearying, and would take all the management of the house off
your hands, besides helping you with the work of the parish. Now Mr.
----there’s my Isabella, if you would but take her for your wife, she
would be a perfect Abishag to you.’ This direct and powerful appeal,
however, met with no better success than others that had gone before
it. The incorrigible old divine lived, and, I believe, died in single
blessedness.

[Sidenote: AN AYRSHIRE MINISTER]

In the Lowlands the younger ministers, educated in Edinburgh or
Glasgow, and accustomed to the modernised service of the churches, and
the more distinctive ecclesiastical garb of the officiating clergy,
have lost the angularity of manner which marked older generations. I
can remember, however, a number of parish ministers who belonged to an
earlier and perhaps now extinct type. Though thoroughly earnest and
devoted men, they would be regarded at the present day as at least
irreverent, and their sayings and doings would no doubt scandalise
modern eyes and ears. One of these clergymen had a large Ayrshire
parish. He was apt to forget things, and on remembering them, to blurt
them out at the most inappropriate times. On one occasion he had begun
the benediction at the close of the service, when he suddenly stopped,
exclaiming: ‘We’ve forgot the psalm,’ which he thereupon proceeded to
read out. Another time, in the midst of one of his extempore prayers,
he was asking for a blessing on the clergyman who was to address the
people in the afternoon, when he interrupted himself to interject:
‘It’s in the laigh Kirk, ye ken.’

One evening the same clergyman was dining with a pleasant party at a
laird’s house about a mile from the village, when it flashed across his
mind that he ought to have been at that moment performing a baptism in
the house of one of the villagers. Hastily asking to be excused for a
little, as he had forgotten an engagement, and with the assurance that
he would soon be back, he started off. It was past nine o’clock before
he reached the village and knocked at the door of his parishioner.
There was no answer for a time, and after a second and more vigorous
knock, the window overhead was opened, and a voice demanded who was
there. ‘It’s me, Mrs. Maclellan. I’m very sorry, indeed, to have
forgotten about the baptism. But it’s not too late yet’ ‘O minister,
we’re in bed, and a’ the fowk are awa’. We canna hae the baptism noo.’
‘Never mind the folk, Mrs. Maclellan; is the bairn here?’ ‘Ow ay, the
bairn’s here, sure eneuch.’ ‘Weel, that will do, and so you maun let
me in, and we’ll hae the baptism after all.’ The husband had meanwhile
pulled some clothes on, and with his wife came downstairs to let in
their minister. The ‘tea-things,’ which the good woman had prepared
with great care for her little festival, had been carried back to the
kitchen, whither the husband had gone for a lamp. The woman appeared
with the child, and begged that they would come into her parlour. But
the minister, assuring her that the room made no difference, proceeded
with the ceremony in the kitchen. When the moment came for sprinkling
the baby, he dipped his hand into the first basin he saw. ‘O stop, stop
Mr----that’s the water I washed up the tea-cups and saucers in.’ ‘It
will do as well as any other,’ he said, and continued his prayer to
the end of the short service. As soon as it was over, he started back
to the laird’s, and rejoined the party after an absence of about an
hour.

[Sidenote: A RIVERSIDE BAPTISM]

To this baptismal experience another may be added, where the rite was
celebrated in the face of great natural obstacles. Dr. Hanna relates
that a Highland minister once went to baptise a child in the house of
one of his parishioners, near which ran a small burn or river. When
he came to the stream it was so swollen with recent rains that he
could not ford it in order to reach the house. In these circumstances
he told the father, who was awaiting him on the opposite bank, to
bring the child down to the burn-side. Furnished with a wooden scoop,
the clergyman stood on the one side of the water, and the father,
holding the infant as far out in his arms as he could, placed himself
on the other. With the foaming torrent between the participants, the
service went on, until the time came for sprinkling the babe, when the
minister, dipping the scoop into the water, flung its contents across
at the baby’s face. His aim, however, was not good, for he failed more
than once, calling out to the father after each new trial: ‘Weel, has’t
gotten ony yet?’ When he did succeed, the whole contents of the scoop
fell on the child’s face, whereupon the disgusted parent ejaculated,
‘Ach, Got pless me, sir, but ye’ve trownt ta child.’ Dr. Chalmers, in
telling this story, used to express his wonder as to what the great
sticklers for form and ceremony in the sacraments would think of such a
baptism by a burn-side, performed with a wooden scoop.[7]

A certain parish church in Carrick, like many ecclesiastical edifices
of the time in Scotland, was not kept with scrupulous care. The windows
seemed never to be cleaned, or indeed opened, for cobwebs hung across
them,

    And half-starv’d spiders prey’d on half-starv’d flies.

There was an air of dusty neglect about the interior, and likewise a
musty smell. One Sunday an elderly clergyman from another part of the
country was preaching. In the midst of his sermon a spider, suspended
from the roof at the end of its long thread, swung to and fro in front
of his face. It came against his lips and was blown vigorously away.
Again it swung back to his mouth, when, with an indignant motion of his
hands, he broke the thread and exclaimed, ‘My friends, this is the
dirtiest kirk I ever preached in. I’m like to be pusioned wi’ speeders.’

It is recorded of an old minister in the west of Ross-shire that he
prayed for Queen Victoria, ‘that God would bless her and that as now
she had grown to be an old woman, He would be pleased to make her a new
man.’

The same worthy divine is said to have once prayed ‘that we may
be saved from the horrors of war, as depicted in the pages of the
_Illustrated London News_ and the _Graphic_.’

[Sidenote: A DIET OF CATECHISING]

One of the most serious functions which the Presbyterian clergymen of
Scotland had formerly to discharge was that of publicly examining their
congregation in their knowledge of the Christian faith. Provided with
a list of the congregation, the officiating minister in the pulpit
proceeded to call up the members to answer questions out of the Shorter
Catechism, or such other interrogatories as it might seem desirable to
ask. Nobody knew when his turn would come, or what questions would be
put to him, so that it was a time of trial and trepidation for old and
young. The custom appears to be now obsolete, but reminiscences of its
operation are still preserved.

[Sidenote: ‘WHAT IS A SACRAMENT?’]

An elderly minister was asked to take the catechising of the
congregation in a parish in the pastoral uplands of the South of
Scotland. He was warned against the danger of putting questions to a
certain shepherd, who had made himself master of more divinity than
some of his clerical contemporaries could boast, and who enjoyed
nothing better than, out of the question put to him, to engage in an
argument with the minister on some of the deepest problems of theology.
The day of the ordeal at last came, the old doctor ascended the pulpit,
and after the preliminary service put on his spectacles and unfolded
the roll of the congregation. To the utter amazement of everybody, he
began with the theological shepherd, John Scott. Up started the man,
a tall, gaunt, sunburnt figure, with his maud over his shoulder, his
broad blue bonnet on the board in front of him, and such a look of grim
determination on his face as showed how sure he felt of the issue of
the logical encounter to which he believed he had been challenged from
the pulpit. The minister, who had clearly made up his mind as to the
line of examination to be followed with this pugnacious theologian,
looked at him calmly for a few moments, and then in a gentle voice
asked, ‘Wha made you, John?’ The shepherd, prepared for questions on
some of the most difficult points of our faith, was taken aback by
being asked what every child in the parish could answer. He replied
in a loud and astonished tone, ‘Wha made _me_?’ ‘It was the Lord God
that made you, John,’ quietly interposed the minister. ‘Wha redeemed
you, John?’ Anger now mingled with indignation as the man shouted, ‘Wha
redeemed _me_?’ The old divine, still in the same mild way, reminded
him ‘It was the Lord Jesus Christ that redeemed you, John,’ and then
asked further, ‘Wha sanctified you, John?’ Scott, now thoroughly
aroused, roared out, ‘Wha sanctified ME?’ The clergyman paused, looked
at him calmly, and said, ‘It was the Holy Ghost that sanctified you,
John Scott, if, indeed, ye be sanctified. Sit ye doon, my man, and
learn your questions better the next time you come to the catechising.’
The shepherd was never able to hold his head up in the parish
thereafter.

An old woman who had got sadly rusty in her Catechism was asked,
‘What is a sacrament?’ to which she gave the following rather mixed
answer, ‘A sacrament is--an act of saving grace, whereby--a sinner
out of a true knowledge of his sins--doth rest in his grave till the
resurrection.’

Dr. Hanna used to tell of a shoemaker who lamented to his minister that
he was spiritually in a bad way because he was not very sure of his
title to the kingdom of heaven, and that he was physically bad because
‘that sweep, his landlord, had given him notice to quit and he would
have nowhere to lay his head.’ The minister could only advise him to
lay his case before the Lord. A week later the minister returned and
found the shoemaker busy and merry. ‘That was gran’ advice ye gied me,
minister,’ said the man, ‘I laid my case before the Lord, as ye tell’t
me--an’ noo the sweep’s deid.’

[Sidenote: BOBBIE FLOCKHART]

In connection with the regular clergy, reference may be made to the
free-lances who, as street-preachers, have long taken their place among
the influences at work for rousing the lower classes in our large
towns to a sense of their duties. These men have often displayed a
single-hearted devotion and persistence, in spite of the most callous
indifference or even active hostility on the part of their auditors.
The very homeliness of their language, which repels most educated
people, gives them a hold on those who come to listen to them, while
now and then their vehement enthusiasm rises into true eloquence.
The most remarkable of these men I have ever listened to was a noted
character in Edinburgh during the later years of the first half of last
century, named Bobbie Flockhart. He was diminutive in stature, but for
this disadvantage he endeavoured to compensate by taking care that

                    The apparel on his back,
    Though coarse, was reverend, and though bare, was black.

Eccentric in manner and speech, he long continued to be an
indefatigable worker for the good of his fellow townsmen. He used to
spend the forenoon and afternoon of every Sunday in flitting from
church to church, listening to the sermons, of each of which he
remained to hear only a small portion. Then in the evening, not only of
Sundays but of week days, he would hold forth from a chair or barrel
outside the west gate of St. Giles, and gather round him a crowd of
loafers from the High Street, who, it is to be feared, were attracted
to him rather by the expectation of some new drollery of language,
than from any interest in the substance of his discourses. They would
interrupt him now and then with ribald remarks, but they often met
with such a rebuke as turned the laugh against them, and increased
the popularity of the preacher. He was discoursing one evening on
the wickedness of the town, especially of the district in which his
audience lived, when in his enthusiasm he pointed up in the direction
of the Castle, where stands the huge historic cannon, and exclaimed: ‘O
that I could load Mons Meg wi’ Bibles, and fire it doon every close in
the High Street!’ On another occasion he was depicting to the people
the terrors of the day of judgment. ‘Ay,’ said he, ‘some of you that
mock me the day will be comin’ up to me then and sayin’, “Bobbie, ye’ll
mind us, we aye cam’ to hear ye.” But I’ll no’ help ye. Maybe ye’ll
think to cling on to my coat-tails, but I’ll cheat ye there, for I’ll
put on a jacket.’ He was fond of similes that could bring home to the
rough characters around him the truths he sought to impress on them.
He was once denouncing the careless ingratitude of man for all the
benefits conferred on him by Providence. ‘My friends,’ he said, ‘look
at the hens when they drink. There’s not ane o’ them but lifts its heid
in thankfulness, even for the water that is sae common. O that we were
a’ hens.’




CHAPTER III.

  The sermon in Scottish Kirks. Intruding animals in country
    churches. The ‘collection.’ Church psalmody. Precentors and
    organs. Small congregations in the Highlands. Parish visitation.
    Survival of the influence of clerical teaching. Religious mania.


From the time of the Reformation onwards the sermon has taken a
foremost place in the service of the Church of Scotland. There was
a time when a preacher would continue his discourse for five or six
hours, and when sometimes a succession of preachers would give sermon
after sermon and keep the congregation continuously sitting for ten
hours. These days of perfervid oratory are past. But a sermon of an
hour’s duration or even more may still be heard, and, when the preacher
is eloquent, will be listened to with deep interest. This part of the
service maintains its early prominence. It is from his capacity to
preach that a man’s qualifications for the ministry are mainly judged,
not merely by the church which licences him, but by the congregation
which chooses him as its pastor. The half-yearly celebration of the
sacrament, which included a fast-day, services on two or three week
days, and a long ‘diet’ on Sunday, was appropriately known as ‘The
Preachings.’ The Fast-Day, when the shops were closed and there were
at least two services in the churches, forenoon and afternoon, became
in the end a kind of public holiday in the large towns. Attracted to
the country, rather than to the sermons, the people used to escape from
town, and railways carried an ever-increasing number of excursionists
away from the services of the Church. The ecclesiastical authorities at
last, some years ago, put a stop to this scandal, and the Fast-Day no
longer ranks as one of the public holidays of the year.

[Sidenote: HEADS OF SERMONS]

Scottish sermons have always had a prevalent doctrinal character and
a markedly logical treatment of their subject. It has never been
the habit north of the Tweed to think that ‘dulness is sacred in a
sound divine.’ The clergy have appealed as much to the head as to the
heart. In bygone generations the doctrines evolved from the text were
divided into numerous heads, and these into subordinate sections and
subsections, so that the attention of those listeners who remained
awake was kept up as at a kind of intellectual exercise. If anyone
wishes to realise the extent to which this practice of subdivision
could be carried by an eminent and successful preacher, let him turn
to the posthumous sermons of Boston of Ettrick.[8] Thus, in a sermon
on ‘Fear and Hope, objects of the Divine Complacency,’ from the text,
Psalms cxlvii. 11, this famous divine, after an introduction in four
sections, deduced six doctrines, each subdivided into from three to
eight heads; but the last doctrine required another sermon, which
contained ‘a practical improvement of the whole,’ arranged under 86
heads. A sermon on Matthew xi. 28 was subdivided into 76 heads. If it
is not quite easy to follow the printed sermon through this maze of
sub-division, it must have been much more difficult to do so in the
spoken discourse. All the enthusiasm and fire of the preacher must
have been needed to rivet the attention and affect the hearts of his
congregation. It is still usual to treat the subject of a text under
different heads, but happily their number has been reduced to more
reasonable proportions.

It was not given to every occupant of a pulpit to rival the fecundity
and ingenuity of Boston of Ettrick in the elucidation of his text.
A subdivision of a simpler type was made by the worthy old Highland
divine who preached from the verse, ‘The devil, as a roaring lion,
walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.’ Following a Highland
habit of inserting an unnecessary pronoun after the noun to which it
refers, he began his discourse thus: ‘Let us consider this passage, my
brethren, under four heads. Firstly, who the Devil, he is; secondly,
what the Devil, he is like; thirdly, what the Devil, he doth; and
fourthly, who the Devil, he devoureth.’

[Sidenote: NEW TEXT TO OLD SERMON]

In many instances the sermons prepared during the first few years of a
ministry served for all its subsequent continuance, with perhaps some
modifications or additions suggested by the altered circumstances of
the time. It used to be said of some clergymen that they kept their
sermons in a barrel, which when emptied was refilled again with the
old MSS. Dr. Hanna, the biographer of Chalmers, used to tell of one
such minister who had preached the same short round of sermons for so
many years that at last the beadle was deputed by one or two members
of the congregation to ask whether, if he could not prepare a new
sermon, he would at least give them a fresh text. Next Sunday, to the
astonishment of the audience, the minister gave out a text from which
he had never before preached: ‘Genesis, first chapter, first verse,
and first clause of the verse.’ Every Bible was opened at the place,
and the listeners, nearly all of whom were ignorant of the suggested
arrangement, leant back in their pews in eager anticipation of the new
sermon. With great deliberation the preacher began: ‘“In the beginning
God created the heavens and the earth.” Who this Nicodemus was, my
brethren, commentators are not agreed.’ And the old story of Nicodemus
was repeated, as it had been so often before.

Sometimes the manuscript of a sermon was by mistake left behind at the
manse, and the minister or the beadle had to set off to procure it. On
one of these occasions, the manse being at some little distance from
the church, the minister, who had to go and find the document himself,
gave out the 119th Psalm, that the congregation might engage in singing
during his absence. When he returned with his MS. he asked his man,
who was waiting for him anxiously at the door, how the congregation
was getting on. ‘O sir,’ said he, ‘they’ve got to the end of the 84th
verse, and they’re jist cheepin’ like mice.’

To interrupt the service by requesting the congregation to sing a psalm
or hymn is an expedient which sometimes relieves a clergyman when,
from faintness or other cause, he finds a difficulty in performing
his duty in the pulpit. Some years ago a young minister had recourse
to this mode of extrication. On the conclusion of the service, one or
two of his friends came to him in the vestry to ascertain what had
ailed him. He told them that he could with difficulty refrain from
laughing, and his only resource was to leave the pulpit. ‘Did you see,’
he asked, ‘a man with an extraordinarily red head sitting in the front
of the gallery?’ ‘Yes, we noticed him, but he appeared to be a quiet
attentive listener.’ ‘So he was, so he was; but did you see a small boy
sitting behind him? That young rascal so fascinated me that, though I
tried hard to look elsewhere, I could not keep my eyes from sometimes
turning to watch him. He was holding up the forefinger of his left hand
behind the red head, as if he were heating an iron bolt in a furnace,
and he would then thump it on the desk in front of him, as if he were
hammering the iron into shape. This went on until I had to leave the
pulpit, and send the beadle up to the gallery to have the young sinner
cautioned or removed.’

[Sidenote: A SERMON BELOW BEN NEVIS]

The English sermon in Highland churches was often a curious
performance. As already mentioned, there were, and still generally are,
two sermons--one in Gaelic as part of the earlier service, and one in
English in the second part. Those of the congregation who thought they
understood both languages might stay from the beginning to the end, but
the purely Gaelic-speaking population generally thinned away after the
Gaelic service. In some cases, the preacher’s command of English being
rather limited, his evident earnestness could hardly prevent a smile at
his solecisms in grammar and the oddity of his expressions. Many years
ago an acquaintance told me he had been yachting in Loch Eil, and on a
Sunday of dreary rain and storm went ashore not far from the roots of
Ben Nevis to attend the English service, when he heard the following
passage from the lips of the preacher:

‘Ah, my friends, what causes have we for gratitude; O yes, for the
deepest gratitude! Look at the place of our habitation. How grateful
should we be that we do not leeve in the far north! O no; amid the
frost and the snaw, and the cauld and the weet, O no; where there’s
a lang day tae half o’ the year, O yes; and a lang, lang nicht the
tither, ah yes; that we do not depend upon the _auroary boreawlis_, O
no; that we do not gang shivering about in skins, O no; snoking amang
the snaw like mowdiwarts, O no, no!

‘And how grateful should we be too that we do not leeve in the far
south, beneath the equawtor and a sun aye burnin’, burnin’; where the
sky’s het, ah yes; and the earth’s het, and the water’s het, and ye’re
burnt black as a smiddy, ah yes! where there’s teegers, O yes; and
lions, O yes; and crocodiles, O yes; and fearsome beasts growlin’ and
girnin’ at ye amang the woods; where the very air is a fever, like
the burnin’ breath o’ a fiery draigon. That we do not leeve in these
places, O _no!_ NO!! NO!!!

[Sidenote: SLEEPING IN THE KIRK]

‘But that we leeve in this _blēssed_ island o’ ours, called Great
Britain, O yes! yes! and in that pairt o’ it named Scotland, and in
that bit o’ auld Scotland that looks up at Ben Naivis, O _yes!_ YES!!
YES!!! where there’s neither frost nor cauld, nor wind nor weet,
nor hail, nor rain, nor teegers, nor lions, nor burnin’ suns, nor
hurricanes, nor’---- At this part of the discourse a fearful gust from
Ben Nevis aforesaid drove in the upper sash of the window at the right
hand of the pulpit, and rudely interrupted the torrent of eloquence.[9]

When we remember the length and technicality of the sermons, the bad
ventilation of the kirks, and the effects of six days of toil on a
large number of each congregation, we can hardly wonder that somnolence
should be prevalent in Scotland. Many anecdotes on this subject have
long been in circulation. The same tale may be recognized under
various guises, the preacher or sleeper being altered according to
local circumstances. Perhaps no series illustrates better how such
stories continue to float down through generation after generation,
and are always reappearing as new, when they receive a fresh personal
application. Sleeping in church is such a natural failing, and the
reproof of it from the pulpit is so obvious a consequence, that even
if no memory of the old incidents should survive, the recurrence of
similar circumstances could hardly fail to give birth to similar
anecdotes. For example, a story is at present in circulation to the
effect that in a country church one Sunday the preacher after service
walked through the kirkyard with one of the neighbouring farmers, and
took occasion to remark to him, ‘Wasn’t it dreadful to hear the Laird
of Todholes snoring so loud through the sermon?’ ‘Perfectly fearful,’
was the answer, ‘he waukened us a’.’ Two or three generations ago
a similar incident was said to have occurred at Govan, under the
ministration of the well-known Mr. Thom, who in the midst of his
sermon stopped and called out, ‘Bailie Brown, ye mauna snore sae loud,
for ye’ll wauken the Provost.’ But more than two centuries ago the
following epigram appeared:--

    Old South, a witty Churchman reckoned,
    Was preaching once to Charles the Second,
    But much too serious for a court,
    Who at all preaching made a sport:
    He soon perceived his audience nod,
    Deaf to the zealous man of God.
    The Doctor stopp’d; began to call,
    ‘Pray wake the Earl of Lauderdale:
    My Lord! why, ’tis a monstrous thing,
    You snore so loud--you’ll wake the King.’

[Sidenote: SABBATH SOMNOLENCE]

Though this scene took place in the south of England, it is interesting
to note that the snorer specially singled out for rebuke was a Scottish
nobleman.

Now and then a reproof from the pulpit has drawn down on the minister
a sarcastic reply from the unfortunate sleeper, as in the case of the
somnolent farmer who was awakened by the minister calling on him to
rouse himself by taking a pinch of snuff, and who blurted out ‘Put the
snuff in the sermon, sir,’--an advice which found not a little sympathy
in the congregation.

In a parish church about the middle of Ayrshire the central passage
leading from the entrance to the pulpit is paved with large
stone-flags. On the right side a worthy matron had her family pew,
wherein, overcome with drowsiness, she used to fall asleep, with her
head resting on her large brass-clasped Bible. She was an admirable
housekeeper and farmer, looking after all the details of management
herself. In her dreams in church her thoughts would sometimes wander
back to her domestic concerns and show that she was not ‘mistress
of herself, though china falls.’ One Sunday, in the course of her
slumbers, she succeeded in pushing her massive Bible over the edge of
the pew. As it fell on the stone-floor, its brass mountings made a loud
noise, at which she started up with the exclamation, ‘Hoot, ye stupid
jaud, there’s anither bowl broken.’

The genial Principal of Glasgow University, in the course of a public
speech a year or two ago, told a story of an opposite kind. An old
couple in his country parish had taken with them to church their
stirring little grandson, who behaved all through the service with
preternatural gravity. So much was the preacher struck with the good
conduct of so young a listener, that, meeting the grandfather at the
close of the service, he congratulated him upon the remarkably quiet
composure of the boy. ‘Ay,’ said the old man with a twinkle in his eye,
‘Duncan’s weel threetened afore he gangs in.’

[Sidenote: ANIMAL VISITORS TO THE KIRK]

When an afternoon service is held, the attendance is sometimes apt to
be scanty. A minister who was annoyed at a lukewarmness of this kind on
the part of his congregation, remonstrated with them on the subject. ‘I
canna tell,’ he said, ‘how it may look to the Almichtie that sae few o’
ye come to the second diet o’ worship, but I maun say that it’s showin’
unco little respect to mysel’.’

In summer weather, when the doors and windows of churches are sometimes
kept open for air, occasional unwelcome intruders distract the people
and disturb the preacher. Butterflies and small birds are the most
frequent; dogs are not uncommon, and in some districts these calls are
varied by the occasional appearance of a goat. A dog is amenable to
the sight of the minister’s man approaching with a stick, and bolts
off without needing any audible word of command, but a goat is a much
more refractory visitor. One of these creatures entered a country
church one Sunday in the midst of the service and deliberately marched
down the central passage. Of course every eye in the congregation was
turned upon it, and the luckless preacher found much difficulty in
proceeding with his discourse. The beadle at last sprang from his seat
and proceeded to meet the intruder. He had no stick, however, and the
goat showed fight by charging him with its horns and making him beat
a retreat. A friendly umbrella was thereupon passed out to him from
one of the pews, and he returned to the combat. By spreading his arms
and wielding the umbrella, he prevented the animal from reaching the
pulpit stairs and succeeded in turning it. But once or twice it wheeled
round again, as if to renew the fight. He contrived, however, to press
it onwards as far as the church porch, when, lifting up his foot and
dealing the goat a kick which considerably quickened its retreat, he
gave vent to his feelings of anger and indignation in an imprecation,
distinctly audible through half the church, ‘Out o’ the house o’ God,
ye brute.’

[Sidenote: CHURCH COLLECTIONS]

A characteristic feature of many churches in Scotland is the
‘collection,’ that is, the gathering of the contributions of the
congregation for the poor of the parish or other purpose. In the
Highlands where there are services both in Gaelic and English, the
performance is repeated at the end of each. One or more of the elders,
attired in Sunday garb, and looking as sad and solemn as if they were
at a funeral, take the ‘ladle’ or wooden box at the end of a pole, and
push it into each pew. The alms as they are dropped into the receptacle
make a noise so distinctly audible over the building that a practised
ear can make a shrewd guess as to the value of the coin deposited.
Nearly the whole contribution is in coppers, only the larger farmers
and the laird’s families furnishing anything of higher value. Hence
such congregations have been profanely valued at threepence a dozen.
An amusing incident in one of these collections took place at a parish
church in the west of Cowal. A family whom I used to visit there had
come to their seat in the gallery while the earlier service was still
going on, and when the Gaelic ladle came round they put into it their
contributions. After the ladle had traversed the church at the end
of the second service and was being brought back to the foot of the
pulpit, the minister, who noticed that it had not been taken up to the
laird’s seat, beckoned vigorously to the man who was approaching with
the money and pointed to the gallery. In response he received only a
knowing shake of the head from the collector, who at last, impatient
at the ministerial gesticulations, exclaimed aloud, ‘Na, na, sir, its
a’ richt, I wass takin’ the laird’s money at the Gaelic.’ In this
same kirk on another occasion, after the whole contributions of the
congregation had been collected, the box came up to the gallery, but
unluckily was carried violently against the corner of a pew, the bottom
came out, and the accumulated coppers rattled noisily to the floor.

Another part of the church service which cannot but strike a stranger,
especially in the Highlands, is the singing. In the more remote and
primitive parishes the precentor, standing in a lower desk directly
under the minister, reads out one, now more usually two lines of the
psalm, and then strikes up the tune. At the end of the first two lines,
he reads out the second two, which he proceeds to sing as before. The
congregation usually joins heartily in the music, which is the only
part of the service wherein it can actively participate.

[Sidenote: HIGHLAND PRECENTORS]

It is not always easy to secure a precentor. He must, in the first
place, be a man of tried good character, and in the second place, he
must of course be able to distinguish the metres of the psalms, and
have voice and ear enough to raise at least three or four psalm-tunes.
His repertoire is seldom much more extensive. Occasionally he begins
a tune that will not suit the metre of the psalm, or he loses himself
altogether. A precentor in the north Highlands to whom this happened,
suddenly stopped and exclaimed, ‘Och, bless me, I’m aff the tune
again.’ Another more sedate worthy struck up the tune three times,
but always lost it at the second line. He paused, looked round the
congregation, and after solemnly saying ‘Hoots, toots, toots,’ went
at it the fourth time successfully. When the precentor at Peebles had
failed twice in his efforts, the old minister looked over the pulpit
and said aloud to him, ‘Archie, try it again, and if ye canna manage
it, tak’ anither tune.’

A precentor is naturally jealous of any more practised and clearer
voice than his own, which, he rightly thinks, ought to predominate. In
the little Free Church of Raasay Island, the precentor had it all his
own way until the minister’s sister came. She sat at the far end of
the church, and, having some knowledge of music and a good voice, she
made herself well heard as she sang in much quicker time than the slow
drawl to which the people had been accustomed. Before the precentor
had done a line she was ready to begin the next, and the half of the
congregation nearest to her followed her excellent lead. This was too
much for the precentor. He raised his voice till it almost cracked with
the strain, and for a few notes drowned the rival performer at the
other end. But he could not keep it up, and as his notes dropped, the
clear sweet voice of the lady came out as before. Sitting about the
middle of the church, I was able to appreciate the strange see-saw in
the psalmody.

The most remarkable change which has taken place within living
memory in the services of the Scottish Church is unquestionably the
introduction of instrumental music. In most of the large congregations
of the chief towns, the precentor has given way to an organ, which
leads the choir, as the choir leads the congregation. Had any one in
the earlier half of last century been audacious enough to predict that
in a couple of generations the ‘kist o’ whistles,’ which had been long
banished as a sign and symbol of black popery, would be reintroduced
and welcomed before the end of the century, he would have been laughed
to scorn, or branded as himself a limb of the prelatic Satan. Of
course, there has been much searching of heart over this innovation,
and many have been the head-shakings and even open denunciations of
such manifest backsliding. But the cause of enlightenment has steadily
gained ground in the Lowlands, and a few generations hence it may not
improbably prevail even over the Highlands. Meanwhile in most Highland
parishes, the first notes of an organ in the church would probably
drive the majority of the congregation out of doors, and lead to years
of angry controversy.

[Sidenote: A CHURCH-STOVE AND POPERY]

The horror of anything savouring of what is thought to be popery shows
itself sometimes in determined opposition to even the most innocent and
useful changes. Sir Lauder Brunton has told me that in a Roxburghshire
parish with which he is well acquainted, the church being excessively
cold in winter, a proposal was mooted to introduce a stove for the
purpose of heating it. This innovation, however, met with a strong
resistance, especially from one member of the congregation, who said
that a stove had a pipe like an organ, and he would have nothing
savouring of popery in the Kirk of Scotland. He actually delayed the
reform for a time.

In the same county, where it had been the custom from time immemorial
to winnow the corn with the help of the wind, a farmer, alive to the
value of modern improvements, procured and began to use a machine which
created an artificial and always available current of air. He was at
once rebuked for an impious defiance of the ways of Providence.

A proposal to put a stove into a Fifeshire parish met with the
opposition of one of the heritors, who, when the minister came to
him for a subscription towards the warming of the kirk, indignantly
refused, asking, ‘D’ye think John Knox asked for a stove, even for the
cauldest kirk he ever preached in? Na, na, sir, warm the folk wi’ your
preachin’, and they’ll never think about the cauld.’

At the time of the Disruption of the Church of Scotland in 1843 the
congregations were apt to side with their minister, if he were an
able and efficient pastor to whom they were attached. Thus in Skye,
as I have above mentioned, so powerful was the influence of John
Mackinnon among his people that he kept them with him in the pale of
the Establishment. But in most Highland parishes the Free Church early
took ground, and in a large number it has been so predominant that
the congregation of the Parish Church sometimes consists of little
more than the clergyman and his family. In such cases the position of
the adherents of the ‘Auld Kirk’ may sometimes be rather trying. More
especially is it felt by the ‘minister’s man,’ who is sometimes placed
in sad straits in his endeavour to put the best face on the situation
and conceal the feebleness of his flock. Without knowing his official
position, or to which of the churches he belonged, I once met one
of these worthies in the west of Ross-shire, and, with a friend who
accompanied me, had some talk with him about the parish.

[Sidenote: A MINISTER’S MAN]

‘How does the Established Church get on here?’ we asked.

‘O fine, fine, sirs.’

‘Has the minister been here a long time?’

‘Ow ay, it’ll be a long time noo, I’m sure.’

‘And has he a large congregation?’

‘Ow ay, it’s a fery goot congregation, whatefer.’

‘Is it as big as the Free Kirk?’

‘Weel, I’ll no say that it will be just as big as the Free Kirk.’

‘How many do you think there may be in church on Sunday?’

‘Weel, ye see, there’ll be sometimes more and sometimes fewer.’

‘But have you no idea how many they may be?’

‘Weel, sir, I dinna think I wass ever counting them.’

‘You go to the parish church yourself, I think?’

[Sidenote: PARISH VISITING]

‘O, to be sure, I do: where wad ye think I wad be goin’ else?’

It was quite clear that our interlocutor must be a staunch adherent of
the Auld Kirk, and probably had some scantiness of the congregation to
conceal; but we had no idea then of what we learnt soon afterwards,
that he was no less a personage than the ‘minister’s man,’ and that,
saving the family from the manse and an occasional stranger, he was
himself the whole congregation.

It has been made a matter of reproach to the clergy of the Scottish
Church that, though they spend more time over the preparation of their
sermons and place these on a higher intellectual level than is common
in the English communion, they fall short of their brethren south of
the Tweed in the assiduity of their visitation of their people. Where
a parish extends over an area of many square miles, it must obviously
be difficult for the minister to move freely and constantly among his
parishioners, so as to be in close touch with all of them in their
mundane as well as their spiritual affairs. In such cases, he finds it
necessary to arrange the times of his visits, which are thus apt to
become somewhat formal ceremonies, announced beforehand, and prepared
for by those to whom notice is given. An example of this kind is
related of a minister who had recently been appointed to the parish of
Lesmahagow, and who made known from the pulpit one Sunday that he would
visit next day a certain hilly district of the parish. Accordingly, on
Monday morning he set out, and, after a walk of some seven or eight
miles, arrived at a farm-house, where he meant to begin. After knocking
for some time and getting no reply, he hailed a boy outside, when the
following conversation ensued:

‘Is Mr. Smith at home?’

‘Na.’

‘Is Mrs. Smith here?’

‘Na.’

‘Are you their son?’

‘Ay.’

‘Well, I have walked a long way, and I would like to sit and rest for a
little. May I go in?’ (answering the question by entering). ‘And did
your father and mother not expect me?’

‘Na, they didna think ye wad begin up here; sae they’re awa’ doon to
the roup o’ Ritchie’s farm.’

‘Well, now, my man, are these all the books that your father has in the
house?’

‘Ay.’

‘Now tell me which of them does he use oftenest?’

‘That ane,’ pointing to a large leather-covered family Bible.

‘O, the Bible; that’s right: I am pleased to know that; and when does
he use it?’

‘On Sabbath mornin’s.’

‘Only once a week! Well, how does he do? Does he read it aloud to you
all?’

‘Na, he shairps his raazors on’t.’

I once had quarters at South Queensferry in a house through the centre
of which ran the boundary between that burgh and the adjacent parish of
Dalmeny. I asked my landlady how she arranged about the claims of the
clergy. ‘Well, ye see, I go to the Burgh Kirk, and my minister comes to
see me frae time to time. And Mr Muir of Dalmeny, he visits me too, but
I try to be quite fair to them both. The parlour here is in the burgh,
so I take my ain minister in there, and, as the other half of the house
is in Dalmeny, I put the other minister in the kitchen, which belongs
to his parish.’

In the striking delineation which Wordsworth has given of the early
surroundings of his ‘Wanderer,’ and the circumstances that moulded his
character, special stress is laid on the clerical influence which from
infancy had guarded this son of the Braes of Athol.

    The Scottish Church, both on himself and those
    With whom from childhood he grew up, had held
    The strong hand of her purity; and still
    Had watched him with an unrelenting eye.

[Sidenote: MORAL INFLUENCE OF THE CLERGY]

It is to be feared, however, that the result of such continual
guardianship is to be recognised rather in the theological bent of the
people than in their moral behaviour. The high standard of conduct held
up in the pulpit, and generally followed by the clergy themselves,
has not prevented the statistics of drunkenness and illegitimacy from
attaining an unenviable notoriety. Yet no one can turn over the pages
of the records of kirk-sessions and presbyteries without obtaining a
deep impression of the untiring earnestness and devotion with which the
Church has struggled against these two great national sins. If in the
heyday of her power she could not eradicate the evils, her task must
now be tenfold more onerous, when the ‘strong hand’ can no longer reach
large masses of the population, and when the ‘unrelenting eye,’ though
as keenly watchful as ever, can only note the decadence which the hand
is powerless to reclaim. Unhappily a spirit of heathen ignorance, or
of pagan indifference, has largely replaced the unquestioning faith
of an older time, especially among the artisans of the large towns
and the miners in the great coal-fields. It is mainly in the country
districts, where social changes advance more slowly, that the religious
instruction given at school and in church still continues to colour the
outlook of the people on life here and hereafter.

If indeed we could judge from expressions that have survived from
older generations, we might infer that many of the articles of the
Christian faith retain a firm hold on minds which, if questioned on the
subject, would probably express doubt or denial of them, such as the
doctrine of a material heaven and hell, of a system of future rewards
and punishments, of a personal devil intent on man’s ruin, and of the
sinfulness of Sunday work.

[Sidenote: FORECASTING OF THE FUTURE]

The way in which the acceptance of a material heaven and hell shows
itself in ordinary conversation, might be illustrated by many
anecdotes. One or two examples may here suffice. About forty years ago
a well-known wealthy iron-master gave a dinner-party at his country
house. Among his guests was an old friend of mine, from whom he had
purchased a portion of his estate. The conversation turned on the great
changes that had taken place in the district within the memory of those
present,--the dying out of old families and the incoming of new, the
making of railways, the laying out of roads, the growth of villages,
and so forth,--when my friend remarked, ‘Ah, me! I dare say I would see
just as much change again if I were to come down sixty years hence.’
Whereupon the host instantly ejaculated from the other end of the room,
‘What’s that ye say? Come down! Tak’ care ye haena to come up.’

Of similar character is another Ayrshire story which has been told of a
man who built a large and ostentatious tomb for himself and family, of
which he was so proud that he boasted to the gravedigger that it would
last till the day of judgment, when they might have some trouble to get
up out of it. As the man’s reputation was none of the highest, the
gravedigger replied, ‘I’m thinkin’ ye needna be wonderin’ how ye’re to
come up, for if they knock the bottom out o’t ye’ll aiblins gang doun.’

A country doctor, who was attending a laird, had instructed the
butler of the house in the art of taking and recording his master’s
temperature with a thermometer. On repairing to the house one morning
he was met by the butler, to whom he said: ‘Well, John, I hope the
laird’s temperature is not any higher to-day?’ The man looked puzzled
for a moment, and then replied: ‘Weel, I was just wonderin’ that
mysell. Ye see he deed at twal’ o’clock.’

A clergyman’s son had taken to drink, and had given great trouble and
pain to his worthy father. On one occasion, after a debauch of several
days, he returned to the manse in the evening, and found that there had
been a presbytery dinner in the house, and that the reverend fathers
who had dined were now engaged over their toddy and talk in the study.
He made for the room, and was immediately welcomed by his father, who
tried to put the best face he could on the situation. He asked the
young man where he had been. ‘In hell,’ was the answer. ‘Ah, and what
did you find there?’ ‘Much the same as I find here: I couldna see the
fire for ministers.’

[Sidenote: ‘IT MICHT HAE BEEN WAUR’]

In a country parish in the West of Scotland the minister’s man was a
noted pessimist, whose only consolation to his friends in any calamity
consisted in the remark, ‘It micht hae been waur.’ One morning he was
met by the minister, who told him he had had such a terrible dream that
he had not yet been able to shake off the effects of it. ‘I dreamt I
was in hell, and experienced the torments of the lost. I never suffered
such agony in my life, and even now I shudder when I think of it.’ The
beadle’s usual consolatory remark came out, ‘It micht hae been waur.’
‘O John, John, I tell you it was the greatest mental distress I ever
suffered in my life. How could it have been worse?’ ‘It micht hae been
true,’ was the reply.

Cases of religious mania have been common enough in Scotland, where
questions of theology have for centuries been keenly debated among all
classes of the community. It has been said that ‘the worst of madmen
is a saint run mad.’ Whether this dictum be true or not there would
appear to have been always cases where brooding upon some one doctrine
of the Christian faith has led to mental aberration more or less
serious. An instance of this kind occurred in the north of Ayrshire,
where a man, who had lost his wits over theological speculation, would
sometimes accost a stranger on a quiet country road, and taking him by
the button-hole would abruptly ask him, ‘What do you think of effectual
calling? Isn’t it a damned shame? Good day to you.’ And off the poor
fellow marched, ready to propound the same or some similar problem to
the next passenger he would meet.

A less pronounced case of the same tendency was that of a countryman
who felt much aggrieved by the story of the fall of man as told in
the Book of Genesis. ‘And it comes specially hard on me,’ he would
complain, ‘for I never could byde apples raw or cooked a’ my days.’




CHAPTER IV.

  Superstition in Scotland. Holy wells. Belief in the Devil. Growth
    of the rigid observance of the Sabbath. Efforts of kirk-sessions
    and presbyteries to enforce Jewish strictness in regard to the
    Sabbath. Illustrations of the effects of these efforts.


Although ever since the Reformation the clergy have done their best to
eradicate the pagan superstitions, which were alluded to in a previous
chapter, traces of these superstitions have survived down to the
present day in the Highlands. Even so late as the beginning of last
century, people in the Lewis continued to make offerings of mead, ale,
or gruel, to the God of the Sea. A man at midnight between Wednesday
and Thursday walked waist-deep into the sea, poured out the offering
and chanted the following prayer:

    O god of the sea
    Put weed in the drawing-wave
    To enrich the ground
    To shower on us food.

Those behind the offerer took up the chant and wafted it along the
midnight air.[10]

An interesting account of the surviving Highland superstitions will be
found in two recently published volumes by the late Rev. John Gregorson
Campbell, parish minister in the island of Tiree, who devoted himself
with unwearied enthusiasm to collect the fading customs and traditions
of the Hebrides and the Western Highlands.[11] In my early wanderings
over Skye I came upon many relics of the pagan period. At Kilbride, for
example, one is reminded of a pre-Protestant or even a pre-Christian
past by the tall rude standing stone known as the Clach na h-Annait, or
stone of Annat, a name which, by some Gaelic scholars, is thought to be
that of a pagan goddess, though by others it is regarded as a term of
the early Celtic Church, applied to a chapel where the patron-saint was
educated, or where his relics were kept. Near the obelisk is the Tobar
na h-Annait, or Annat’s well.

[Sidenote: FAIRIES IN SKYE]

The fairies once formed an active and important community among the
population of Strath. One of their chief abodes was underneath a large
green mound in the middle of the valley, called after them Sithein
(Sheean). Such fairy dwellings were looked upon with veneration;
and it was a popular belief that the ‘people of peace’ who lived in
them liked to have them kept scrupulously clean. Hence to remove the
droppings of any horses or cattle that had strayed upon the rich
green sward was believed to be a grateful deed to these beings, who
would manifest their thankfulness by some significant reward to the
thoughtful cotter who took the pains to do it. With the acknowledged
example of the fairies before them, I never could quite understand how
the West Highlanders could themselves live in such conditions of dirt
and untidiness as have been so long prevalent among them.

The top of the Sithein of Strath is crowned with a few gnarled,
stunted, storm-blasted black-thorns, like a group of shrivelled
carlines stretching out their arms towards the east. These trees, or
rather bushes, have undergone no appreciable change since I first saw
them half a century ago, and I was told by the minister that they had
not altered at all in his time, so that they must have stood, much as
they are now, for more than a hundred years. If one first comes upon
these weird forms in the mist of a stormy evening, when they seem to
remain motionless, though the wind howls down the valley of Strath
Suardil, one can easily realise how they might be connected in popular
belief with the mysterious beings of another world. The fairy cattle,
or red deer, live up in the corries of the Red Hills. On the top of one
of these eminences a carline lies buried under a cairn and the hill is
named after her, Beinn na Cailleach.

Near the house of Kilbride, a spring or well has been said, for more
than two hundred years, to contain a single live trout. It is mentioned
by Martin in his _Description of the Western Islands of Scotland_,
written at the end of the seventeenth century, where he states that
the fish had been seen for many years, and the natives, though they
often caught it in their wooden pails, were careful to preserve it from
being destroyed. The minister assured me that there was still a trout
in the well, whether the same as that spoken of by Martin, he could not
affirm. I must confess that I was never able to catch a sight of this
legendary fish.

[Sidenote: HOLY WELLS IN THE HIGHLANDS]

As in Ireland, springs or wells in the Highlands, not improbably famous
even in pagan times, have often been subsequently dedicated to Celtic
saints, and have long been credited with medicinal or miraculous
healing powers. There used to be a number of such wells in Skye, which
were visited by the sick and the maimed, who went round them three
times _deiseal_, that is, with the sun, or from east to west, and drank
of the water or bathed the injured limb with it. On retiring they
always left by the side of the spring, or on its overhanging tree, some
little offering, were it only a torn bit of rag. On the mainland some
of the holy wells, or saints’ wells, are still objects of pilgrimage
from a distance. Thus the well of St. Maree, or the Red Priest, on a
little islet in Loch Maree, still attracts its patients, and the trees
that overshadow it are hung with tags of rag and ribbon which they have
placed there as votive offerings. This tribute of recognition doubtless
dates back to pagan times. It was adopted by the Celtic and then by
the Roman Catholic Church, and in spite of the denunciations of the
reformers and their successors, it is rendered still by presbyterians,
who give it from the mere force of custom. Some years ago, while
boating along the coast south of the Sutors of Cromarty, I was struck
with the strange appearance of a tree that overhung the upper part of
the beach. From a distance it seemed to be decked with blossoms or
leaves of black, white, red, and other colours. On landing I found that
these were bits of rag hung up by the pilgrims who had come to drink
of the saint’s well that gushed forth under the shadow of the tree. In
the same region the well of Craiguck, parish of Avoch, has long been
a place of annual resort on the first Sunday of May, old style. The
water used to be taken in a cup and spilt three times on the ground
before being tasted, and thereafter a rag or ribbon was hung on the
bramble-bush above the spring.

In connection with this subject, it may be mentioned here that some
years before his death, the late Mr. Patrick Dudgeon, of Cargen in
Kirkcudbright, told me that he had cleared out one of these holy or
pilgrim wells on his property, which had fallen into disuse, though
still occasionally visited for curative purposes. Among the stuff which
had gathered on the bottom of the pool, a large number of copper coins
was found, extending in date from the reign of Victoria back to the
times of the Stuarts. The surfaces of the coins had in many cases
been dissolved to such an extent as to reduce the metal to little more
than the thinness of writing paper. Yet so persistent was the internal
structure superinduced by the act of minting that, even in this
attenuated condition, the obverse and reverse could still be deciphered.

[Sidenote: HIGHLAND SUPERSTITIONS]

Another superstitious belief of which I found lingering traces in Skye
was that of the water-horse (_Each Uisge_) and the water-bull (_Tarbh
Uisge_). These fabulous creatures were believed to inhabit some of the
lakes in the lonely moorland of the south of Strath. I could not find
anybody who had actually seen one, but the belief in their existence
was by no means confined to ‘the superstitious, idle-headed eld.’ I was
told that the water-horse had a special fondness for young women, and
would seize them and carry them off into the lake, whence they were
never more seen. No young woman in the parish would venture near one
of these sheets of water, except in daylight, and not without fear and
trembling even then.

Relics of old superstitions could be noticed, sometimes even among the
details of domestic management in the houses of intelligent people. At
Kilbride they would not make butter at a certain state of the moon. In
like manner they took care that the peats should only be cut when the
moon was on the wane. Though the reason alleged was that the moon must
influence the milk, just as much as it did the tides, there could be
little doubt that the habit was a relic of the same pagan belief which
survives in bowing to the new moon and turning a coin in her honour.
The prejudice against the sow as an unclean animal survived in full
vigour. Not only were no pigs kept at Kilbride, but, so far as I was
aware, no ham, pork, or bacon ever formed part of the commissariat of
the house.

While the reformed clergy endeavoured to uproot the ancient
superstitions, they at the same time were engaged in rivetting upon
the people other forms of superstition destined to exercise much more
pernicious effects than those they replaced. One of these was their
doctrine of the Devil and his doings, and another the enforcement of
the views which they gradually adopted as to Sabbath observance.

[Sidenote: THE SCOTTISH DEIL]

Much has been written on the subject of the Devil and his influence
in religion, mythology, superstition, and literature, as well as on
topographical features. The subject is discussed from a historical
point of view in the learned volumes of Professor Roskoff of Vienna;
but there is probably still room for a dissertation on the part which
the Devil has played in colouring the national imagination of Scotland.
As is well known, all over the country instances may be found where
remarkable natural features are assigned to his handiwork. Thus we have
‘Devil’s punchbowls’ among the hills and ‘Devil’s cauldrons’ in the
river-channels. Perched boulders are known as ‘Deil’s putting stanes,’
and natural heaps and hummocks of sand or gravel have been regarded
as ‘Deil’s spadefuls.’ Even among the smaller objects of nature a
connection with the enemy of mankind has suggested itself to the
popular mind. The common puff-ball is known as the ‘Deil’s snuff-box’;
some of the broad-leaved water-plants have been named ‘Deil’s spoons’;
the dragonfly is the ‘Deil’s darning-needle.’ Then the unlucky number
thirteen has been stigmatised as the ‘Deil’s dozen,’ and a perverse
unmanageable person as a ‘Deil’s buckie.’

In association with witches and warlocks Satan plays a leading part
in the legends, myths, and superstitions of the country. The general
popular estimation of him in Scotland has never been so admirably
expressed in words as by Burns, more particularly in his _Address to
the Deil_. But even in his day ocular proofs of the evil spirit’s
presence and activity were becoming scanty, and the poet had to rely
partly on the testimony of his ‘rev’rend grannie.’ In the interval
since that poem was written, now nearly a century and a quarter ago,
the belief in a personal devil, ready to present himself as a hairy
monster with a tail, cloven feet, and horns--‘Auld Hornie, Satan,
Nick, or Clootie’--has still further faded. The late Dr. Sloan of Ayr,
however, told me that in the year 1835, after he came out from making
the post-mortem examination of a poor miner who was taken out alive
from a coal-pit near the village of Dailly, after having been shut up
for three weeks without food, but who died three days after his rescue,
he was accosted by some of the older miners with the question, ‘Did ye
fin’ his feet?’ The doctor had to confess that he had not specially
looked at the man’s feet, whereat the miners went off with a knowing
expression on their faces, as much as to say, ‘We thought you had
not, for if you had, you would have found them to be cloven hoofs. We
believe that the body was not that of our John Brown, but the Devil
himself, who had come for some bad purpose of his own.’

[Sidenote: BELIEF IN THE DEIL]

Although even the most superstitious cotter in the loneliest uplands of
the country would hardly expect it to be possible now that the Devil
should waylay him at night, relics of this belief may be found in the
language of to-day, especially in the imprecations prompted by anger or
revenge. Various versions have been given of an illustrative incident
which I have been told really occurred at a slim wooden foot-bridge
over the river Irvine in Ayrshire. An ill-tempered man was crossing
the bridge, when a dog, coming the opposite way, brushed against his
leg. ‘Deil burst ye,’ exclaimed he. Immediately behind him came a
woman, and as they were nearly across the bridge a small boy, trying
to press past the man on the narrow pathway, was greeted with the same
angry imprecation. The little fellow drew back, but was encouraged by
the voice of the woman behind, who called out to him, ‘Never fear, my
wee man, come on here outowre. The Deil canna harm ye eenoo, for he’s
thrang on the ither side o’ the brig burstin’ a dog.’

Occasionally the apparition of a dark hairy body crowned with a pair
of horns has received a natural explanation, but not before revealing
the innate belief in the designs and power of the Prince of Darkness.
There used to be a goat in Greenock which occasionally escaped from its
enclosure, and prowled about the streets in the dark. On one of these
occasions, in the midst of its perambulations, it came to an outside
stair, which it thereupon ascended. At the top of the short flight of
steps stood the closed door of a room wherein an elderly couple were
asleep in bed. Nannie, being of an inquisitive turn, and having some
experience of gate-fastenings, easily succeeded in opening the door and
entering the room. The fire still gave a low ruddy light, and the goat
at once descried a tin pitcher, at the bottom of which there remained
some milk over from the frugal supper of the little household. The
animal had forced its nose so well down in order to lap the last drops,
that when it raised its head it brought up the pitcher firmly clasped
round it, and the handle fell with a thump against the metal. The crash
awoke the old woman, who in the dim light could see a pair of horns and
a hairy body. Thinking it was the arch enemy that had come for her, she
called out imploringly, ‘O tak’ John, tak’ John; I’m no ready yet.’

[Sidenote: HISTORY OF SABBATH OBSERVANCE]

The adjective ‘devilish’ has in recent times come to be used by many
in the humbler walks of life as almost synonymous with wonderful,
extraordinary, supernatural; as may be illustrated by the ejaculation
of a Paisley workman, who with a companion ascended to the top of
Goatfell in Arran. He had never conceived anything so impressive as the
panorama seen from that summit, with its foreground of serrated crests
and deep glens. After the first silence of amazement, he exclaimed to
his friend, ‘Man, Tam, the works o’ God’s deevilish.’

It is an interesting study to trace among the records of kirk-sessions
and presbyteries the gradual growth of strict Sabbath observance
until it became a kind of fetish. The first reformers enjoyed their
relaxation on Sunday, and for many years after the old system had
been displaced by the new, the youth of the country continued to play
their pastimes after church hours. Markets were still held on Sunday,
and in many places plays were performed, especially that of _Robin
Hood_. But after the establishment of the reformed religion in 1560
these amusements and employments came to be frowned upon more and
more by the clergy, who by persistent efforts succeeded in securing
a succession of Acts of Parliament which made Sabbath-breaking an
offence punishable by a civil magistrate. Delinquents were everywhere
brought up before kirk-sessions and subjected to church discipline,
while, if they proved impenitent sinners, they might be handed over to
the civil power for more condign treatment. Nevertheless, in spite of
the stringency of these regulations, the ecclesiastical authorities had
to undertake a long struggle before they finally uprooted the effects
of the usage of many centuries, and succeeded in impressing on the mind
of the general community the belief that what they called ‘violating
the Sabbath-day’ was an act of moral turpitude that could only be
expiated by exemplary punishment and public confession of penitence.
Under the head of this violation were included some of the most natural
and innocent habits. Men were warned that not only must they refrain
from all ordinary week-day work, but that they must not take a walk
on Sunday, either in town or country, save to and from church. They
must not sit at their doors, but remain within. They were expected to
maintain a solemn demeanour; laughing, whistling, or any other sign of
gaiety or frivolity being rigidly proscribed. They might not bathe,
or swim, or shave. They were forbidden to visit each other, to water
their gardens, to ride on horseback, or to travel in any other fashion.
They must attend each church service; if they failed to appear, they
were searched out by church officers deputed for the purpose, and were
subject to ecclesiastical censure. In short, the first day of the week
was one on which all mirth was expelled from the face and all joy from
the heart, and when a funereal gloom settled down upon everybody.

[Sidenote: SABBATH-BREAKING AS A CRIME]

Sabbath-breaking, as defined by this inquisitorial code of observance,
was exalted into a crime more heinous even than theft. Thus, an entry
in the Register of the Presbytery of Dingwall, of date 30th July, 1650,
records that the case of Alexander M‘Gorrie and his wife, within the
parish of Kilmorack, had been referred to the Presbytery for censure,
the charge being ‘profanation of the Sabbath by stealling imediatelie
efter the receaueing of the sacrament.’

The diligence with which the ecclesiastical authorities pursued their
quest after Sabbath-breakers is well illustrated by the Register of the
Kirk-Session of St. Andrews. During the latter half of the sixteenth
century infinite trouble appears to have been taken to establish what
the Session was pleased to term ‘the cumlye ordour of this citie.’ The
fleshers (butchers) proved especially incorrigible. Though they had
been often cited and admonished, they had ‘nocht obeyit the sam, bot
contemptuusly refusit to obey.’ At last these recalcitrant parishioners
were made the subject of a stringent decree whereby, if they did not
thereafter keep holy the Sabbath day, they, their wives, children, and
servants would be debarred from all benefit of the Kirk, and might
further be excommunicated. Nevertheless, even the vision of these dire
pains and penalties did not prevent an occasional transgression. Some
years later one of the fleshers was summoned for putting out skins upon
the causeway on Sunday--a practice which had formerly been general in
his craft. He admitted the accusation, but stated that the fault had
been committed, without his knowledge, by his servant. He was required
to dismiss that servant, and to undertake that none of his servants in
future should do the same, otherwise he would have to pay the penalty
himself. There is an interesting entry in the Register, showing how far
back the attractions of golf can be seen to have led men to neglect
their duties. On the 19th December, 1599, it is recorded that the
brethren ‘understanding perfytlie that divers personis of thair number
the tyme of sessioun passis to the fieldis, to the goufe and uthir
exercise, and hes no regard for keiping of the sessioun, for remeid
quhairof it is ordinit that quhatsumevir person or personis of the
session that heireftir beis fund playand, or passis to play at the
goufe or uthir pastymes the tyme of sessioun, sall pay ten s. for the
first fault, for the secund fault xxs., for the third fault public
repentance, and the fourt fault deprivation fra their offices.’

[Sidenote: GROWTH OF SABBATARIANISM]

It is curious to note that rigid enforcement of Sabbath observance was
not effected on the north side of the Highlands for somewhere about a
century and a half after it had been secured in the Lowlands on the
south side. The proximity of the wilder Celtic population, on the
one hand, and the existence of a considerable leaven of Episcopalian
Protestantism in the community, on the other, probably had a large
share in retarding the progress of the movement. The northern clergy
themselves were not averse to sharing in the innocent amusements of
their people. Marriages and funerals continued to be performed on
Sunday, and to be accompanied, even in the case of the lyke-wakes,
with festivities that sometimes reached a scandalous excess.
Against these customs, which had come down from Catholic times, the
kirk-sessions and presbyteries waged incessant war, but probably not
until the extinction of the rebellion of 1745 and the abolition of the
heritable jurisdictions, with the consequent freer commingling of the
north with the south of Scotland, did the Sabbatarian spirit which had
become rampant in the Lowlands reach the intensity with which it has
maintained its sway in the north for the last three or four generations.

It has been suggested that this increasing strictness of observance
arose from the desire of the clergy to obtain a greater hold on the
minds and consciences of the people. According to this view they are
believed to have found that the restoration of the Jewish Sabbath,
with its prohibitions and injunctions, would serve their purpose, and
‘being precluded by various circumstances of their situation from
having recourse to the expedients of the Catholic priests to gain
possession of the minds of the votaries, they have exerted all their
power by its means to attain this object.’ It has been further asserted
that ‘these are the reasons why we hear more of the heinous crime of
Sabbath-breaking than of all other vices together.’[12]

Obviously it was not in human nature to keep always within the strict
letter of such an artificial code of conduct. Joyousness of heart, so
long as it was unquenched, could not be restrained from smiles and
laughter, or from showing itself in song. The temptation to the young
and happy to escape from imprisonment within the four walls of a house
into the country, amongst birds and flowers and trees, must have been
often wholly irresistible. Lapses from the strict rules of conduct laid
down for observance were inevitable; and since, as Butler observed
nearly two centuries and a half ago,

                In Gospel-walking times
    The slightest sins are greatest crimes,

such lapses, when repeated, tended to harden the mind in transgression.
Sabbath-breaking being held up as so heinous a sin, the transition
came to be imperceptibly made to the breaking of the moral laws,
which according to the current dogmatic teaching did not seem to be
more imperatively binding. ‘Hence it is,’ as has been pointed out,
‘we continually find culprits at the gallows charging the sin of
Sabbath-breaking, as they call it, with the origin of their abandoned
course of life; and there can be no doubt that they are correct in so
doing.’[13]

This excessive zeal for a strict observance of Sunday has been regarded
as a special characteristic of Calvinistic communities. But it does
not seem to have reached anywhere else the height of intolerance which
it maintained, and to a great extent still maintains, in Scotland.
Doubtless the prevalent Sabbatarianism was in Sidney Smith’s mind when
he called Scotland ‘that garret of the earth--that knuckle-end of
England--that land of Calvin, oat-cakes, and sulphur.’ And it may have
been Byron’s recollections of sanctimonious Sundays in Scotland, as
well as in England, that inspired his exclamation:

    ‘Whet not your scythe, Suppressors of our vice!
    Reforming Saints! too delicately nice!
    By whose decrees, our sinful souls to save,
    No Sunday tankards foam, no barbers shave;
    And beer undrawn, and beards unmown, display
    Your holy reverence for the Sabbath-day.’[14]

[Sidenote: SABBATARIAN CODE]

An octogenarian friend has told me that he believes he was the first
man in Edinburgh to make a practice of taking a Sunday walk. He
remembers that on some of these occasions he was accompanied by a
well-known professor in the University, who besought him not to get
back to the town until the church-goers had safely returned to their
houses from afternoon service, as he was afraid of the public odium he
might draw down not only on himself, but on the University. I myself
recollect when it was a common practice to pull down the window blinds
on Sunday, in order that the eyes of the inmates might be hindered from
beholding vanity, and that their minds might be kept from wandering
away from the solemn thoughts that should engage them. There was one
lady who carried her sanctimonious scruples so far that she always
rose a little earlier than usual on Sunday morning, and took care,
as her first duty, to carry a merry-hearted and loud-throated canary
down to the cellar that its carol might not disturb the quiet and
solemnity of the day. It was considered sinful to use any implement of
ordinary week-day work. Hence though a servant might perhaps scrape
away with her fingers the earth from the roots of potatoes in the
garden, if these were unexpectedly wanted for the Sunday dinner, on no
account could a spade or graip be used to dig them up expeditiously.
In the same spirit, a lad might be employed for half an hour on a
Sunday morning in laboriously carrying armfuls of turnips or other
vegetables for feeding the cattle, but he could not be allowed to use
a wheelbarrow with which he could have done the whole work in a few
minutes. As it was a heinous offence to write letters on Sunday, people
used to sit up till midnight; what would have been a sin before the
clock struck twelve, became quite legitimate thereafter.[15]

Happily this rigidity is gradually being relaxed, except perhaps in
parts of the Highlands. How it looks to an observer from outside may be
illustrated from some of my own personal experiences.

[Sidenote: A ROSS-SHIRE SABBATH]

In the summer of the year 1860, I found that the strict maintenance
of the Highland view of Sabbath observance might have had serious
consequences for myself. In company with my old chief, Sir Roderick
Murchison, I had walked on a Saturday from the head of Loch Torridon,
through the wild defile of Glen Torridon, to Loch Maree. Along the
mountain slopes that sweep upwards from the southern side of that
valley, I noticed so many features of interest, some of which, if
further and more closely examined, might help to clear up problems of
Highland geology for the solution of which we were seeking, that I felt
I must ascend these mountains and look at their crests and corries. But
we were pressed for time, and although next day was Sunday I determined
to devote it to the quest. The morning broke auspiciously, and ushered
in one of the most superb days which I have ever been fortunate enough
to meet with in the West Highlands. As it was desirable to save time
and fatigue by driving some six miles to the point of the road nearest
to the ground to be traversed, a request was made for a dog-cart. But
the answer came, that it was the Sabbath, and nobody would drive a
‘machine’ on the Lord’s Day. There was no objection, however, to allow
the use of a dog-cart, nor to charge for the same in the bill (for
Highland innkeepers, like Dryden’s Shimei, ‘never break the Sabbath
but for gain’); we must, however, do the driving ourselves. It was
accordingly arranged that Sir Roderick’s valet should drive me to
the place and return with the vehicle, leaving me to make my tramp
and find my way back to the inn on foot. The fresh buoyant air of the
mountains; the depth of the glens with their piles of old moraines;
the ruggedness and dislocation of the cliffs and slopes; the utter
solitude of the scene, broken only now and then by the bound of a group
of red deer, startled from a favourite corrie, or by the whirr of the
snowy ptarmigan; the ever-widening panorama of mountain-summit, gorge,
glen, and lake, as each peak was gained in succession; and then from
the highest crest of all, the vista of the blue Atlantic, with the
faint far hills of the Outer Hebrides and the nearer and darker spires
of Skye--all this, added to the absorbing interest of the geology,
filled up a day to the brim with that deep pleasure of which the memory
becomes a life-long possession. The sun had sunk beneath the western
hills before I began to retrace my steps, and night came down when
there still lay some miles of trackless mountain, glen, river, and bog
between me and the inn where my old chief was expecting me at dinner.
Fortunately, in the end the moon rose, and I arrived at the end of the
journey somewhere near midnight.

[Sidenote: A SUTHERLAND SABBATH]

The delay in my return gave Murchison not a little uneasiness. As hour
after hour passed, he grew so impatient that he began to insist on
some of the people of the inn turning out with lanterns as a search
party. His remonstrances, however, were met with a sullen indifference,
very unlike the usual attentiveness of the household. ‘It was the
Sabbath day,’ they said, ‘the gentleman shouldn’t have gone out to
walk on the Lord’s Day.’ In short, the gentleman, had he been lost,
would have deserved his fate, and would have furnished to the pulpits
of the district a new and pregnant illustration of the danger of
Sabbath-breaking!

Some fifteen years later, being in the east of Sutherland, I greatly
desired to visit the two remarkable cones of Ben Griam, which, rising
far over out of the desolate moorland, form such a prominent feature
in the landscape of that region. Had they stood within easy reach of
the little inn where I was staying, I would have walked over to them in
order to spend a quiet Sunday in examining them and in meditation over
the marvellous story of past time which they reveal. But the distance
being much more than a Sabbath day’s journey, I applied to my host for
a dog-cart to take me by road to the nearest point from which I could
strike across the moor on foot. He confessed that none of his servants
would drive me, and that he did not wish to shock the prejudices of his
neighbours in the parish, but that if I would wait until the people
were in the kirk, he would drive me himself. As we passed along the
lonely road he gave me his history, which had no ordinary interest.
Born in the district, he had gone south early in life, and eventually
became an engine-driver on one of the main railways. He was next
attracted, by the offer of better pay and prospects, to enter the
service of the Chemin de Fer du Nord and drove the first train between
Paris and Calais. He continued in the service of that railway for many
years, made his home in France, and finally retired with a pension
from the French Government. As he had no longer any daily occupation,
a longing for the old country came on him and grew so strong that he
in the end broke up his home in France and took the inn where I found
him. But he soon discovered that his long stay in a freer theological
atmosphere than that of Calvinistic Sutherland had taught him to look
on life from a very different point of view from that still maintained
by his fellow-countrymen. He found them, he said, narrow-minded,
prejudiced, and bigoted, disposed to look askance on him and what they
thought his laxity of belief, and to show in many little spiteful ways
the antagonism between them. The old home was no longer the place that
had dwelt all these long years treasured in his memory, and he seemed
disposed to regret that he had ever come back to it. That Sunday was
a day of sunshine, of white floating clouds, and of blue distances
stretching away from the purple moors to the sea on the one side and to
the inland mountains on the other--a day to be alone with Nature and
one’s own thoughts. My reverie on Ben Griam, which led me far into the
backward of time, was touched now and then with thoughts of the strange
fetichism of to-day that has turned the Sunday from a day of joyfulness
to one of gloom.

[Sidenote: HIGHLAND BIGOTRY]

That this relentless intolerance of any innocent and instructive
employments, other than that of church-going, still persists in certain
quarters with undiminished rigour was brought painfully to my notice
only six years ago in Skye. A reading party of bright young men from
one of the English Universities had settled down for steady work and
recreation at a well-known hotel, and the landlady, anxious to obtain
for them more space and quiet than they could find under her own
roof, arranged for the use of a large room in a house which had been
temporarily taken by a Free Church clergyman who had been displaced
during the progress of the controversy respecting the union of his
church with the United Presbyterians. On the first Sunday, the young
men spent the morning partly in reading and partly in examining under
the microscope some of the natural history specimens they had been
collecting during the week. The sight of these instruments, opened on
the Lord’s Day, was too much for the minister’s wife. Next morning
my hostess received a letter from her requesting that the young men
might be removed, bag and baggage, as she could not submit to such
profanation under her roof. She concluded by beseeching that the
innkeeper’s children might be sent to her as a consolation, ‘that she
might hear their innocent prattle.’ The landlady showed me this letter,
but was anxious that, at least while they were her guests, the students
should know nothing about it, as she would not like them to think that
this intolerance was a fair sample of Highland opinion.

[Sidenote: SABBATARIAN INCONSISTENCY]

I have sometimes been astonished to see how this superstitious
veneration for the Sabbath has blinded intelligent men and women,
otherwise liberal and enlightened in their views, to the real meaning
and use of the day. Having been taught from their youth to deem certain
things unlawful and reprehensible if done on that day, they studiously
refrain from these, but at the same time they unconsciously allow
themselves to say and do other things which on due reflection they
would admit to be no better than those which they condemn, if not
indeed much worse. I once spent a Sunday in a Highland Free Kirk manse,
and in the afternoon was entertained by the minister’s wife, who was
as kindly in disposition as she was narrow in her views. We discussed
the whole parish. Some Roman Catholics had come to the district, which
filled her mind with dismay. She was grieved, too, that a well-known
dignitary of the Church of England had called the day before on her
husband, a broad-minded and accomplished scholar, and had carried him
off to examine some ecclesiastical ruins in the neighbourhood. She
gave me an account of various marriages which were in contemplation,
and of the changes that were imminent in the tenancy of the farms.
At last I asked her to excuse me as I had some letters to write which
I was anxious should go by the early post in the morning. ‘What?’ she
exclaimed in surprise, ‘Do you mean to say that you write letters on
the Sabbath?’ I could not resist the temptation to assure her that I
thought writing to my friends and relatives on that day was at least as
allowable as to spend the afternoon over parish gossip.

A story is told of a young clergyman on the mainland who had not been
long placed in his charge when rumours began to circulate about his
orthodoxy. Some of his friends hearing these reports set themselves to
enquire into the grounds for them. But they could only elicit vague
hints and suggestions. At last they came upon an old woman who declared
roundly that the minister was ‘no soun’.’ ‘Not sound! what makes you
think that?’ ‘Weel then,’ she answered, ‘I maun tell ye. I wass seein’
him wi’ my ain een, standin’ at his window on the Lord’s Day, dandlin’
his bairn.’

[Sidenote: QUEEN VICTORIA AND SABBATARIANISM]

An incident which illustrates the strictness of Sabbath observance
in the North Highlands has been told me by a friend. During one of
her tours in the Highlands Queen Victoria visited Ross-shire. When
spending a Sunday at Loch Maree, the Royal party, tempted by the beauty
of the day, made an expedition by boat to one of the islands of the
loch. This ‘worldly acting’ upon the Lord’s day caused a great scandal
in the neighbourhood, and eventually the Free Church Presbytery took
up the matter and addressed a letter to the Queen ‘dealing with’ her
for her conduct. Our good Queen was naturally much disquieted that she
had unwittingly offended any section of her faithful subjects, and
consulted one of her chaplains, a distinguished minister of the Church
of Scotland, who was then at Balmoral, as to what she ought to do. He
counselled her not to take any notice of the letter, and allayed her
anxiety by recounting to her the following incident illustrative of the
attitude of mind of the Highlanders towards all departures, however
trivial, from their notions of strict Sabbath observance. The story
greatly amused the Queen, and at her request it had to be repeated to
other members of the royal household.

A Highland minister, after the services of the Sunday were over, was
noticed sauntering by himself in meditative mood along the hillside
above the manse. Next day he was waited on by one of the ruling elders,
who came to point out the sin of which he had been guilty, and the
evil effect which his lapse from right ways could not fail to have
in the parish. The clergyman took the rebuke in good part, but tried
to show the remonstrant that the action of which he complained was
innocent and lawful, and he was about to cite the famous example of a
Sabbath walk, with the plucking of the ears of corn, as set forth in
the Gospels, when he was interrupted with the remark: ‘Ou ay, sir, I
ken weel what you mean to say; but, for my pairt, I hae nefer thocht
the better o’ them for breakin’ the Sawbbath.’

A member of the Geological Survey was, not many years ago, storm-stayed
in a muirland tract of South Ayrshire upon a Saturday, and gladly
accepted the hospitality of a farmer for the night. Next morning he
asked the servant if she thought her master could oblige him with the
loan of a razor. In due time the razor arrived, but was found to be
so wofully blunt that the maid had to be summoned again to see if a
strop was available. She soon came back with this message, ‘Please, the
maister says this is the Sawbbath, and ye’re jist to put pith to the
razor. Ye canna get the strop.’

[Sidenote: FAST-DAY SUPERSTITION]

The late Lord Playfair, when he was Professor of Chemistry in the
University of Edinburgh, told me that, passing his nursery-door one
Sunday, he overheard the nurse stilling a child in this fashion:
‘Whisht, whisht, my bonnie lamb; it’s the Sawbbath, or I wud whustle ye
a sang, but I’ll sing ye a paraphrase.’

The sacredness of the Sabbath, by a natural transition, came to be
also attributed to the Fast Day, which heralded the half-yearly
Communion-Sunday. A Fife shepherd, who was in the Grassmarket of
Edinburgh on a week-day, found that his dog had strayed to some
distance, and was making off in a wrong direction. He begged an
acquaintance whom he had met to whistle for the animal. ‘Whustle on
your ain dowg,’ was the indignant reply. ‘Na, na, man,’ said the
perturbed drover. ‘I canna dae that, for you see it’s our Fast Day in
Kirkcaldy.’

Nobody has satirised the Scottish perversion of the day of rest with
more effective sarcasm than Lord Neaves in his _Lyric for Saturday
Night_:

    We zealots made up of stiff clay,
      The sour-looking children of sorrow,
    While not over-jolly to-day,
      Resolve to be wretched to-morrow.
    We can’t for a certainty tell
      What mirth may molest us on Monday;
    But at least to begin the week well,
      Let us all be unhappy on Sunday.

    What though a good precept we strain
      Till hateful and hurtful we make it!
    What though, in thus pulling the rein,
      We may draw it so tight as to break it!
    Abroad we forbid folks to roam,
      For fear they get social or frisky;
    But of course they can sit still at home,
      And get dismally drunk upon whisky.

A habit which has been followed for generations to the sound of the
‘drum ecclesiastic’ is not easily thrown off. The Sabbath look of
funereal sadness may still be seen on many a sturdy Presbyterian face.
But happily the gloomy intolerance is passing away. In no respect is
the freer air of the modern spirit more marked than in the relaxation
of the old discipline in regard to the keeping of the Sabbath in
lowland Scotland. A country walk on that day is no longer always
proclaimed to be a violation of one of the ten commandments, innocent
laughter is not everywhere denounced as a sin, nor does it appear
that the growth of Sunday cheerfulness leads to any depravation of
character, or to a less keen feeling for whatsoever is of good report.
There is now, however, a tendency for the pendulum to swing perhaps
too far on the other side. Welcome though the disappearance of the old
gloom may be, there would be a questionable gain if what should be a
day of quiet rest and refreshment were turned into one of frivolous
gaiety and dissipation.

[Sidenote: SINFULNESS OF DANCING]

In other directions a relaxation of the old rigour in regard to the
innocent enjoyments of life is to be welcomed. But these various
signs of greater charity and enlightenment have made much less rapid
progress in the Highlands and Islands. In these regions the influence
of the protestant clergy, as it was longer in bringing the people into
subjection, still maintains much of the vehemence which has elsewhere
died down. The intolerance appears to be decidedly more marked in the
Free Church communion than in that of the Establishment. One of the
latest examples of it which has come under my own observation was that
of a lady who went to a dance. For this enormity she was reprimanded by
the Free Church minister to whose congregation she belonged. Things at
last became so unpleasant that she left his ministrations and went to
the parish kirk.




CHAPTER V.

  Litigiousness of the Scots. Sir Daniel Macnee and jury-trial.
    Scottish judges, Patrick Robertson, Cullen, Neaves, Rutherford
    Clark.


The natural unreclaimed Scot is apt to be litigious. He likes to have
a ‘ganging plea,’ although the matter in dispute may not be worth
contention. He does not care to be beaten by a neighbour, even in a
trifle, and will willingly spend and be spent to secure what in the
end is but a barren victory. This liking for law can be traced far
back in history. We see it in full force during the lifetime of Sir
David Lyndsay, who satirised it and the ecclesiastical courts that
encouraged it. He recounts how when the pauper’s mare was drowned by
his neighbour, the poor man at once ran off to the consistory to lodge
his complaint, and there he ‘happinit amang a greidie menzie’:

    Thay gave me first ane thing thay call _citandum_;
    Within aucht days, I gat bot _lybellandum_;
    Within ane moneth, I gat ad _opponendum_;
    In half ane yeir, I gat _interloquendum_.
    But, or thay cam half gate to _concludendum_,
    The fiend ane plack was left for to defend him.
    For sentence silver, thay cryit at the last.
    Of _pronunciandum_, thay made me wonder faine;
    But, I gat never my gude gray mear againe.[16]

[Sidenote: THE LITIGIOUS SCOT]

The same national tendency has survived down to our own times. It is
excellently pourtrayed by Scott in several of the Waverley Novels.
Dandie Dinmont, for instance, having won the ‘grand plea about the
grazing of the Langtae-head,’ was keen to have another legal tussle
with his neighbour, Jock o’ Dawston Cleuch, about a wretched bit of
land that might ‘feed a hog or aiblins twa in a good year’; not that
he valued the land, but he wanted ‘justice,’ and could ill bear to
be overridden, even in regard to what was in itself quite worthless.
The phraseology of the law courts came glibly to the tongues of men
who, like Bartoline Saddletree, picked it up from attendance in the
Parliament House, but had only an imperfect notion of what it meant.
In some cases, such as that of Poor Peter Peebles, loss of wits and
fortune, together with a parrot-like facility in repeating law terms,
was all the outcome of years of litigation.

Burns, too, has admirably indicated the litigious quarrels of his
countrymen and a thoroughly national mode of composing them when the
disputants can be induced to adopt it

    When neebors anger at a plea,
    An’ just as wud as wud can be,
    How easy can the barley-brie
            Cement the quarrel!
    It’s aye the cheapest lawyer’s fee,
            To taste the barrel.

From the number of writers, solicitors, and advocates who still every
year enter the legal profession, one may infer that this national
peculiarity shows no marked sign of abatement. The institution of local
courts of first instance, all over the country, has enabled the Scot to
indulge in the luxury of law, without the trouble and expense of going
up to Edinburgh. He can bring his case before the Sheriff-Substitute,
and appeal from his decision to that of the Sheriff-Principal. If
an adverse judgment from both of these officials has not damped his
enthusiasm or emptied his pocket, he has still the Court of Session
in the Scottish capital to fall back on, and can there appeal to the
Inner House; and, finally, if any fighting power should still be left
in him, he may carry his case to the House of Lords. It is obvious that
the legal system of the country has been admirably arranged for the
gratification of his litigious propensities.

[Sidenote: LAW AND LAW-COURTS]

That admirable story-teller, Sir Daniel Macnee, President of the Royal
Scottish Academy, used to delight his friends with dramatic pictures of
his experiences of law-courts and other scenes of Scottish life. It is
matter for infinite regret that his stories were never written down. I
used frequently to be privileged to hear him, and may try to give from
recollection a mere outline of one of his favourite narratives which
had reference to legal matters. He had been engaged as a juryman in a
trial, and after a long day in court had finished his duties and come
back rather tired to his hotel. He there met an old acquaintance, a
Western laird, who spoke with a strong Highland accent, and with whom
he had the following conversation:

[Sidenote: A JURY-TRIAL]

‘Ah, Mr. Macnee (it was before the painter received his knighthood),
I’m glad to see you again. But you look very weary; are you well
enough?’

‘Oh yes, thank you, I am quite well, but somewhat tired after a long
day in the jury-court’

‘A juryman! Mr. Macnee, were you a juryman? Well now, I hope you had
some personal satisfaction out of the case.’

‘I really don’t know what you mean. I had the satisfaction of serving
my turn and doing my duty; and I hope I am not likely to be called
again for some time to come.’

‘Of course, of course, you would be doing your duty, whatever. But did
you have no _personal_ satisfaction in your verdict?’

‘I am entirely at a loss to understand what you can mean. I gave the
verdict which seemed to me just, and according to the evidence.’

‘No doubt, no doubt, Mr. Macnee, you would indeed do that. But I’ll
explain by giving you an account of a case that once happened to
myself,’ and he proceeded to recount a narrative worthy of the days
‘when wretches hung that jurymen might dine.’ ‘Well, you see, there
was a man in the village near my place and his house was broken into
and a lot of valuable things were stolen from it. The police were on
the spot next morning, but for a time they could get no clue at all.
They found in the end that the last man seen at the house was a baker
in the village, and their suspicions began to fall on him. Well this
baker was a notorious radical, and he was corrupting the village with
his radical notions and theories. And I had determined, if I could
manage it anyhow, to get him away. So I was not sorry to hear that the
police were looking up the baker and his doings. At last, as they could
get nobody else to suspect, they arrested him, and after a while a day
was appointed for his trial. A jury was summoned, and I was one of the
jury; and being the chief man in the place, I was chosen as foreman.
Well, the case went to trial, and we heard all the evidence the police
could scrape together, and the jury retired to consider their verdict.
When we were all met, I said to them, “Well, gentlemen, what do you
think of the case?” And they answered to a man, “O the baker’s as
innocent as any of us.” So I looked amazed and said, “What’s that you
say, gentlemen? Innocent! I really am astonished to hear you say that.
Just let us go over the evidence.” So I went over all the facts and
inferences, bit by bit, and showed how they all made for the prisoner’s
guilt. I argued down every objection, and when they were all silenced
and convinced, we marched back into the court with a unanimous verdict
of “guilty as libelled.” You should have seen the face of the judge,
but still more, you should have seen the face of the baker. But _there_
was the verdict, and so the judge passed sentence of imprisonment on
the baker, and we have never seen him more in the village. Now, Mr.
Macnee, that’s what I mean by _personal satisfaction_!’

The Scottish judges of the type of Hermand, Braxfield, Eskgrove and
others, so vividly pictured by Lord Cockburn, and of whom so many
anecdotes have been recorded, have long passed away. One of the latest
of them was Patrick (or as he was familiarly called, Peter) Robertson,
of whose wit and humour many reminiscences have been preserved. He was
noted for his obesity which occasioned the soubriquet applied to him
by Scott. According to the well-known story, Robertson, while still an
advocate, was one day the centre of a group in the Parliament House
which he was amusing with his drollery when Scott was seen approaching.
‘Hush, boys,’ said he, ‘here comes old Peveril--I see his peak,’
alluding to the novelist’s remarkably high skull. Scott, coming up in
the midst of the general laugh which followed, asked Lockhart what was
the joke. When Robertson’s personal remark was repeated to him, Scott,
with a look at the advocate’s rotund figure, retorted with another
personality, quietly remarking, ‘Ay, ay, my man, as weel Peveril o’ the
Peak ony day as Peter o’ the Paunch.’

[Sidenote: PATRICK ROBERTSON]

In his younger days Robertson was travelling for a stage or two on
the coach from Inverness to Perth, when a number of ministers were
his fellow-passengers, bound for the General Assembly at Edinburgh.
He engaged in conversation with them, and led them to believe that he
was also a clergyman from the extreme north of Scotland. When they
reached the point at which he meant to quit the coach there was a halt
for breakfast, and Robertson was asked to say grace. He began with a
word or two of Gaelic, but as his acquaintance with that language was
but slender, he poured forth a torrent of gibberish pronounced through
his nose with an occasional Gaelic word interjected. The ministers
listened with praiseworthy decorum, uncertain what particular dialect
of Gaelic it might be, for it was one with which none of them had any
acquaintance. But while Robertson still continued his nasal monologue
the coachman’s horn blew, and the clerical guests had to hurry
breakfastless back to their seats.

In the early years of last century Gaelic was frequently heard in the
Court of Session, as Highland witnesses were often ignorant of English,
and their evidence had to be translated by interpreters kept for the
purpose. Sometimes the ignorance of English was more assumed than real.
There is a story told of Lord Cullen, long remembered for his brilliant
feats of mimicry, who had a case in court where a Highland witness
was evidently ‘hedging’ and prevaricating. The judge at last lost
his patience and asked the Gaelic expert, ‘Mr. Interpreter, will you
inquire of the witness whether he saw the thing or did not see it, if
his language is capable of so fine a distinction.’

[Sidenote: LORD NEAVES]

Another witness got the better of his cross-questioner in a simple way.
The question in dispute turned upon the identity of a particular box,
and this witness was called to prove that the nails in the box had been
made by him. The advocate for the other side ridiculed the idea that
any man could recognise his own made nails, and badgered the man into
desperation. The poor fellow at last leant across the witness-box and
asked his tormentor if he would allow him to look at a sheet of paper
lying in front of the counsel, who had been making some jottings on it.
Having got the paper into his hands, the man turned to the advocate
and asked, ‘Is that your hand o’ vrite?’ ‘Yes, it is,’ was the reply.
‘But hoo can you prove it’s yours? Could you swear to it anywhere?’ ‘Of
course I could.’ ‘Weel, then, if you can swear to your hand o’ vrite,
hoo the deevil should I no’ swear to my ain nails?’

One of the last of the old race of Scottish judges was Lord Neaves,
an excellent lawyer and accomplished scholar, with so much humour,
wit and bonhommie that he generally became the centre of any company
where he might be. One of his favourite diversions was to write songs,
which he sang at convivial gatherings, such as the Royal Society Club
in Edinburgh. Many of these appeared first in print among the pages
of _Blackwood’s Magazine_, to which he was for many years a valued
contributor, and he collected them into a little volume entitled _Songs
and Verses, Social and Scientific, by an Old Contributor to ‘Maga.’_
Some of these were inimitably clever, and as sung or chanted by him
in his cracked, unmusical voice, with appropriate gesticulations and
modulations, they were irresistibly droll. Some of the scientific
ditties, dashed off in the intervals of work in court, and sung the
same evening at the club, were brimful of fun and wit, hitting off
points in theory or in dispute with great acumen. Among these may be
mentioned ‘The Origin of Species,’ a versified account of Darwin’s
views; ‘Stuart Mill on Mind and Matter’; and ‘The Origin of Language.’
Some of the social ditties were likewise delightful, such as ‘I’m
very fond of water,’ ‘The Permissive Bill,’ ‘Let us all be unhappy on
Sunday’ (which has already been cited), and the ‘Sheriffs life at sea.’
A verse of one or two of these may be quoted here.

    Pray what is this Permissive Bill
      That some folks rave about?
    I can’t with all my pains and skill
      Its meaning quite make out.

    ‘O! it’s a little simple Bill
      That seeks to pass _incog._
    To _permit_ ME--to _prevent_ YOU--
      From having a glass of grog!’

When appointed Sheriff of Orkney and Shetland, Neaves had at stated
times to proceed by steamboat from Granton to these northern isles,
and in one of the songs above enumerated he gives a humorous account of
his experiences, which shows that he was not always a good sailor.

    The zephyr soon becomes a gale,
      And the straining vessel groans, boys;
    And the Sheriff’s face grows deadly pale
      As he thinks of Davy Jones, boys.
            Thinking here,
            Sinking there,
            Wearily, drearily,
            Shakingly, quakingly;
    Not from fear or sickness free
    Is the Sheriff now at sea, my boys.

[Sidenote: LORD RUTHERFORD CLARK]

The late Lord Rutherford Clark was an admirable example of the cultured
lawyer, quiet and restrained in manner, with a keen sense of humour,
and a singular power of witty criticism. One evening at the house of
the late Professor Sellar, he came up to me before dinner with a grave
face, and remarked: ‘There is a geological problem that puzzles me a
good deal; perhaps you can throw some light on it. How does it come
about that all the Scottish hills with which I am acquainted are so
much higher and steeper than they used to be thirty years ago?’ Towards
the end of his life I met him on the shore at Cannes. Being a keen
golfer he had brought his clubs with him to the Mediterranean, and
enjoyed a daily game there. But the disease which carried him off had
already fastened its grip upon him, and I saw him no more.

An advocate at the Scottish bar whom I remember was a somewhat pompous
orator, and went by the name of Demosthenes. He had written a book on
_Bills_, and in the course of pleading one day in Court he had occasion
to refer to his work. In a loud voice he called out to the attendant;
‘Bring me myself on Bills.’

[Sidenote: EDINBURGH LAWYERS]

Some of the Writers to the Signet and Solicitors of the old school
still survived in my younger days. One of these characters had some
odd peculiarities. He paid his clerks more liberal salaries than were
common with other lawyers, but he insisted on unremitting attention
to duty. He used to carry a thermometer in his pocket, and from time
to time would go downstairs to the room in which the clerks worked.
If he found one of them off his stool, he would clap the thermometer
upon it, and should the mercury not rise a certain number of degrees,
he inflicted a money fine on the unfortunate occupant. But for the
large salaries, he could not have retained the men in his service, or
gratified his propensity for fines. Another venerable Writer to the
Signet had a good library, and on his shelves a fine series of the
Scottish philosophers. He insisted that if at any time a clerk should
finish his task before another piece of work was ready for him, he must
come into the library and take a book, so as not to be a moment idle.
One of the staff selected Hume’s _Essays_, but every time he put the
book away in his desk for further perusal, he found next morning that
it had been removed and replaced on the shelves. The old gentleman was
an ardent Free Churchman, and excluded Hume from the authors that his
clerks might read.




CHAPTER VI.

  Medical Men. Sandy Wood. Knox. Nairn and Sir William Gull. A
    broken leg in Canna. Changes in the professoriate and students
    in the Scottish Universities. A St. Andrews Professor. A
    Glasgow Professor. Some Edinburgh Professors--Pillans, Blackie,
    Christison, Maclagan, Playfair, Chalmers, Tait. Scottish
    Schoolmasters.


Among the professions that of medicine has long held a high place
in Scotland. Its reputation at home and abroad has been maintained
for a century and a half by a brilliant succession of teachers and
practitioners. The schools of medicine in Edinburgh and Glasgow
continue to attract students from all quarters of the British Islands,
and from our colonies. Every year hundreds of medical graduates are
sent out from the Universities, and they are now to be found at work in
almost every corner of the wide globe.

[Sidenote: LANG SANDY WOOD]

At the beginning of the eighteenth century one of the noted medical
characters in Edinburgh was the surgeon eulogised by Byron in the
couplet:

    Oh! for an hour of him who knew no feud,
    The octogenarian chief, the kind old Sandy Wood.

He was greatly admired for his medical skill, and beloved for his
kindly nature. His popularity saved him once from instant death.
During a riot, the mob, mistaking him for the provost, were preparing
to pitch him over the North Bridge, when he shouted out to them, ‘I’m
lang Sandy Wood; tak’ me to a lamp and ye’ll see.’ He used to take a
constitutional walk to Restalrig in the evenings, and frequently met
a tailor carrying a bundle, whom he invariably saluted with, ‘Weel,
Tam, are ye gaun hame wi’ your wark?’ The tailor rather resented this
monotonous enquiry, and one day he had his revenge. Noticing the tall
figure of the well-known surgeon walking at the end of a funeral
procession, he instantly made up to him to ask, ‘Weel, doctor, are ye
gaun hame wi’ your wark?’

Rather later came the times of Burke and Hare, with the terrors of the
resurrectionists. A prominent individual in Edinburgh at that time was
Robert Knox the anatomist, to whose dissecting room the bodies of the
victims murdered in the West Port were sold. He was for many years
a successful lecturer, but afterwards got into difficulties, when he
tried to retrieve his position by announcing courses of lectures, or a
single lecture on a sensational subject. When one of the teachers in
the medical school, who had introduced the practice of illustrating his
lectures with models, was discoursing on the anatomy of the ear, Knox
posted up a notice that on a certain day he too would give a lecture on
the human ear, illustrated with the modern methods of demonstration.
When the day came, the lecture-room was crowded with students on the
outlook for amusement. The lecturer began his demonstration by holding
up an ear, which he had obtained from a human subject, and pointing
out the leading features in its structure. At a particular part of his
lecture he gave a signal, and the door behind him was opened by two men
who carried in a monstrous and grotesquely shaped model of an ear. It
was set down on the table, and in a little while Knox, holding up the
ear he had already exhibited, said, ‘This, gentlemen, is the human ear
according to God Almighty, and that (pointing to the huge model), and
that is the human ear according to Dr. ----.’

[Sidenote: EXTRA MURAL MEDICAL SCHOOLS]

There was once a good deal of rivalry between the medical staff of the
Universities and the extra-mural schools of medicine. On one occasion,
a University professor, wishing to make fun at the expense of a
distinguished member of the non-university school, told a story of a
man who consulted a famous surgeon as to constant pains in the head.
The surgeon pronounced that the complaint could be completely cured by
the removal of the brain and the excision of some diseased parts. The
man consented to the operation, and was told to come back in ten days,
when the renovated brain would be ready for him. The ten days elapsed,
however, and gradually grew into three weeks without the patient having
returned. At the end of that time the surgeon met him on the street,
and anxiously enquired why he had never re-appeared. The man answered
that, since the operation, he had obtained a government appointment,
and thought that as he was getting on very well without the brain,
he had better remain as he was. A titter of course went through the
audience, in the midst of which the extra-mural lecturer, against whom
the tale was pointed, rose and calmly said, ‘May I enquire of the
speaker whether the crown appointment in question was a University
professorship?’ The laugh was thus most effectively turned the other
way.

A medical professor having been appointed Physician to Queen Victoria,
the announcement of this honour was written up on the black-board
of his class-room just before the hour of lecture. A wag among the
students, seeing this notice, wrote in large letters underneath
it--‘God save the Queen!’

It is not unusual for medical men to have two practices, one in this
country, and one abroad. A man may attend a circle of patients during
the summer in London, at Harrogate or in the north of Scotland, and
another circle during the winter on the Riviera, in Italy or in Egypt.
One able physician, for example, had an excellent practice for half
of the year at Nairn and for the other half in Rome. He was on a
friendly footing with Sir William Gull, whose patients, worn out with
the distractions of London, were sent up to him to be looked after in
the salubrious climate of the Moray Firth. A lady resident of Nairn,
who believed herself to be far from well, and to be suffering from
some complaint which the local doctor did not understand, insisted
upon going to London and consulting Sir William Gull. That eminent
physician diagnosed her case and prescribed; ‘What you chiefly require,
madam,’ he said, ‘is to live for a time in a dry bracing climate. There
is one place which I am sure would suit you admirably, and that is
Nairn in the north of Scotland.’

[Sidenote: DOCTORING IN THE HEBRIDES]

One of the difficulties of life among the smaller islands of the
Hebrides has long been the inadequacy of medical attendance. A stranger
who first enters the region, and realises from some painful experience
what are the conditions of the people in this respect, may be forgiven
if at first he may be inclined to think that the authorities, whose
duty it should be to provide such attendance, share the opinion of
Churchill that--

    The surest road to health, say what they will,
    Is never to suppose we shall be ill.
    Most of those evils we poor mortals know
    From doctors and imagination flow.

It must be remembered, however, that many of the islands are too
small, and many of the districts too thinly inhabited to provide work
for a resident practitioner, even if the funds for his salary were
readily procurable. All that has hitherto been attempted is to place
a doctor in some central position whence, commanding as wide an area
as he can be supposed able to undertake, he may be ready to proceed
to any case where his services may be required. But the distances are
sometimes considerable, and the weather often stormy, so that for days
at a time no boat can pass from one island to another. Even under the
most favourable skies, it often happens that when a message arrives,
urgently requesting the attendance of the medical man, he is found to
be engaged with another serious case in an island some leagues distant,
from which he may not be expected to return for some days. An instance
which happened a few years ago in the little island of Canna will
illustrate this feature of social life in the Inner Hebrides.

[Sidenote: A BROKEN LEG IN CANNA]

One of the workmen engaged in building a dry-stone dyke met with a
serious accident. The materials he had to use consisted of large
rounded boulders and blocks of basalt, which required some little care
to adjust in order that the structure might remain firm. When the
wall had been raised to its full height, a portion of it gave way,
and some large masses of heavy basalt fell on the workman, smashing
one of his legs. His companions on extricating him from the ruins,
saw the serious nature of the injuries. But there was no doctor on
the island, nor anywhere nearer than at Arisaig, a distance of some
twenty-five miles across an open sea. No time was lost in getting the
poor man carried into a boat, which two of his comrades navigated to
the mainland. On arriving there, however, they found that the doctor
had gone away inland and would not be back for a day or two. As there
was no time to lose, the boatmen at once set out for Tobermory in Mull,
where the next medical man was to be obtained. They had to traverse a
tract of sea which is often rough. Even in calm weather more or less
commotion may always be looked for in the water round the Point of
Ardnamurchan--the ‘headland of great waves.’ It was some thirty-six
hours after the accident before the poor sufferer was at last placed in
medical hands. The first thing to be done was, of course, to amputate
the mangled leg. The patient stood the operation well, and in two or
three weeks was sufficiently recovered to be able to be taken back
to Canna. His two faithful comrades, who had waited on with him at
Tobermory, had him carried down to the pier, where their boat was
ready for him. When he came there he looked all round him with some
anxiety, and at last exclaimed, ‘But where’s my leg?’ ‘Your leg! in
the kirkyard, to be sure.’ ‘But I maun hae my leg.’ ‘But I tell ye, ye
canna hae your leg, its been buryit this fortnicht in the graveyard.’
‘Weel’ said the lameter, steadying his back against a wall, ‘I’ll no
stir a fit till I get my leg. D’ye think I’m to gang tramp-tramping
aboot at the Last Day lookin’ for my leg.’ Finding persuasion
useless, the unhappy boatmen had to interview the minister and the
procurator-fiscal, and obtain authority to dig up the leg. When the
lost limb came up once more to the light of day, it was in such a state
of decomposition that the men refused to have it in the boat with them.
Eventually a compromise was effected. A second boat was hired to convey
the leg, and with a length of ten yards of rope between them, was towed
at the stern of the first. In this way the procession reached Canna.

[Sidenote: PROGRESS OF THE UNIVERSITIES]

Throughout the Highlands the desire to be buried among one’s own
kith and kin remains wide-spread and deep-seated. And it would also
appear that a Highlander cannot bear that the parts of his body should
be interred in different places. The Canna dyke-builder only gave
expression to the general feeling.[17]

In due time the natives felt it necessary to celebrate in an
appropriate way the recovery and return of their fellow-islander, and
the re-interment of the leg in its native soil. With an ample provision
of whisky, a banquet was held, and continued till a late hour. On the
way back from this orgy, the hero of the accident stumbled across a
heap of stones, and broke the wooden leg that had replaced his own.
Partly from this fresh accident, but largely, no doubt, from the
effects of the debauch, the man could not regain his cottage, but lay
where he fell until, in the morning light, he was picked up and helped
home.

       *       *       *       *       *

That gradual modification of the national characteristics which
is observable in all parts of the social scale, has not allowed
the Universities to escape. On the one hand, the professoriate is
now constantly recruited from the south side of the Tweed, by the
selection either of Englishmen or of Scotsmen who have been trained
at the English universities. On the other hand, a considerable
proportion of the students, more particularly in medicine, come from
England, Wales, Ireland, and the colonies; some of them even hail from
the Continent and from India.[18] As the non-Scottish leaven thus
introduced has no doubt tended to enlarge the culture of the teachers
and perhaps to soften the asperities of manner in the taught, the
change has been welcomed. The reproach that used to be levelled at the
nation that it was too clannish and acted too much on the principle of
its own unsavoury proverb of ‘keeping its ain fish-guts for its ain
sea-maws,’ certainly cannot justly be brought against its educational
institutions. For many years the obvious and earnest endeavour has
been to secure the best men, no matter from what part of the globe
they may come. The gradual obliteration of the peculiarly Scottish
characteristics of the Professors and students is part of the price
to be paid for the general advancement. Yet we pay it with a certain
measure of regret. There was a marked originality and individuality
among the Professors of the older type, which gave a distinctive
character to the colleges where they taught, and in some degree also to
their teaching.

[Sidenote: A ST. ANDREWS PROFESSOR]

About the middle of last century the Professor of Mathematics in the
University of St. Andrews was an able mathematician and a singularly
picturesque teacher. He spoke not only with a Scottish accent, but used
many old Scottish words, if they were effective in making his meaning
clear. If, for instance, he noticed an inattentive student, looking
anywhere but at the black-board on which he was demonstrating some
proposition, he would stop and request the lad to ‘e’e the buird’ (look
at the board). He lectured in a dress suit, and as he always wiped his
chalky fingers on his waistcoat, his appearance was somewhat brindled
by the end of the hour. One of his old students gave me the following
recollection of an incident that took place in the class-room.
A certain student named Lumsden was one day conspicuous for his
inattention. The professor at last stopped his lecture, and addressed
the delinquent thus: ‘Mr. Lums_deil_, will you come forrit here and
sit down on that bench there in front o’ me. I have three reasons for
moving you. In the first place, you’ll be nearer my een; in the second
place, you’ll be nearer my foot; and in the third place, you’ll be
nearer the door.’

Among the Glasgow professors towards the middle of the century, one
with a marked individuality was Allan Maconochie, afterwards Maconochie
Welwood. Coming of a race of lawyers, for he was the son of one
Scottish judge and the grandson of another, he took naturally to the
bar, and became Professor of Law in 1842. Being prompt and decisive
in his business habits, he soon acquired a considerable practice as
referee and arbiter in disputed cases among the mercantile community
of Glasgow, and thus saved the disputants the long delays and heavy
expenses of the Court of Session. He gave himself up with much
energy to the work of his chair, and to college business during the
session, but as soon as the winter term was over, he used to depart
at once for the Pyrenees, where he possessed a chateau, and where he
would spend most of his time until he had to resume his professional
labours in this country. During these years of residence abroad, he
acquired facility in speaking Spanish, and he would make long solitary
excursions, mingling freely among the people.

[Sidenote: A GLASGOW PROFESSOR IN SPAIN]

In the year 1854 his father, Lord Meadowbank, succeeded to the Fife
estates of Garvock and Pitliver, and then took the surname of Welwood.
About the same time the reform of the Scottish universities began to
be mooted, and as the professor looked forward with much dislike to
some of the proposed innovations in the constitution and arrangements
of these institutions, he resigned his chair and established himself
as a country gentleman at Pitliver, near Dunfermline. Having lost his
first wife, he had lately married Lady Margaret Dalrymple, daughter of
the Earl of Stair. I was a frequent guest at Pitliver, and much enjoyed
his racy reminiscences of Glasgow and of his experiences in Spain. One
of these last which he told me seems worthy of now being put on record
as an instance of the courage and boldness of a peaceable Scottish
professor.

During the ‘forties’ of last century, Spain was convulsed with
revolution. Maconochie had a strong desire to travel through some of
the disturbed districts and see the state of the country for himself.
He accordingly arranged to make a long detour and cross the frontier
to a French town, where his wife was to await his coming. Disguising
himself as a miner, he procured a bag, a pick, and a few pieces of
rough stone. His money he carried with him in gold, which he enclosed
in lumps of plaster of Paris, coloured and dirtied to look like bits
of natural rock. Thus accoutred he set out on his journey, and passed
through the districts where the insurrection was hottest. At night he
would come into a village inn, filled with insurgents, and throwing his
bag into a corner would retire to see after his horse. Coming back to
the chamber where the warriors were assembled, he sometimes found them
examining the contents of his bag and holding some of his specimens in
their hands, with an exclamation about their weight--‘Plomo, plomo’;
they were sure the stones must be bits of lead-ore. He would then join
in the talk, and so disarm all suspicion of his nationality that he had
no difficulty in gathering from them all the information he wanted,
while they on their side took him for a Castilian miner prospecting
through the country for metals.

[Sidenote: SPANISH INSURGENTS]

In this way he travelled through all the tract he wished to see, and
had come at last to the Spanish town nearest to the frontier place
where he was to meet his wife. He now discarded his disguise, and
attired himself in ordinary costume. The horse that had carried him
was a sorry nag which he had chosen to be in harmony with the general
outfit of his supposed occupation. He now made himself known to the
mayor of the town and asked his assistance to procure a good horse.
It so happened that a fine animal, which had belonged to a government
official recently deceased, was for sale, but the price asked for
it was beyond the means of those who would fain have bought it. The
professor, however, had money enough with him to acquire the horse,
and to fit himself for the rest of his journey. A guide was procured
to conduct him through the mountains, and he was advised to go armed
and to be constantly on his guard. In particular, he was warned on no
account to stop at the top of the last pass, whence the road descended
in sharp zig-zags into the plain of France. All went well until he came
to that very place, when his guide said they must halt a little. This
he refused to do, but insisted on his companion riding on in front
of him. They had not gone far down when voices from above called on
them loudly to stop. The guide turned round, put his horse across
the narrow road, and on Maconochie trying to brush past him drew out
a pistol from his belt. The professor, suspecting some action of this
kind, was on the alert, with his hand already on his own pistol, which
he at once discharged at the breast of the guide, who rolled off his
horse into the bushes below. Realising now the plot against him, and
that there were accomplices above, he put spurs to his horse, and
dashed down the road. So steep was the descent, and so shaded with
trees and bushes, that he could only be seen at the bends, at each of
which a shower of bullets whizzed past him. He succeeded in keeping
ahead of his assailants, who continued to pursue and fire at him until
they were almost within gunshot of the French sentries.

As soon as he arrived at the town, he sought the commandant and told
his story. The officer, on learning where he had got his horse, told
him that he owed his life to the animal, not merely for its speed.
It appeared that the insurgents knew the horse well, and desired to
procure it for one of their leaders. When they heard that it had been
sold, they had evidently planned to possess themselves of it, and had
arranged the ambush to which the professor of law had nearly fallen
a victim. But it was the horse they wanted, not its rider. Had mere
robbery been their object, they could easily have shot the horse, and
whether or not they put a bullet through him also, they would have
stripped him of all his possessions. But they purposely fired high for
fear of wounding or killing the animal, which they had expected to be
able to present to their leader.

[Sidenote: PROFESSOR PILLANS]

Robert Chambers used wittily to classify mankind in two
divisions--those who had been ‘under Pillans,’ and those who had not.
I am glad to be able to range myself in the first class. Pillans was
Professor of Latin (or Humanity as the subject used to be termed in
Scotland) in the University of Edinburgh. Perhaps his name was most
widely known from its having been unwarrantably pilloried by Byron in
his _English Bards and Scotch Reviewers_. He was a born educationist,
far in advance of his time in certain departments of teaching, more
particularly in his recognition of the place that should be assigned to
geography in the educational system of the country. When I sat in his
class-room he had reached his seventy-seventh year, and was no longer
as able as he had once been to control a large gathering of lads fresh
from school. But even then no one who was willing to learn could fail
to find much that was suggestive in his prelections. As he sat in his
chair behind his desk, his small stature was not observable. One only
saw the round bald head, the rubicund cheeks, the mild blue eyes, the
hands wielding a huge reading glass (for he would never consent to wear
spectacles) and the shoulders wrapped round in his velvet-collared
black gown. He was a scholar of the antique type, more intent on the
subject, spirit, and style of his Latin favourites, than on grammatical
niceties or various readings. How he loved his Horace, and how he took
to his heart any student in whom he could detect the rudiments of the
same affection! Having gained his friendship in this way, I saw a good
deal of him in later years. He kept up the pleasant old custom of
asking his students to breakfast with him. In later years I met some of
his early friends at that meal, among them, Leonard Horner. I remember
one morning having a talk with him about English literature, when he
said, ‘I have been all my life fond of poetry, and I find great solace
in it still. But I must go back several generations for what really
interests and pleases me. There is Tennyson, and another writer,
Browning, that I hear people raving about. I have tried to read them,
but I confess that I cannot understand much of them, and they give me
no real pleasure. When I want to enjoy English verse, I go back to the
masterpieces of Dryden and Pope.’

[Sidenote: PROFESSOR BLACKIE]

Pillans was one of the early pioneers in the organisation of
infant-schools. He energetically combated the system of teaching
by rote, and of compelling young children to burden their memories
with genealogies and dates. He once remarked to me, ‘I was in an
infant-school lately, and you won’t guess what question I heard put to
a class of little tots, not more than four or five years old--“How long
did Jeroboam reign over Israel?”’

The most perfervidly Scottish professor of my time was undoubtedly John
Stuart Blackie, who taught a multifarious range of subjects, including
some Greek, of which he was Professor. Although those of his students
who really wanted to increase their knowledge of Greek would fain
have been spared some of his disquisitions on the current politics
or problems of the day, they could not but recognise his boundless
enthusiasm, his cheery good nature, and his high ideals of life and
conduct. In my time he wore a brown wig, which was so manifestly
artificial that we used sometimes to imagine that it was coming off,
and speculated on what the professor would be like without it. But
in later years he allowed his own white hair to grow long, and with
his clean-shaven face, his broad soft felt hat, and his brown plaid
over his shoulders, he became by far the most picturesque figure in
the Edinburgh of his time. He had been so much in Germany, and was so
well versed in German life and literature, that he seemed naturally
to assume the manner of a German professor. There was, indeed, a
good deal of external resemblance between him and the late venerable
historian Mommsen. But Blackie was distinguished from his more typical
continental brethren by the boisterous exuberance of his spirits. Even
in the class-room this feature could not be wholly repressed, but it
reached its climax among friends at a dinner table, more especially
at such gatherings as those of the Royal Society Club. After eloquent
talk he would eventually be unable to remain seated, but would start
up and march round the room, gesticulating and singing a verse of some
Scottish song, or one of his own patriotic ditties.

[Sidenote: SIR DOUGLAS MACLAGAN]

Besides the genial Blackie, the Senate of Edinburgh University,
when I was a member of it, contained some other less vociferous but
extremely clubbable professors. Two of them deserve special mention
here--Christison and Maclagan. Sir Robert Christison was excellent
company, with his ample fund of reminiscence and anecdote. At the
club-dinners Sir Douglas Maclagan never failed to regale us with one
of his inimitable songs. He had a good voice, and sang with much
expression and humour. His ‘Battle of Glen Tilt’ was a source of
endless pleasure to his friends, and he entered so thoroughly into the
spirit of it that one could almost see the scene between the duke and
his gillies on the one side, and the botany professor and his students
on the other. Some of the touches in that ditty are full of sly fun,
such, for example, as the description of the botanising:

    Some folk’ll tak’ a heap o’ fash
      For unco little en’, man;
    An’ meikle time an’ meikle cash
      For nocht ava’ they’ll spen’, man.
    Thae chaps had come a hunder’ mile
    For what was hardly worth their while;
        ’Twas a’ to poo
        Some gerse that grew
        On Ben M‘Dhu
        That ne’er a coo
    Would care to pit her mouth till.

On rare occasions Christison and Maclagan sang a humorous duet in the
most dolorous tones, acting the character of two distressed seamen
begging on the street. It was comical beyond description.

Another of the luminaries in the Edinburgh University was Lyon
Playfair, professor of chemistry, who, after quitting his chair and
entering parliament, devoted himself mainly to politics, and was
finally raised to the peerage. He too was a true Scot, though most
of his life was passed in England. He enjoyed and could tell a good
story, and relished it none the less if it bore against himself. In his
later years he used to pay a yearly visit to America, and from one of
these journeys he brought back the account of an experience he had met
with among the Rocky Mountains of Canada, and which he would tell with
great vivacity. He had halted at some station on the Canadian Pacific
Railway, and in the course of a stroll had made his way to the foot
of a heap of material that had been tumbled down from the mouth of a
mine. He was poking out some of the pieces of stone with his stick,
when a voice saluted him from the top of the bank, and the following
conversation ensued:

[Sidenote: CHALMERS AND THE DENTIST]

‘Hey! what are ye daein’ there?’

‘I am looking at some of these bits of stone.’

‘But there’s nae allooance here.’

‘Is there not? I think you must be a Scotsman like me.’

‘Ay! man, and are ye frae Scotland? And what’s your name?’

‘My name is Playfair.’

‘Maybe ye’ll be Lyon.’

‘Yes, that’s my name. How do you come to know it?’

‘Od, man, your name has travelt far faurer nor thae wee legs’ll ever
carry yoursell.’

[Sidenote: CHALMERS AND THE DENTIST]

When at the time of the Disruption the theological chairs were resigned
by the professors who seceded to the Free Church, the classes of the
new College which that church established in Edinburgh were held in
a house next door to a well-known dentist. Dr. Chalmers was one of
those who had left the University, and he had an enthusiastic body
of students in the new rooms. The applause with which they greeted
the Professor’s bursts of eloquence proved, however, rather trying to
the dentist and his patients, for the house partitions were none of
the thickest. The story is told that a polite note was sent to Dr.
Chalmers, asking whether it would be possible for him to moderate the
noise made by his pupils. Next day the doctor, before beginning his
lecture, explained the circumstances to his class, and begged them
to remain quiet, ‘for,’ he added, ‘you must bear in mind that our
neighbour is very much in the mouth of the public.’

The late Professor Tait, so widely known and so affectionately
remembered, used to cite one of the answers he received in a
class-examination. The question asked was, ‘Define transparency,
translucency and opacity,’ and the following was the answer. ‘I am
sorry that I cannot give the precise definition of these terms. But
I think I understand their meaning, and I will illustrate it by an
example. The windows of this class-room were originally transparent;
they are at present translucent, but if not soon cleaned, they will
become opaque.’ The professor, in repeating this reply, laughingly said
that he had allowed the man full marks for it.

[Sidenote: OLD TYPE OF DOMINIE]

The Scottish schoolmaster of the old type is probably as extinct as
the parish school system under which he flourished. What with revised
codes, inspectors, examinations, grants in aid, Board of Education and
other machinery, the educational arrangements of Scotland have during
the last half-century been transformed to a remarkable degree. There
can be no doubt that on the whole, and especially in recent years, the
changes have been in the right direction. Nevertheless, we may regret
the disappearance of some of the characteristic features of the old
régime. The parish schools served to commingle the different classes
of the community, and there was a freedom left to the teachers which
gave them scope in their methods and range of subjects, and enabled
them to send up to the university numbers of clever and well-trained
scholars. Untrammelled by the fear of any school-board or Education
Department, the ‘dominie’ was left to develop his own individuality,
which, though it sometimes took the form of eccentricity, was in most
cases the natural outgrowth of a cultivated mind, and was a distinct
benefit to his pupils. In the delightful _Memories Grave and Gay_ of
Dr. Kerr, who has spent his active life in practically furthering the
cause of education in the country, an interesting account is given of
the process of transformation, together with many anecdotes of his
experience of country schools and country schoolmasters. To his ample
stores those interested in the subject should turn.

In the early days of examinations an inspector came to a school, and in
the course of the reading stopped to ask the class the meaning of the
word curfew in Gray’s line:

    The curfew tolls the knell of parting day.

There was complete silence in the room. He tried to coax the boys on
to an answer, but without effect; until the teacher, losing patience
with them, exclaimed in vexation, ‘Stupit fules! d’ye no ken what’s a
_whaup_?’ whaup being _Scottice_ for _curlew_.

A clerical friend of mine was, many years ago, visiting a parish school
in Argyleshire where Gaelic was taught as well as English. He spoke to
them in Gaelic, and asked them to spell one of the words he had used.
They looked in blank amazement at him, and gave no reply. At last the
master, turning round deprecatingly to the clergyman, said, ‘Oich, sir,
there’s surely no spellin’ in Gaelic.’

A story is told in the north of Scotland of a certain school in which
a boy was reading in presence of an examiner, and on pronouncing the
word _bull_ as it is ordinarily sounded, was abruptly corrected by the
schoolmaster.

[Sidenote: A DOMINIE’S PRONUNCIATION]

‘John, I’ve told you before, that word is called _bull_’ (pronouncing
it like _skull_).

‘Excuse me, sir,’ said the examiner, ‘I think you will find that the
boy has pronounced it correctly.’

‘O no, sir, we always call it _bull_ in this parish.’

‘But you must pardon me if I say that the boy’s pronunciation is the
usual one. Have you a pronouncing dictionary?’

‘Dictionary! O yes. Charlie, rin round to the house and fetch me the
big dictionary. Meantime, John, go on wi’ the reading.’ So John went
on with ‘bull,’ and Charlie brought the dictionary, which the master
turned up in triumph, ‘There, sir, is the word with the mark above the
_u_, and there are the words that it’s to be sounded like--put, push,
pull (pronouncing these all like but, brush, dull). And now, John, you
will go on wi’ _bull_.’

The questions put by the examiners are not always judicious. The
man who asked ‘If Alfred the Great were alive now, what part of our
political system would he be likely to take most interest in?’ need not
have been surprised to receive the answer, ‘Please sir, if Alfred the
Great were alive now, I think he’d be so old he wouldn’t take interest
in anything.’

The difference between the pronunciation of Latin on the two sides of
the Tweed used to give rise to curious confusion, whether we ‘gave
up Cicero to C or K.’ I remember a boy who had previously attended a
grammar school in Yorkshire and had come to the Edinburgh High School,
being called on to read the introductory lines of the first book of
Ovid’s _Metamorphoses_. He began pronouncing in the English way, ‘Ante
mare et tellus.’ ‘What, what do you say?’ interrupted Dr. Boyd, ‘Aunty
Mary,’ forsooth! ‘I suppose we shall have Uncle Robert next.’




CHAPTER VII.

  Old and new type of landed proprietors in Scotland. Highland
    Chiefs--Second Marquess of Breadalbane; late Duke of Argyll.
    Ayrshire Lairds--T. F. Kennedy of Dunure; ‘Sliddery Braes’; Smith
    of Auchengree. Fingask and Charles Martin. New lairds of wealth.


The most outstanding change in regard to landed proprietorship during
the last half century has been in Scotland, as elsewhere in Britain,
the successive extinction or displacement of families that long held
their estates, and ‘proud of pedigree, but poor of purse,’ have had
to make way for rich merchants, bankers, brewers, iron-masters, and
manufacturers. Of the great landowners the most striking personality
in my time was undoubtedly the second Marquess of Breadalbane. Tall
and broad, with a head like that of Jupiter Tonans, having the most
commanding presence combined with the most winning graciousness of
manner, he was the incarnation of what one imagined that a great
Highland chief should be. When in 1860 at the head of his Highland
Volunteers, all in kilts of the clan tartan, he marched to the great
review held by Queen Victoria in Edinburgh, one’s thoughts travelled
back to the days of Prince Charlie, for since that time there had been
no such mustering of warlike men straight from the Highland glens, and
no such chieftain in command of them. When in the autumn he established
himself at the Black Mount, and filled his hospitable house with
guests, he would start off for a day’s deer-stalking, mounted on the
box of a large drag, with the reins and whip in his hands, his friends
seated around him and his gillies behind. No one of the party was a
keener or more successful sportsman than he. A liberal and enlightened
landlord, he had done much to improve his vast estates, and was beloved
by his tenantry and people. He never could understand why the Scottish
mountains should not supply abundance of metallic ores, and afford a
source of wealth to the country. For years he employed a German expert
to prospect all over his property, and he continued to work his mines
at Tyndrum even at a loss. Among his acquirements he had gained some
knowledge of mineralogy. Sir Roderick Murchison, when visiting him
in 1860, after a tour through the western Highlands, remarked to him
at dinner that one great difference between the oldest rocks of the
north-western and those of the Central Highlands lay in the presence
of abundant hornblende in the former and its absence from the latter.
‘Stop a bit, Sir Roderick,’ interrupted the Marquess, ‘You come with
me to-morrow, and I’ll show you plenty of hornblende.’ Next day a walk
was taken across a tract of moor near the Black Mount, Sir Roderick
accompanying some ladies, while the chief marched on in front. At last
when the rock in question was reached, the Marquess shouted out in
triumph, ‘Here’s hornblende for you.’ And he was right, as Murchison,
with a queer non-plussed look on his face, had to admit. Nevertheless
the geologist’s generalisation, though not universally applicable, had
in it a certain element of truth.

[Sidenote: THE LATE DUKE OF ARGYLL]

Another distinguished Highland chief of last century was the late Duke
of Argyll. Gifted with great acuteness and versatility of intellect,
he directed his thoughts to a wide range of subjects, and having a
remarkable command of forcible language, he was able to present these
thoughts in such a form as to compel attention to his reasonings and
conclusions. As orator, statesman, historian, poet, naturalist,
geologist, agriculturist, chief of a great Highland clan, and landed
proprietor, he was undoubtedly one of the living forces of his country
during his active career. Moreover, he never failed to show that,
like the long line of his illustrious ancestors, he was an ardent and
patriotic Scot. In the midst of his conversation he would every now and
then throw in a Scottish word or phrase, as more tersely expressive of
his meaning than anything he could find in English. He knew the West
of Scotland better than most of his countrymen, for not only was he
born and bred there, and passed most of his life in the midst of his
ancestral possessions, but for many years he kept a yacht on which
he peered into every bay and creek among the Western Isles. He had
considerable artistic power, and was never happier than when sketching
some scene that delighted him. After a great speech, or during the
intervals in the preparation of one of his published volumes, he found
rest and solace in working up his sketches, of which he left a large
collection.

[Sidenote: INVERARAY CASTLE]

Though cast in a smaller bodily mould than his burly kinsman of
Breadalbane, he carried himself with a singular dignity of bearing.
His finely formed, expressive face and his abundant golden hair made
him a conspicuous figure in any assembly. But he was perhaps best seen
under his own roof at Inveraray entertaining the landed gentry of
Argyleshire, when met for the transaction of county business--including
many of the Campbell clan who counted the Mac Callum More as their
chief, and from some of whom he could claim feudal service. One of
them in particular used to be prominent from the massive silver chain
which he wore with a key hung at the end of it. His castle was now a
ruin, but, in accordance with ancient usage, he was bound to present
the key of it when he came to see his chief. The Duke moved about among
the guests as the grand seigneur, entering into animated talk, now
about land and rent, or improvements in the county, or some recently
opened tumulus, dredgings in Loch Fyne, the political situation of the
country, or the probability of getting fossils out of his schists and
limestones. He was keenly desirous to preserve every relic of antiquity
on his property, and had made a kind of museum in the central hall of
the castle in which he kept the smaller objects that had been picked
up. Among these he was especially proud of an old knife with what he
believed to be Rob Roy’s initials on it that had been found near the
place where that Highland freebooter lived, when he placed himself for
a time under the shelter of the Argyll of his day.

[Sidenote: KENNEDY OF DUNURE]

Perhaps no county in Scotland could furnish an ampler list of landed
proprietors than Ayrshire, both of the old stock and of the new comers.
The former included both titled possessors of large estates and smaller
lairds who could trace their genealogy back to a remote ancestry. One
of the best examples of these landed gentry whom I have known was
the Right Honourable Thomas Francis Kennedy of Dunure. Educated in
Edinburgh under Pillans and Dugald Stewart, he was associated from
his youth with the brilliant literary coterie which then flourished
in that city, and delighted to recount his reminiscences of the men
and the clubs of the time. As he was born near Ayr, and had passed
much of his life in Ayrshire, where he possessed considerable estates,
he retained a lively recollection of the state of the south-west of
Scotland in the closing years of the eighteenth and the early part of
the nineteenth century. I have heard him tell of the hardships of the
peasantry and small farmers in his boyhood, how in severe winters they
were compelled to bleed their cattle and mix the blood with oatmeal
to keep themselves in life. He used to describe the cuisine of his
early days, and the contrast between it and modern cookery. One of the
dishes, rather a favourite in Carrick, was roast Solan goose from Ailsa
Craig. But his account of it was not itself appetising, for he told
how they had to bury the bird for some time in the garden, and when it
came to be cooked, all the windows in the house had to be kept open, to
let out the ‘ancient and fish-like smell.’ White and black puddings,
now almost entirely banished, still maintained their place, together
with ‘crappit heads,’ ‘singed sheep’s head,’ and sundry other national
dishes which have long been banished from the tables of polite society.
He used sometimes to revive a few of these dishes, and I thought them
excellent, but he never, so far as I experienced, tried the Solan goose
again.

He was a gentleman of the antique cast, courteous and stately in his
manners, proud of his descent and of his ancestral possessions, and
tenacious of his rights, which he was sometimes thought to insist upon
rather more than he need have done. When I came to know him about
the year 1863 he had retired from public life, and devoted himself
to the care of his property. He looked carefully after his breeds of
cattle, and was keenly alive to new inventions for the improvement of
agriculture, which he was always ready to test on his own land. Part
of one of the smallest coal-fields in Scotland underlay his estate of
Dalquharran, and he worked the mineral according to the best known
methods.

Yet he had been an active politician in his time. He was for sixteen
years in Parliament, as member for the Ayr Burghs. In association
with Cockburn, Jeffrey, Horner, Murray, Graham, and others, he took
a leading part in the preparations for the Scottish Reform Bill.
On retiring from Parliament, he obtained an official appointment
in Ireland, where he spent some years, until in 1850 he received a
commissionership in the Office of Woods and Forests. Owing to some
dispute in the staff, he retired from this appointment in 1854, and
thereafter lived entirely at his Ayrshire home, save that for some
twenty years he continued to come up for the season to London. The
Government of the day would not grant him a pension, a decision for
which he believed that Gladstone was mainly responsible. His friend
Lord Murray thought him so badly used that he settled a pension of
£1200 a year upon him, which he enjoyed up to the time of his death.
Though no longer actively interfering in politics, he continued to take
the keenest interest in the events of the time, kept himself in touch
with his old Whig friends in and out of Parliament, and gave free vent
to his disapproval when he had to criticise their policy.

His wife, a daughter of Sir Samuel Romilly, was a singularly gentle
and gracious old lady. They had been married twenty years before a
son, their only child, was born to them. Kennedy used to remark on
the curious coincidence that he himself was also an only child, born
after twenty years of wedlock. The inhabited Dalquharran Castle is a
large modern mansion, built in a massive but rather tasteless style, a
strange contrast to the older castle which it replaced, and which now
stands as a picturesque ivy-clad ruin a short distance off, near the
river. The laird remembered when this ruin still had its roof on, and
was partly habitable.

Another Ayrshire laird had a row of fine silver firs in the avenue to
his romantically-placed old castle. As several of these trees had been
struck by lightning during a series of years, his wife asked me one
day if I thought it possible that the lightning was attracted by a seam
of ironstone in the ground beneath. She hoped it was not, for if her
husband suspected such a thing, she knew he would have lawn, avenue,
trees, and everything else dug up in order to get at it. I was able to
assure her that there was no ironstone there, and that the attraction
was in the trees themselves.

In the same county I was acquainted about forty years ago with a
bachelor laird who possessed a fine estate, on which he lived with
two maiden sisters. He had a large collection of minerals, and more
particularly of gems, many of which were mounted as rings. When
low-spirited, he would array himself in his dressing-gown, retire
to his library, cover his fingers with rings, and lay himself out
on a sofa to gaze at and admire them. He dabbled a little also in
water-colours, and it used to be said of him that ‘he painted a picture
every day, and on Sundays he painted a church.’

[Sidenote: ‘SLIDDERY BRAES’]

One of the oddest specimens of a laird I ever personally knew was the
owner of a small estate to the north of Kilmarnock, where he lived with
two unmarried sisters. He had nicknames for everybody and everything.
His mansion-house, owing to the steepness of the approach to it, he
always called ‘Sliddery Braes.’ His sisters, he used to speak of,
the one as the ‘Mutiny at the Nore,’ the other as the ‘Battle of the
Baltic,’ because they were born in the years when these two events
occurred. He used to take whims, pursue them with great earnestness for
a time, and then change to something else. Many of these occupations
had a theological cast. At one time he devoted himself to a serious
study of the Book of Revelations, and in order to get the better at
its meaning, he took to the Greek original. He found that Dr. Sloan of
Ayr had a more modern lexicon than that at Sliddery Braes, so he would
come down day after day, and work with this volume in the doctor’s
consulting room. His presence there, however, becoming troublesome,
the book was sent upstairs to the drawing-room, and instructions were
given to the servant to take the laird there the next time he came.
On entering that room one day, he found the doctor’s sister sitting
at the window, engaged in some needle-work. With apologies for his
interruption, he begged her not to allow him to disturb her, for he
would be engrossed in his study of the chapter on which he was then
engaged. After some time he turned to Miss Sloan and said, ‘I’ve been
investigating the account given in Revelation of the White Horse, and
I think I now understand about it. The animal must have been a large
beast, for standing in the street there, its back would be up on a
level with the window you’re sitting at.’ And he proceeded to describe
in the most whimsical way the look and qualities of this wonderful
horse. His narrative was so comical, that the poor lady could hardly
repress her laughter. At last he noticed that his discourse had not in
the least solemnised her, and he thereupon started up remarking, ‘Ah,
Miss Sloan, you may laugh, but it’s no laughing to some of them; good
day.’ So ended his Greek studies.

His eccentricities at last became so great, that Dr. Sloan thought
it right to send a letter to the elder sister, pointing out the
desirability of having her brother watched, and provided with an
attendant, for his own sake as well as for that of others, since the
doctor did not think it was safe to allow him to go about alone. The
lady thoughtlessly left this letter inside her blotting-book, where it
was soon afterwards found by the laird himself. He immediately sat
down and wrote a long letter to Dr. Sloan, beginning, ‘I am not mad,
most noble Festus,’ and maintaining that he knew what he was about, and
could manage himself and his affairs without the help or interference
of anybody. The doctor told me that for a long time afterwards he
himself went about in some fear of his life, for he never could be sure
what revenge ‘Sliddery Braes’ might be prompted to take.

[Sidenote: AN ECCENTRIC LAIRD]

But the laird had really no homicidal mania. He grew, however, queerer
every year. One of his last crazes was to hunt up all the graves of the
persecuting lairds of covenanting times. On one occasion he set out on
horseback for Dunscore, to see where the notorious Grierson of Lag,
‘damned to everlasting fame,’ was buried. As he made his way through
the lonely uplands of Dumfriesshire, and was nearing his destination,
he overtook a pedlar with his pack, and asked him to mount on the horse
behind him. When at last he reached the graveyard, tying the horse to
the gate, he insisted on his companion accompanying him to look for
the tombstone of the persecutor, and on finding it, proceeded to read
out and sing a Psalm, in which his companion was also instructed to
join. At the end of this performance, the laird turned suddenly round,
looked the pedlar sternly in the face and exclaimed, ‘Now, sir, d’ye
ken whaur ye are? Ye’re sitting on the grave o’ a man that’s been in
hell mair than a hundred years. It’s a long time, sir, a long time.’
The poor pedlar, now convinced that he was in the hands of a madman,
made his escape from the place, and left the laird to complete his
devotions and execrations.

About the same time that this whim possessed him, he determined to
see the portrait of a certain member of the Cassilis family who had
likewise distinguished himself for his zeal against the Covenanters.
But the difficulty was how to get access to the picture, which formed
part of the collection at Culzean Castle, the seat of the Marquess of
Ailsa, and was hung in a room reserved for private use. Watching for an
opportunity when the family was from home, he succeeded in prevailing
upon the housekeeper to open this room for him and let him see the
portrait in question. He used to describe his experience thus: ‘I stood
looking at the picture for a while; it was really a good-looking face,
not what I thought a persecuting laird would be like. But at last I saw
the truth in his eyes, for as I watched them, I could see that they
had the true twinkle of damnation.’

[Sidenote: ECCENTRIC AYRSHIRE LAIRDS]

Another crack-brained laird in the same county has left inscribed on a
stone monument upon his property a record of his eccentricity. I came
upon it standing by itself near an oak tree at Todhills in the parish
of Dalry. On the west side of the stone the following inscription has
been cut;

  ‘There is an oak tree a little from this, planted in the year 1761,
  it has 20 feet of ground round it for to grow upon, and all within
  that ground reserved from all succeeding proprietors for the space
  of 500 years from the above date by me, ANDREW SMITH, who is the
  ofspring of many Andrew Smiths who lived in Auchengree for unknown
  generations.’

On the south side the stone bears the subjoined lines:

                  My Trustees
                ROBERT GLASGOW
                     Esq of
                  Montgreenan
                WILLIAM COCHRAN
                     Esq of
                    Ladyland
    I stand here to herd this tree
    And if you please to read a wee
    In seventeen hundred and sixty one
    It was planted then at three feet long
    I’ll tell more if you would ken
    It was planted at the byre end
    I’ll tell you more you’ll think a wonder
    It’s alloud to stand for years five hundred
    It has twelve yards a cross and round about
    It belongs to no man till that time is out
    But to ANDREW SMITH tho he were dead
    He raised it out of the seed
    So cut it neither Top nor Tail
    Least that the same you do bewail
    Cut it neither Tail nor Top
    Least that some evil you oertak
                  Erected
                     By
                ANDREW SMITH
            of Todhills Octr 1817

When in the year 1867 the British Association met in Dundee, some of
the members were entertained at Fingask--that charming old Scottish
chateau, with its treasures of family and Jacobite antiquities. Among
the visitors was Professor Charles Martin of Montpellier, who so
delighted the Misses Murray Thriepland with his enthusiasm for Scotland
and everything Scottish, that they bade him kneel, and taking a sword
that had belonged to Prince Charlie, laid it on his shoulder and, as
if the blade still possessed a royal virtue, dubbed him knight. Some
years afterwards I chanced to meet him on a river steamer upon the
Tiber, bound for Ostia with a party from the University of Rome. He
was delighted to be addressed as ‘Sir Charles Martin,’ and recalled
with evident enthusiasm the charms of Fingask and of the distinguished
ladies who so hospitably entertained him there.

[Sidenote: NEW LAIRDS]

The new lairds include many excellent and cultivated men well worthy
to take their place among the older families. Their command of wealth
enables them to improve their estates, and to beautify their houses
in a way which was impossible for the impoverished owners whom they
have replaced; their taste has created centres of art and culture, and
their public spirit and philanthropy are to be seen in the churches,
schools, and village-reading rooms which they have erected, and in the
good roads which they have made where none existed before. On the other
hand, among their number are some of whom the less said the better, and
who make their way chiefly in those circles of society wherein ‘a man
of wealth is dubbed a man of worth.’

Many incidents have been put in circulation regarding the race of coal
and iron-masters who, starting as working miners, have made large
fortunes in the west of Scotland. A good number of these tales are
probably entirely mythical, others, though founded on some original
basis of fact, have been so improved in the course of narration, that
they must be looked upon as mainly fabulous. Yet the alterations have
generally kept to the spirit of the story, and represent the current
estimate of the character and habits of the individual round whom
the legend has gathered. According to one of these tales a wealthy
iron-master called on a country squire and was ushered into the
library. He had never seen such a room before, and was much impressed
with the handsome cases and the array of well-bound volumes that filled
their shelves. The next time he went to Glasgow he made a point of
calling at a well-known bookseller’s, when the following conversation
is reported to have taken place.

‘I want you to get me a leebrary.’

‘Very well, Mr. ---- I’ll be very pleased to supply you with books. Can
you give me any list of such books as you would like?’

‘Ye ken mair aboot buiks than I do, so you can choose them yoursell.’

‘Then you leave the selection entirely to me. Would you like them bound
in Russia or Morocco?’

‘Russia or Morocco! can ye no get them bund in Glasco’.’

[Sidenote: A WEALTHY IRON-MASTER]

One of these men went to see Egypt, and took with him as a kind of
guide and companion, an artist of some note. When they came to the
Great Pyramid, the magnate stood looking at it for a time, and in
turning away remarked to his friend, ‘Man, whatna rowth o’ mason-wark
not to be fetchin’ in ony rent!’

On the same occasion the iron-master, now getting tired of
sight-seeing, was with some difficulty persuaded to cross over and see
the Red Sea. He made no observation at the time, nor on the way back,
but after getting to bed he found vent for his ill humour. Opening the
mosquito curtains, he blurted out to the artist, who occupied another
bed in the same room, ‘D’ye ca’ yon the Red Sea? It’s as blue as ony
sea I ever saw in my life. Gude nicht.’

It is told of a Paisley manufacturer that at the time of one of the
meetings of the British Association at Glasgow, he entertained a large
company of the members, a number of whom invited him to visit them when
he came to London. He had noticed that his guests had various initials
printed after their names on the programmes of the association--F.R.S.,
F.C.S., D.C.L., LL.D., etc., and, thinking that this was customary in
good society, he selected three letters to affix to his own name on
his visiting cards. In due time he made his appearance in the south;
and presented his cards. Some of his southern acquaintances ventured to
ask what the letters after his name were intended to signify. ‘O,’ said
he, ‘I saw it was the richt thing to hae the letters, and as I didna
very weel ken what a’ you fowk’s letters mean, I thocht I wud put just
L.F.P.; that means, Lately frae Paisley.’




CHAPTER VIII.

  Lowland farmers; Darlings of Priestlaw. Sheep-farmers. Hall Pringle
    of Hatton. Farm-servants. Ayrshire milk-maids. The consequences
    of salting. Poachers. ‘Cauld sowens out o’ a pewter plate.’ Farm
    life in the Highlands. A Skye eviction. Clearances in Raasay.
    Summer Shielings of former times. Fat Boy of Soay. A West
    Highlander’s first visit to Glasgow. Crofters in Skye. Highland
    ideas of women’s work. Highland repugnance to handicrafts.


The vicissitudes of agriculture have told on the farmers and
farm-labourers of Scotland, as they have done everywhere else in the
British Islands. To a large extent the small farms have been swallowed
up in enlarged holdings. It is much less common now than it used to be
to find one of them worked by a single family, where the husband, wife,
sons and daughters all take their respective shares of the labour. The
extensive adoption of agricultural machinery, and the replacement of
corn crops by pasture have reduced the number of labourers needed in a
farm, while the attractions of town life have still further tended to
deplete the rural population. These important changes could not take
place without affecting the position and characteristics of the farming
class. It is for the most part only in the remoter districts of the
country that one can now meet here and there with a specimen of the
type that was prevalent a generation or two ago.

[Sidenote: DARLINGS OF PRIESTLAW]

Forty years since there lived at Priestlaw, in the heart of the
Lammermuir Hills, a family of farmers, Darling by name, who were
perhaps the most excellent examples of that type I have ever
encountered. The farm had been tenanted by their forebears for several
generations, and the occupants were now two brothers and a sister,
all unmarried. Active, intelligent, kindly and honourable, they were
universally respected and esteemed throughout Lammermuir far and
near. One of the brothers was once riding home from a fair when he
was attacked by one of the navvies who were engaged in draining a
neighbouring farm. The ruffian had pinned the old man to the grassy
bank by the side of the road, and was dealing him some heavy blows,
when a group of farmers returning from the same fair came in sight and
rushed forward to save life. When they saw who the victim proved to be,
their indignation rose to such a height that, but for the intervention
of the policeman who happened to come up with another large contingent
of pedestrians, they would have executed summary justice themselves.
Some of the party conveyed the injured farmer to Priestlaw, while the
great majority of the company marched their prisoner off to Haddington,
a distance of some twelve miles, and never relaxed their hold of him
until they saw him locked up within the police-cell.

The brothers were delightful men to converse with. The sister, besides
the family charm, had a keen interest in natural history, and in all
the legends and traditions of the hills. I had come to the district
to carry on the Geological Survey there, and on making Miss Darling’s
acquaintance, found from her that when a girl she had accompanied Sir
James Hall and Professor Playfair in their excursions up the Fassney
Water. She had seen no geologist since then, she said, some sixty years
before, and she would fain hear something of what was thought and said
about the history of the earth now. We exchanged wallets, I giving her
such information as I had been able to gather regarding the rocks
around her home, and she, on the other hand, retailing to me a most
interesting series of traditions that clung to particular spots visible
to us as we sat in her garden, looking over to the Whitadder and across
into the heathy uplands. One of her tales has always seemed to me to
carry a strong appeal in favour of the trustworthiness of persistent
local tradition. Ever since the time of the Battle of Dunbar, she said,
it had been handed down that Cromwell, finding his way barred by Leslie
and the Covenanters, sought to discover some route through the hills
practicable for his army, and sent out scouts for that purpose. Two of
these men, disguised as peasants, had made their way down the valley of
the Whitadder, as far as the mouth of a little dell or cleugh, when a
gust of wind from the hollow blew their cloaks aside, and showed their
military garb to some of Leslie’s emissaries who were on the outlook.
They were promptly shot and buried, and tradition had always pointed to
a low mound with some gorse bushes, as marking the site of their grave.
Miss Darling sought and received permission from the proprietor who, I
think, was the Marquess of Tweeddale, to open a trench at the place
with the view of seeing whether any corroboration of the tradition
could be obtained. To her great delight she found, among some decayed
bones, a few buttons and a coin or two of the reign of Charles I.

[Sidenote: LAMMERMUIR TRADITIONS]

It was arranged that after I had taken a few weeks of holiday, I should
return to Priestlaw, where she was to have a collection of stones
brought up from the river, that I might discourse to her from them,
while she on her part promised to continue her stories and legends.
But when I came back to the Lammermuirs, Miss Darling and one of her
brothers had been already laid in their graves. The farm-house of
Priestlaw stands not far from one of the old tracks or drove-roads
through the hills, which, though now comparatively little used, serves
as the chief thoroughfare for pedestrians from East Lothian into the
Merse of Berwickshire. It appeared that one day a tramp had halted
at the door of Priestlaw, from which, as was widely known, no needy
beggar was ever turned away empty. The man looked ill, and when Miss
Darling saw him she would not let him trudge any further on his way,
but had a shake-down of straw made for him in one of the outhouses.
She would not allow any of her servants to attend on him, lest he
should have some infectious complaint, but took charge of him herself.
It proved to be a case of scarlet-fever. The man ultimately recovered,
but she and one of her brothers caught the infection and died. With
this most excellent woman, I fear, much of the unwritten history of
Lammermuir perished. She had from girlhood collected and treasured in a
tenacious memory every tradition of the district. She had watched every
excavation, whether for draining or building, and had gathered every
relic of antiquity on which she could lay hands. The past was a living
reality to her, and she found a keen pleasure in recounting it to any
one of like tastes and sympathies. Of her, unhappily, it may be truly
said that she is among those ‘which have no memorial, who are perished
as though they had never been, and are become as though they had never
been born. But these were merciful men, whose righteousness hath not
been forgotten.’

Among the Scottish farmers, though the general type is actively
intelligent and progressive, examples may be found, in the remoter
upland districts, of men--

    Who scorn a lad should teach his father skill,
    And having once been wrong, will be so still.

[Sidenote: SHEEP-FARMERS]

Thus a small farmer in Cunningham in descanting upon the changes he had
himself witnessed in the agriculture and general conditions of his own
neighbourhood had ruefully to make the confession--‘When I was young I
used to think my faither hadna muckle sense, but my sons look on mysel’
as a born eediot.’[19]

A sheep farmer in the Cheviot hills had been told that it was useful
to have a barometer in the house, for it would let him know when the
weather would be good or bad. He was accordingly persuaded to procure a
mercurial instrument with a large round dial, which he hung up in his
lobby, and duly consulted every day without much edification. At last
there came a spell of rainy weather, while the barometer marked ‘set
fair.’ The rain continued to fall heavily, and still the hand on the
dial made no sign of truth. At last he took the instrument from its
nail, and marched with it to the bottom of the garden where a burn,
swollen with the drainage of the higher slopes, was rushing along,
brown and muddy. He then thrust the glass into the water, exclaiming,
‘Will you believe your ain een noo, then?’

Another farmer who had also procured a barometer had greater faith in
its predictions. The ploughing on his farm had been stopped on account
of the rain, but he noticed at last that the glass had begun to rise,
whereupon he sent his daughter to get the ploughing begun again. ‘Ye’re
to gang on wi’ the plooin’ noo, John, for faither says the glass is
risin’.’ ‘Deil may care, the rain’s aye fa’in,’ was the gruff response.

The hill farmer has been the subject of a good many stories not much to
the credit of his intelligence. One of these men, whose holding was on
the hills to the north of Strathmore, had laid in at Perth his stock
of matches for the winter. On his wife opening the first box she found
that she could not get the matches to strike upon it. The husband also
tried unsuccessfully. The next time he had to revisit Perth he took the
pile of match-boxes with him, and going to the shopkeeper from whom he
had bought them, threw them indignantly down on the counter, with the
ejaculation, ‘They wunna licht.’

[Sidenote: A FIFE FARMER]

‘Wunna licht,’ exclaimed the shopkeeper in amazement, as he opened a
box. Taking out a match, he drew it smartly across the side of his
trousers and brought it up, alight. He repeated the same action with a
second, and a third, each of which burst into flame as before. ‘What do
you mean,’ asked the aggrieved shopkeeper, ‘by sayin’ that thae matches
wunna licht?’

‘Ay,’ answered the farmer, ‘and div _you_ think I can come doon a’ the
way to Perth, to hae a rub o’ your breeks every time I want a licht?’

Hall Pringle was in my boyhood the tenant of a farm near Largo in Fife,
and belonged to an antique type of farmer. He still wore knee-breeches,
and when dressed for church, or for a visit to Edinburgh, used to mount
a blue tail-coat with brass or gilt buttons, a broad-brimmed beaver-hat
and a formidable walking-stick. He was tall and broad-shouldered,
walked with a swinging pace, and when he appeared on the pavement of
Princes Street, he cleared a way for himself and attracted universal
attention. He was a great friend of John Goodsir, the anatomist, for
they were both Largo men, and when in Edinburgh he usually stayed with
the professor, who in return used from time to time to pay him visits
at Hatton. On the occasion of one of these visits, Pringle was full of
indignation over the post-mistress of the village, who he maintained
was in the habit of opening his letters. He declared to Goodsir that
he would not rest until he got her removed from her situation. The
professor wagered him a new coat that he would fail in his endeavour.
The task proved more difficult than he supposed, but in the end, with
the assistance of the post-office officials at head quarters, he
succeeded in gathering such unquestionable proofs of the delinquencies
of the post-mistress, that she was dismissed. In due time the bet, with
the existence of which the village was well acquainted, was paid, and
the new coat duly arrived at Hatton. On the first Sunday thereafter
Hall came to church wearing the garment, and as he passed the pew of
the post-mistress, he was observed to give the tails of his coat a
triumphant flourish.

I was once seated on the top of a stage-coach in the Lothians with a
Peeblesshire farmer next to me, who had a sarcastic remark to make
upon most of the farms as we passed along. I remember one place in
particular where the owner had built a new house, and had taken
infinite pains to lay out his garden, which he had stocked well with
fruit-trees, herbaceous plants, and annuals. I had often admired the
taste with which the whole had been planned and carried out, and turned
to my neighbour to ask if he had not a good word to say for at least
that little property. ‘Ou ay,’ was his remark, ‘its a bonny bit place.
The only thing it wants is soil.’

[Sidenote: AN AYRSHIRE MILKMAID]

The farm-servant changes more slowly than his master. When resident in
Ayrshire I frequently entered into talk with the ‘hinds,’ as they are
called, and found among them some intelligent men. The young women who
attend to the cows are often admirable specimens of their sex, comely,
well-grown, and strong, with a frankness and good humour delightful to
meet with. I was once walking up a hilly road on the south side of the
valley of the Girvan water, and overtook one of these girls, who was
trundling a heavy wheelbarrow in which lay a large cheese and other
supplies for the farm. She had already come a distance of some miles,
and was evidently a little tired with her exertions. I volunteered
to take the wheelbarrow for a little--an offer which she willingly
accepted, and she walked alongside, giving me an account of her farm,
her master, his family, the farm-servants, the cows, the dairy, and
so forth. I soon found that to arms unaccustomed to the task it was
much harder to push a heavy wheelbarrow up a hill than might have been
supposed. The girl’s bare arms were muscular, and seemed fit for any
amount of hard work. As we drew near her farm we could see the master
and some of the servants at work in the field below the road, which now
wound round the side of the hill. She named each of them, and laughed
aloud when she saw them looking up at our little cavalcade, evidently
puzzled to make out who the stranger could be that Jean had got hold
of. ‘O, look at Tam Glen,’ she burst forth. ‘See how he’s glowerin’!’
I presumed that Tam had a special interest in her, so not to give him
cause for jealousy, I dropped the wheelbarrow at the corner of the
steading and went on my way, with the good wishes of the milkmaid, who
assured me that if ever I passed that way she would see that I got a
good big glass of milk.

[Sidenote: SALTED FOOD]

It is interesting to hear these young women calling to their cows
‘proo, proo, proochiemoo,’ a cry which the animals understand and obey.
The words are said to be a corruption of _approchez moi_, and to date
from the time, three hundred years ago, when French ways and French
servants were widely in vogue throughout Scotland.

A farm-servant in service among the hills above Dingwall changed
to another farm a long distance off. He was found there by some
acquaintances, who enquired why he left his former situation.

‘Well, you see,’ said he, ‘I wass not very fond of sāalt.’

‘Sāalt! But what had sāalt to do wi’ your shifting?’

‘Well, I’ll tell you all aboot it. The maister wass a very prudent man,
and when a cow died he wad be sāaltin’ the beast, and we wad be eatin’
her. Then by and by there wass a great mortāality among the cocks
and hens, and they died faster than we could be eatin’ them; and the
master, he sāalted the cocks and the hens, and we wad be eatin’ them
too. Well, ye see, it wass comin’ on for Martinmas, and the weather
wass mortial cowld, and at last the ould man, the maister’s faither,
he died. The maister, he cam’ to me the next mornin’, and said he,
“Donald, I see we’re rinnin short o’ sāalt, so I’m thinkin’ you’ll need
to be goin’ doon to Dingwall for some more.” Well, you see, I went down
to Dingwall, whatefer, but I wass never going back to Auchengreean at
all, at all.’[20]

Occasionally a farm labourer becomes a dexterous poacher, and shows
by the ingenuity of his methods how well he would have succeeded had
fortune opened a way for him in an honest calling that would have given
scope for his abilities. The experienced poacher is not infrequently
a successful competitor in games where skill as well as strength
is required. In curling, for instance, which, even more than golf,
brings together men of all ranks in the social scale, the Sheriff may
sometimes be seen playing in the same game with men on whom he has
had to pass sentence. There is a story of one of these associations,
wherein a notorious poacher, who had often been imprisoned, shouted out
to the Sheriff who had tried him, ‘Now, Shirra, drive the stane in;
gie her sax months’; six months’ imprisonment being an extreme display
of the Sheriff’s legal power with which the speaker had made practical
acquaintance.

[Sidenote: CAULD SOWENS]

A former minister of the parish of Kirkmichael, in Ayrshire, was
resting in his study one Saturday afternoon after having finished
the preparation of his sermon for next day, when he was startled with
sounds of violent quarrelling in his own house. He jumped up from his
easy chair, opened the door, and heard the angry voice of his own
‘man’ shouting in the kitchen, ‘Na, noo ye limmer, tho’ I chase ye to
Jericho I’ll catch ye.’ The minister rushed off to save life, burst
into the kitchen, and found there, to his great surprise, nobody but
the man himself who worked on the glebe, and who was now seated at a
table taking his supper. ‘John, John, what’s the meaning o’ this? What
were ye swearing at? Wha were ye fechtin’ wi’?’ ‘_Me_, minister,’ said
the astonished John, ‘I’m no fechtin’, I’m no swearin’ at onybody, I’m
only suppin’ thae cauld sowens oot o’ a pewter plate wi’ this thick
horn-spoon, and they’re gey an’ fickle to catch.’

Let me now turn to some recollections of farm and crofter-life in the
Highlands, as they presented themselves to me in the year 1854 and
thence onwards. The house which for some happy weeks in that year, and
at intervals for forty years afterwards, became my home in Skye, was
Kilbride, to which I have already made reference as the residence of
my friend the minister of Strath. Besides his ministerial duties, Mr.
Mackinnon had a large farm, most of which was rough pasture for sheep
and cattle, but with some arable land in the valley bottom, where crops
of oats and potatoes were grown.

Farming in the neighbourhood of a deer forest entailed in those days
some serious trials, besides what arose from scanty soil, tempestuous
seasons, uncertain crops, and late harvests. And with these trials
I soon came actively to sympathise at Kilbride. The farm lay at the
west end of the valley of Strath, immediately at the foot of the
range of the Red Hills. These heights formed part of Lord Macdonald’s
deer-forest, and though the deer were not numerous, the fields of
oats or green crops at Kilbride and the neighbouring hamlet of Torrin
offered a tempting pasturage to them, as a change from their sterile
granite corries above. Barbed wire, or indeed wire of any kind, had
not made its way to these parts, as a help towards the enclosing of
land. The fields were only fenced in with low dry-stone dykes, which
offered no protection against inroads even from stray sheep. Hence it
was needful to watch all night and to make noise enough to frighten
away the deer. I can remember sometimes awaking before daylight, and
hearing the thumping of trays, blowing of horns, and shouting of the
watchmen. And yet with all this labour and some occasional depredation
and loss, when the deer contrived to elude detection, one seldom heard
any complaints, and I never in those days knew of a deer being shot or
injured either by the farm-servants or by the crofters around.

[Sidenote: FARMING IN SKYE]

Another source of vexation in the farming operations at Kilbride arose
from a very different cause. Although the arable fields were more or
less enclosed, it had not been found possible to enclose the farm as a
whole, much of the ground being rough hill-pasture. Sheep and cattle
were thus liable to stray elsewhere unless watched. Through the lower
ground, where, the herbage being best, the animals chiefly grazed,
ran the only road from Strathaird to the east coast. To prevent the
flocks from escaping along this thoroughfare into other pastures, a
rude fence had been constructed there for some distance on either side
of the road, across which a gate had been placed. Except the scattered
crofters, who gave no trouble, as they performed their journey on foot
and willingly closed the gate when they had passed through, Kilbride
had no near neighbours. On the west side, however, some six miles off,
there lived an eccentric and somewhat quarrelsome laird. He received
inebriates in his remote dwelling with a view to their cure by distance
from temptation. If all tales we heard were true, he was by no means
a teetotaller himself. It was even reported that he allowed strong
drink to be placed on the dinner-table, and partook of it himself,
but required his patients to pass the bottle round without helping
themselves. We did not wonder that under such a régime some of them,
like Lucio, ‘had as lief have the foppery of freedom as the morality
of imprisonment,’ and that we now and then met those who had escaped,
and who were walking all the way to Broadford, some nine miles off, and
back again in order that they might once more have a glass or two of
whisky.

[Sidenote: SUMMARY JUSTICE IN SKYE]

Between the laird and the Kilbride family there was no love lost. As
the public road passed through the heart of the minister’s farm, it
was necessary to have a gate across it at the farm boundary-wall,
otherwise the cattle and sheep would have escaped. But this gate was a
dire offence to the laird. For a while, every time he drove that way,
he would lift the gate off its hinges and fling it into the loch at
Kilchrist. At last the consequences of this conduct became too serious
to be tolerated, and the minister was preparing to take legal steps
to protect himself, when two of his giant sons quietly resolved to
take the law into their own hands. Ascertaining when the laird would
pass along the road, they concealed themselves among some copse on the
hillside immediately above the gate, and waited for their man. In due
time he arrived, and finding the gate closed as usual, he jumped from
his dog-cart, wrenched it off its fastenings, and threw it, with an
angry imprecation, into the lake. In an instant he was seized by the
two young men, and, after receiving a sound horse-whipping, was sent
on his journey. As the result of this escapade, the assaulters were
summoned before the Sheriff and fined, but they let it be widely known
that they would willingly pay the fine ten times over for the pleasure
of thrashing the laird once more, if he ever ventured to remove the
gate again. He never did remove it, but he always left it wide open
thereafter, and some lad had to be employed to see that it was duly
shut after he had passed.

At the head of the sea-inlet of Loch Slapin lies an alluvial plain,
through which a broad stream brings down the drainage of the valley
of Strath More. On this plain the water has gathered into a lake--a
favourite haunt of sea-trout, which the minister had the right
of dragging with the net. The days set apart for this employment
were red-letter days at Kilbride. We sometimes hauled ashore large
numbers of fine fish, which in various forms--fresh, dried, and
pickled--supplied the commissariat for some time thereafter.

During my earlier visits to Skye I saw much of the crofters. On distant
excursions I used to find quarters for the night in their cottages,
being franked on to them by some minister or other friend who knew
them well. In those days the political agitator had not appeared on
the scene, and though the people had grievances, they had never taken
steps to agitate or to oppose themselves to their landlords or the law.
On the whole, they seemed to me a peaceable and contented population,
where they had no factors or trustees to raise their rents or to turn
them out of their holdings. In a later chapter, which will contain some
reminiscences of my wanderings as a geologist among the Western Isles,
I shall give some particulars of my intercourse with the crofters of
Skye.

[Sidenote: A SKYE EVICTION]

One of the most vivid recollections which I retain of Kilbride is that
of the eviction or clearance of the crofts of Suishnish. The corner of
Strath between the two sea-inlets of Loch Slapin and Loch Eishort had
been for ages occupied by a community that cultivated the lower ground
where their huts formed a kind of scattered village. The land belonged
to the wide domain of Lord Macdonald, whose affairs were in such a
state that he had to place himself in the hands of trustees. These men
had little local knowledge of the estate, and though they doubtless
administered it to the best of their ability, their main object was to
make as much money as possible out of the rents, so as on the one hand,
to satisfy the creditors, and on the other, to hasten the time when the
proprietor might be able to resume possession. The interests of the
crofters formed a very secondary consideration. With these aims, the
trustees determined to clear out the whole population of Suishnish and
convert the ground into one large sheep-farm, to be placed in the hands
of a responsible grazier, if possible, from the south country.

I had heard some rumours of these intentions, but did not realise
that they were in process of being carried into effect, until one
afternoon, as I was returning from my ramble, a strange wailing sound
reached my ears at intervals on the breeze from the west. On gaining
the top of one of the hills on the south side of the valley, I could
see a long and motley procession winding along the road that led north
from Suishnish. It halted at the point of the road opposite Kilbride,
and there the lamentation became loud and long. As I drew nearer, I
could see that the minister with his wife and daughters had come out
to meet the people and bid them all farewell. It was a miscellaneous
gathering of at least three generations of crofters. There were old men
and women, too feeble to walk, who were placed in carts; the younger
members of the community on foot were carrying their bundles of clothes
and household effects, while the children, with looks of alarm, walked
alongside. There was a pause in the notes of woe as the last words
were exchanged with the family of Kilbride. Everyone was in tears;
each wished to clasp the hands that had so often befriended them, and
it seemed as if they could not tear themselves away. When they set
forth once more, a cry of grief went up to heaven, the long plaintive
wail, like a funeral coronach, was resumed, and after the last of
the emigrants had disappeared behind the hill, the sound seemed to
re-echo through the whole wide valley of Strath in one prolonged note
of desolation. The people were on their way to be shipped to Canada. I
have often wandered since then over the solitary ground of Suishnish.
Not a soul is to be seen there now, but the greener patches of field
and the crumbling walls mark where an active and happy community once
lived.

[Sidenote: RAASAY CLEARANCES]

Another island that formerly possessed a considerable crofter
population is Raasay. When I paid it my first visit from Kilbride, the
crofters had only recently been removed; many of their cottages still
retained their roofs, and in one of these deserted homes I found on
a shelf a copy of the Bible wanting the boards and some of the outer
pages. When I revisited the place a few years ago, only ruined walls
and stripes of brighter herbage showed where the crofts had been. In
diminution of population, the island has changed much from what it
was when Johnson was charmed with the society and hospitality of the
Macleods. The old house, indeed, in which he was entertained still
stands, but so built round with ampler additions as to be almost
concealed behind the wings and frontage of a large modern mansion. The
natural features of the island, however, must be pretty much as he saw
them. The Dun Can, one of the most wonderful monuments of geological
denudation in the Inner Hebrides, rises as a truncated cone, the flat
top of which forms the summit of the island. This conspicuous landmark
is the last fragment left of the sheets of lava which stretched
eastwards from Skye across Raasay towards the mainland. Besides its
geological importance, it has long had for me a sentimental interest,
for at a picnic on the top my old friends, John Mackinnon of Kilbride
and his future wife, became engaged to each other.

[Sidenote: LIFE IN RAASAY]

One of the characteristics of this island is to be found in the holes,
tunnels, and perforations which in the course of ages have been made by
rain-water descending through the calcareous sandstone that forms the
higher part of the eastern cliffs. These holes open on the moor above,
and as they are apt to be concealed by bracken and heather, they form
dangerous pitfalls for sheep. In former days, when numerous crofts
stretched along the eastern slopes and there was some traffic across
the middle of the island, even an occasional crofter would be lost if
benighted, or during the thick fog that sometimes settles on these
heights. It is told that a woman, on her way back from the store on the
west side of the island, fell into one of these chasms in the dark.
Bruised, but not seriously injured, she succeeded in slowly descending
between the rough walls, and was found late on the second day crawling
along the track below the cliff, not far from her own cottage, with her
clothes torn into tatters. All over the west Highlands the tradition
is current that such subterranean tunnels have been traversed by
dogs, which on emerging at the further end have appeared without any
hair, their exertions in squeezing themselves through the long narrow
passages having rubbed them bare.

One of the hamlets on the east side of Raasay, built beneath the cliff
and at the top of the steep declivity that descends from the base
of the precipice to the edge of the sea, was known by a Gaelic name
meaning ‘Tethertown,’ because to prevent them rolling down the slope
into the sea, the small children had ropes tied round their waists and
were tethered to pegs firmly driven into the ground.

Up till towards the close of the eighteenth century it was the general
practice in the Highlands to move the cattle and sheep in the summer
up to the hills, where the pasture was held in common. One of the
great events of the year was this migration to the ‘shielings,’ where
for some happy and busy weeks the women and children made butter and
cheese, and their flocks gained strength and flesh in the fresh open
air and on the sweet young herbage. But the rapid development of
sheep-rearing in large farms drove the communities away from their
summer retreats, and began that impoverishment of the Highlanders which
has continued ever since. Many a time, in my wanderings among the
mountains, have I come upon the traces of these shielings--patches of
greener verdure, with ruined walls or heaps of stones, overgrown with
nettles and other plants indicative of human occupation, but all now
solitary and silent.

[Sidenote: THE FAT BOY OF SOAY]

At the mouth of Loch Scavaig lies a small flat island of red sandstone
named Soay, which when I first came to the district was chiefly noted
for possessing the fattest boy in the West Highlands. The soil of this
island is thin and poor, the climate rather moist, and the situation,
facing the Atlantic, cuts the island off from constant communication
with Skye. The crofters had their little bits of land, and some of
them possessed also frail boats, with which they ferried themselves
over the sound to the Skye shore, and added to their slender fare by
a little fishing. But one family owned the fat boy, and the brilliant
idea occurred to his parents to take him to Glasgow, and earn an honest
penny by exhibiting him to the public. They left the island for this
purpose, with bright visions of success. But they had no Barnum to take
charge of them, nor do they seem to have fallen into the hands of any
other showman experienced in

    All our antic sights and pageantry,
    Which English idiots run in crowds to see.

Had large posters been widely placarded announcing that the veritable
fat boy of Pickwickian fame could be seen in all his rotundity for the
modest charge of sixpence, enough money might have been made, not only
to keep the family for the rest of their lives, but perhaps to buy up
the whole island, and establish a dynasty of Kings of Soay. But the
young prodigy and his disappointed parents had sorrowfully to return
wiser and poorer to their northern home.

The first visit to Glasgow is a memorable event in the lives of
those West Highlanders who have never seen more people together than
at a fair or a sacrament, or more houses than make one of their
little clachans. Donald’s astonishment at the crowded streets, the
interminable array of high houses, and the bustle and swirl of
city-life, has been chronicled in many ludicrous anecdotes. One of
these may be quoted as illustrative of one aspect of commercial
dealing. Many years ago a newly-arrived Highlander was being shown the
sights of Glasgow by a fellow-countryman who had now got used to them.
As they crossed a street, they saw in the distance a dense crowd of
people, and the newcomer naturally asked what it meant. He was told
that there was a man being hanged. He then enquired what they were
hanging him for, and was told it was for sheep-stealing. He looked
aghast at this news, and at last exclaimed: ‘Ochan, ochan; hanging a
man for stealing sheeps! Could he no’ ha bocht them and no’ peyed for
them?’

[Sidenote: A HIGHLAND FAIR]

The best opportunity of seeing the whole crofter population of a
district is furnished by the summer fairs or markets. In Strath, this
important gathering is held on an open moor not far from Broadford.
Everybody who has anything to sell or to buy makes a point of attending
it, from far and near, accompanied by a still larger number of idlers,
intent only on fun and whisky. Old and young, men, women, and children,
horses and cattle, sheep and dogs, find their way to the ‘stance.’
Whether or not much business profitable to the crofters was done, the
fair to the outside spectator used always to be eminently amusing and
picturesque.

The quantity of whisky consumed on these occasions must have been
enormous. There was likewise a kind of epidemic of bargaining. I
remember the case of a woman who brought a small terrier dog for sale,
which she had named Idir--a Gaelic word, equivalent to our expression
‘At all.’ Having sold her dog, she passed on complaining, ‘Cha ’n ’eil
margadh IDIR, IDIR’ (This is no market, at all, at all), sounding out
the last word so loudly as to reach the ears of the dog, which, when it
came to her, she caught up in her arms and sold again in a more distant
part of the fair. Another occasion which brought the scattered crofter
communities of Strath together was the half-yearly celebration of the
communion in Broadford Church. Not only the people of the parish, but
numbers of others from adjacent parishes, tramped many a long mile to
attend the services.

One cannot live much in the Highlands without meeting with instances
of that inveterate laziness already alluded to, more especially on
the part of the men. They have a certain code of work for women, and
another for themselves, and that of the women is generally the heavier
of the two. This national characteristic has been often noticed.
Writing as far back as 1787, Mrs. Grant, of Laggan, gave what is not
improbably its true explanation. After alluding to the Highlanders as
formerly fighters, hunters, loungers in the sun, fond of music and
poetry, she continues thus: ‘Haughtily indolent, they thought no rural
employment compatible with their dignity, unless, indeed, the plough.’
Hence they left all the domestic and family concerns to their women,
who worked the farms, attended to the cattle and other cognate labours.
‘The men are now civilised in comparison to what they were, yet the
custom of leaving the weight of everything on the more helpless sex
still continues. The men think they preserve dignity by this mode of
management; the women find a degree of power or consequence in having
such an extensive department, which they would not willingly exchange
for inglorious ease.’[21]

[Sidenote: “WOMEN’S WORK” IN HIGHLANDS]

More than a hundred years have passed since these words were written,
yet the usages Mrs. Grant described may still be seen in operation.
A few years ago, in boating along the north shore of Loch Carron, on
a warm day, I passed a field where the women were hard at harvesting
work, while the men were leaning against a wall, with tobacco-pipes in
their mouths and their hands in their pockets. I remarked to my two
boatmen that these hulking fellows should be ashamed of themselves, to
let the women do that heavy work under the hot sun, while they looked
on in idleness. The answer was characteristic and not unexpected: ‘Ye
surely wadna hae men doin’ women’s wark, wad ye, sir?’

This habit of allowing the women to do menial drudgery, so
characteristic of uncivilised races, seems hard to throw off, though
probably it is now undergoing amelioration. Burt, writing in the
earlier part of the eighteenth century, gives an amusing instance of
how the treatment of women in the Highlands appeared to a foreigner.
‘A French officer coming hither to raise some recruits for the Dutch
service, met a Highlandman with a good pair of brogues on his feet,
and his wife marching bare-foot after him. This indignity to the sex
raised the Frenchman’s anger to such a degree, that he leaped from his
horse and obliged the fellow to take off the shoes, and the woman to
put them on.’ In commenting on this incident, the editor of the fifth
edition of Burt’s volumes records an instance in which ‘a stout fellow
of the very lowest class in Ardgour, took his wife and daughter, with
wicker baskets on their backs, to a dunghill, filled their baskets
with manure, and sent them to spread it with their hands on the croft;
then, with his greatcoat on, he laid himself down on the lee side of
the heap, to bask and chew tobacco till they returned for another load.
A stranger, who merely looked at the outside of things, would hardly
believe that this man was a kind and tender husband and father, as he
really was. The maxim that such work (which must be done by some one)
_spoils the men_, has been so long received as unquestionable by the
women, that it makes a part of their nature; and a wife would despise
her husband, and expect the contempt of her neighbours on her husband’s
account, if he were so forgetful of himself, as to attempt to do such
a thing, unless her situation at the time did not admit of her doing
it.’[22]

Manufactures have never flourished in the Highlands. Yet the region
has many advantages for the establishment of industries, especially
abundant water-power and the existence of numerous inlets and natural
harbours to and from which commodities could easily be shipped.
Whisky-making, indeed, has long flourished, the traditions of the
‘sma’ still’ no doubt making it natural to take service in a large
distillery. Mrs. Grant of Laggan maintained that ‘nature never meant
Donald for a manufacturer; born to cultivate or defend his native soil,
he droops and degenerates in any mechanical calling. He feels it as
losing his caste; and when he begins to be a weaver, he ceases to be a
Highlander. Fixing a mountaineer on a loom too much resembles yoking a
deer in a plough, and will not in the end suit much better.’[23] The
indignant imprecation which Scott puts into the mouth of Rob Roy,
when honest Bailie Nicol Jarvie proposes to make the Highlander’s sons
weavers, represents the ingrained national repugnance to mechanical
crafts. In recent years a few industries have been introduced on a
small scale into some of the little Highland towns, such as Inverness,
Oban, and Campbeltown. These innovations, however, make slow progress.
Possibly the utilisation of the Falls of Foyers by a Sassenach company
of manufacturers may prove to be the forerunner of other similar
invasions. But if the future of the Highlands be left to Donald
himself, the lovers of the unspoilt charms of the mountains may console
themselves with the belief that these charms will remain much as they
still are for many a long day to come.




CHAPTER IX.

  Highland ferries and coaches. The charms of Iona. How to see
    Staffa. The Outer Hebrides. Stones of Callernish. St. Kilda.
    Sound of Harris. The Cave-massacre in Eigg. Skeleton from a clan
    fight still unburied in Jura. The hermit of Jura. Peculiar charms
    of the Western Isles. Influence of the clergy on the cheerfulness
    of the Highlanders. Disappearance of Highland customs. Dispersing
    of clans from their original districts. Dying out of Gaelic;
    advantages of knowing some Gaelic; difficulties of the language.


In continuation of the Highland reminiscences contained in the last
chapter, reference may here be made to some further characteristics
of the Western Isles, and to a few of the more marked changes which,
during the last half century, have affected the Highlands as a whole.

Fifty years ago Highland ferries were much more used than at the
present day, when railways and steamers have so greatly reduced the
number of stage-coaches and post-horses. These little pieces of
navigation across rivers, estuaries, and sea-lochs, afforded ample
scope for certain Celtic idiosyncrasies. The ferryman could, as
occasion served, contract his knowledge of English, and on one pretext
or another contrive to exact more than the legal or reasonable fare,
remaining imperturbably insensible to the complaints and remonstrances
of the passengers. An illustrative story is told by Dr. Norman Macleod
in his charming _Reminiscences of a Highland Parish_. A Highland
friend of his who had been so long absent in India that he had lost
the accent, but not the language of his native region, had reached
one of these ferries on his way home, and asked one of the boatmen in
English what the charge was. The question being repeated in Gaelic by
the man to his elder comrade, the answer came back at once in the same
language, ‘Ask the Sassenach ten shillings.’ ‘He says,’ explained the
interpreter to the supposed Englishmen, ‘he is sorry he cannot do it
under twenty shillings, and that’s cheap.’ No reply was made to this
extortion at the moment, but as the boat sailed across, the gentleman
spoke to the men in good Gaelic. Whereupon, instead of taking shame to
himself for his attempted cheat, the spokesman turned the tables on
the traveller: ‘I am ashamed of you,’ he said, ‘I am, indeed, for I
see you are ashamed of your country; och, och, to pretend to me that
you were an Englishman! You deserve to pay _forty_ shillings--but the
ferry, is only five!’

[Sidenote: HIGHLAND FERRYMEN]

On another occasion, when a sea-loch had to be crossed where strong
currents swung the ferry-boat round and some manoeuvring with the oars
was required, the chief ferryman kept saying, ‘Furich, Donald,’ to the
one assistant, and ‘Furich, Angus,’ to the other. At the other side of
the loch the passenger paid the fare and then said to the ferryman,
‘Now, I’ll give you another shilling if you will tell me what you mean
by “Furich, furich,” which I have heard you say so often in the passage
across. It must surely have many different meanings.’ The coin was duly
pocketed and the Highlander thus deliberately explained: ‘Ah, it’s
ta English of ta Gaelic “furich” ’at you wass wantin’ to know. Well,
I’ll tell you; it’s meanin’ “Wait,” “Stop”; och ay, it means “Howld
on,” “Niver do the day what you can by any possibeelity put off till
to-morrow.”’

I was once crossing in an open rowing boat from Skye to Raasay,
propelled by two men, a younger Highlander, who sat nearest to me,
and an elderly man on the bench beyond. The latter was dressed in a
kilt, and with his unkempt locks and rugged features, made a singularly
picturesque figure. My neighbour caught my eye now and then fixed on
his comrade, and at last he broke silence with a question:

‘You’re looking at Sandy, sir, I see?’

‘Yes, he is well worth looking at. He must be an old man, though he
seems to pull his oar well still.’

‘Ay, I’m sure, he’s an auld man noo. But ye wass hearin’ o’ Sandy
afore?’

‘No, I don’t think I have ever seen or heard of him before. What about
him?’

‘D’ye mean, sir, railly noo, that you never heard tell o’ Sandy o’ the
Braes?’

‘No, really, I never did. What is he famous for?’

‘Ochan! Ochan! wass ye never kennin’ aboot his medal?’

‘Medal! no, so he is an old soldier is he? What battle was he at?’

‘Sodger! He’s never been at ony battles, for he wass never oot o’ Skye
and the islands.’

‘But how did he come to get a medal, then?’

‘Just to think that ye wass never hearin’ o’ that! Weel, ye see,
there’s some Society in Embro, I wass thinkin’ they call it the
“Heeland Society,” and they gied Sandy a medal, for he wass never
wearin’ onythin’ but a kilt all his days.’

[Sidenote: HIGHLAND STAGE-COACHMEN]

Besides the ferrymen, the drivers of the old Highland coaches included
some quaint characters, who have disappeared with the vehicles which
they drove, and occasionally capsized. Half a century ago the coach
that ran between Lochgoilhead and St. Catherine’s through the pass
known as ‘Hell’s Glen’ was driven by a facetious fellow, one of whose
delights was to make fun at the expense of his English passengers. One
day when he had brought the coach to the top of the pass and halted
the horses, he got down, remarking to an English lady who sat on the
box seat beside him, and on whom the brunt of his sarcasms had fallen,
that if now this place had been in England, he would doubtless have to
search a long time before he could find a bit of old leather to stick
into the drag for the run down hill. Looking under a stone he pulled
out an old shoe, which of course he had placed there on a previous
journey, and which he now held up as a proof of the great superiority
of Scotland. Some weeks afterwards, a barrel arrived addressed to him.
As he was not accustomed to such presents, he opened it with not a
little excitement. Pulling out some straw he saw a large paper parcel
inside, and after removing a succession of coverings, came at last upon
a small packet carefully sealed. He felt sure it must be something of
great value from the pains that had been taken to protect it. So he
opened it with trembling hands and found that it contained--a pair of
old shoes, with the compliments of the lady whom he had made his butt.

Among the Western Isles two of small size have attained a distinguished
celebrity--Staffa and Iona. Three times a week in the summer season,
a large and miscellaneous crowd is disembarked upon each of them from
Macbrayne’s steamboat, which, starting from Oban in the morning, makes
the round of Mull, and returns in the evening. If any one desires that
the spell of these two islets should fall fully upon him, let him avoid
that way of seeing them. They should each be visited in quietude, and
with ample time to enjoy them. There is a ferry from the Mull shore to
Iona, and in the Sound a stout boat or smack may usually be obtained
for the voyage to Staffa.

[Sidenote: IONA]

I once spent a delightful week in Iona, where a comfortable inn serves
as excellent headquarters for the stay. There was a copy there of
Reeve’s edition of Adamnan’s _Life of Saint Columba_. Reading the
volume where it was written, and amidst the very localities which it
describes, and where the saint lived and died, one gets so thoroughly
into the spirit of the place, the present seems to fade so far away,
and the past to shine out again so clearly, that as one traces the
faint lines of the old monastic enclosure, the mill-stream and the
tracks which the monks must have followed in their errands over the
island, one would hardly be surprised to meet the famous white horse
and even the gentle Columba himself. But, apart from its overpowering
historic interest, Iona has the charm of most exquisite beauty and
variety in its topography. Its western coast, rugged and irregular, has
been cut into bays, clefts, and headlands by the full surge of the open
Atlantic. Its eastern side is flanked by the broad, smooth, calm Sound,
which, where it catches the reflection of a cloudless sky, rivals the
Mediterranean in the depth of its blue; while towards the north, where
the water shallows over acres of white shell-sand, it glistens with
the green of an emerald. Then, as if to form a fitting background to
this blaze of colour, the granite of the opposite shores of Mull glows
with a warm pink hue as if it were ever catching the reflection of a
gorgeous sunset. For wealth and variety of tints, I know of no spot of
the same size to equal this isle of the saints.

[Sidenote: STAFFA]

If Iona seems to be profaned by a crowd of gaping tourists (I always
crossed to the west side of the island on steamboat days), Staffa, on
other grounds, no less requires solitude and leisure. The famous cave
is undoubtedly the most striking, but there are other caverns well
worthy of examination. The whole coast of the island indeed is full
of interest, from the point of view both of scenery and of geology.
It combines on a small scale the general type of the cliffs of Mull
and Skye, with this advantage that, as the rocks shelve down into deep
water, they can be approached quite closely. My first visit was made in
a smack, which I found anchored at Bunessan, in Mull, and from which I
got a boat and a couple of men, who pulled me slowly round the whole of
the shore, stopping at every point which interested either myself or
my crew. My eyes were intent on the forms and structure of the cliffs;
theirs were directed to the ledges where they saw any young cormorants
crowded. They scrambled up the slippery faces of rock, and seizing the
birds, which were not yet able to fly, pitched them into the bottom of
the boat. These captures, however, were not made without some loss of
blood to the huntsmen, for the birds, though they had not gained the
use of their wings, knew how to wield their beaks with good effect. I
was told that young cormorants make excellent hare-soup, and for this
use the men took them. A less legitimate cause of stoppage was found
in the desire to pull up the lobster creels, of which we saw the corks
floating on the surface of the water. Several pots were examined, and
I am sorry to say that, in spite of a mild protest on my part against
this act of piracy on the open sea, some of the best of their contents
were abstracted. The boatmen could not understand why I should decline
to share in the spoil. Two or three years ago I landed on Staffa
with the captain and officers and a few of the crew of the Admiralty
surveying vessel, ‘Research.’ Some forty years had intervened between
the two landings. I found the place to be no longer in its primitive
state of wild nature. Ropes and railings and steps had been placed for
the comfort and convenience of the summer crowd--a laudable object, no
doubt, but I prefer to remember these cliffs when they showed no trace
of the presence of the nineteenth century tourist.

From the west side of Skye the chain of the Outer Hebrides can be seen
in one long line of blue hills rising out of the sea at a distance of
some five and twenty miles. The outlines of these hills had long been
familiar to me before I had an opportunity of actually visiting them.
In later years, thanks to the hospitality of my friend Mr. Henry Evans,
of Ascog, I have made many delightful cruises among them in his steam
yacht ‘Aster,’ of 250 tons, and have been enabled to sail

    Round the moist marge of each cold Hebrid isle.

[Sidenote: STANDING STONES OF CALLERNISH]

One of his favourite anchorages has been Loch Roag, on the west side of
Lewis, where the typical scenery of these islands is well displayed--a
hummocky surface of rounded rocky knolls, separated by innumerable
lakelets and boggy or peaty hollows, or green crofter-holdings, the
land projecting seawards in many little promontories, and the sea
sprinkled with islets. On one of the cruises, we landed and examined
with some care the famous stones of Callernish--the most numerous
group of standing stones in the British Islands. Seen from the sea on
a grey misty day, they look like a company of stoled carlines met in
council. On a near view, they are found to be disposed in the figure of
a cross and circle, the longer limb of the cross being directed about
ten degrees east of north. The monoliths consist of between 40 and 50
slabs of flaggy gneiss, the largest being 17 to 18 feet in height.
It was interesting to observe that after the purpose for which they
were erected had perhaps been forgotten, boggy vegetation began to
spread over the ground and form a layer of peat, which, in the course
of centuries, increased to a depth of six feet or more; the lower
portions of the upright monoliths were thus buried in the peat. The
late proprietor had this vegetable growth removed, so as to lay bare
the original surface of the ground; but the upper limit of the turbary
could still be traced in the bleached aspect of that lower part of the
stones which had been covered by the peat, the organic acids of the
decaying vegetation having removed much of the colouring material of
the gneiss. How long this accumulation of peat took to form must be
matter for conjecture.

Loch Roag makes a convenient starting point for St. Kilda, to which I
have several times crossed in the ‘Aster.’ From the higher eminences
around this loch the top of St. Kilda may be seen in clear weather,
the distance being not more than about 50 miles. But it is the open
Atlantic which lies between, and the anchorage of St. Kilda is not
good, there being only one available bay, from which, however, a vessel
had better at once depart if the wind should shift into the south-east.
On one of our visits we were fortunate in finding the weather calm
and sunny, so that it was possible to pull in an open boat round the
base of the cliffs. And such cliffs and crests! It is as if a part of
the mountain group of Skye had been set down in mid-ocean--the same
purple-black rocks as in the Cuillin Hills, split into similar clefts,
and shooting up into the same type of buttresses, recesses, obelisks,
and pinnacles, and in the lofty hill of Conacher, the conical forms
and pale tints of the Red Hills. But it is the bird life which most
fascinates a visitor. In the nesting season, the air is alive with
wings and with all the varied cries of northern sea-fowl, while every
ledge and cornice of the precipices has its feathered occupants. Each
species keeps to its own part of the cliff. The puffins swarm in the
crannies below, while higher up come the guillemots, razor-bills,
and kittiwakes. The gannets breed on the smaller islets of the group.
We could watch the sure-footed natives making their way along ledges
which, seen from below, seemed impracticable even to goats. These men,
however, from early boyhood

    Along th’ Atlantic rock, undreading, climb,
    And of its eggs despoil the solan’s nest.

[Sidenote: ST. KILDA]

In ascending one of the crags on the west side of St. Kilda I was
fortunate enough to come, unperceived, within a few yards of some
fulmars, and had a good look at these most characteristic birds of
this island. They yield a strongly odoriferous musky oil, of which
the natives make much use, and of which every one of them smells. In
passing between the main island and Boreray, we sailed under a vast
circle of those majestic birds, the gannets, wheeling and diving into
the sea all around us. After swallowing their catch they bent their
wings upward to rejoin the circle, and make a fresh swoop into the
deep. While watching this magnificent meteor-like bird-play, we were
surprised by the appearance of three whales, parents and son, which
slowly made their way underneath the swarm of gannets. It seemed as if
the backs of these huge animals could hardly escape being transfixed
by some of the crowd of descending bills, but we could trace their
leisurely and unmolested course by the columns of spray which they blew
out into the air every time they came up to breathe.

One of the most curious sea-inlets in the Outer Hebrides is the passage
known as the Sound of Harris--a tortuous channel between the Long
Island and North Uist, strewn with islets and rocks, and giving a
passage to powerful tides. The navigation of this Sound is extremely
intricate, and needs good weather and daylight. On one of my cruises
to St. Kilda the open sea had been rather rough, but once inside the
archipelago, the water became rapidly smooth, showing only the swirl
and foam of the tidal currents that sweep to and fro between the
Minch and the Atlantic. At the eastern end of the Sound stands the
nearly perfect ancient church of Rodil--an interesting relic of the
ecclesiastical architecture which followed that of the Celtic church.

[Sidenote: WEST HIGHLAND CASTLES]

As one moves about among the Western Highlands and Isles, now so
peaceful, and in many places so sparsely peopled, it is difficult to
realise the conditions of life there two or three centuries ago, when
the population was not only more numerous, but was subdivided into
clans, often at feud with each other. Of these unhappy times many
strikingly picturesque memorials remain in the castles perched on crags
and knolls all along the shores. Most of these buildings were obviously
meant mainly for defence, but some suggest that the chiefs who erected
them sought convenient places from which to attack their neighbours,
or to sally forth against passing vessels. Each of them, strongly
constructed of local stone, and of lime which must often have been
brought from a distance, might have seemed designed to be

      A forted residence ’gainst the tooth of time
    And razure of oblivion.

But almost without exception they are now in ruins. The tourist who
would try to picture to himself what these fortalices meant, should
sail through the Sound of Mull and note the succession of them on
either side, from Duart at the one end to Mingarry at the other.
Dunvegan, in Skye, the ancient stronghold of the Macleods, which still
remains in good preservation and inhabited, affords an idea of the
aspect of the more important of these strengths in old times. But many
of them were little more than square keeps, strong enough, however,
to withstand sudden assault, and even to endure a siege, as long as
provisions held out.

Other memorials of ancient strife and bloodshed, less conspicuous than
the castles, but even more impressive, may here and there be found,
which bring the brutal realities of savagedom vividly before the eyes.
Within my own recollection, Professor Macpherson, then proprietor of
Eigg, gathered together the skulls and scattered bones in the cave on
that island where some 200 Macdonalds, men, women, and children, were
smothered alive by an invading band of Macleods, who kindled brushwood
against the cave-mouth. For nearly three hundred years these ghastly
relics of humanity had lain unburied where the victims fell, and might
be kicked and crushed by the careless feet of any inquisitive visitor.
Even now, although every care has been taken to remove them, stray
vestiges of the massacre may perchance still be found on the rough dank
floor of the dark cavern. From the mouldering straw and heath I picked
up, many years ago, the finger-bone of a child.

[Sidenote: AN UNBURIED SKELETON]

The tragic fate of the Macdonalds of Eigg is a well-known event. But
here and there one comes upon relics of unchronicled slaughters.
The most impressive of these which I have ever met with is to be
found on the west side of Jura. In a cruise round this island in the
‘Aster’ with Mr. Evans, we were accompanied by Miss Campbell of Jura,
who, in the course of a talk about clan-battles in the Highlands,
referred to the last raid that had been made on Jura, where, according
to tradition, a party of Macleans had landed and were opposed by
Campbells. She added that the skeleton of one of the Macleans who
was slain lies on the moor still. On my expressing some incredulity
as to this last statement, she assured me that it was true, and that
I might verify it with my own eyes. So the yacht was turned into
a little indentation of the coast, at the head of which stood a
shepherd’s cottage. We landed from the long boat, and the shepherd,
recognising the party, came down to meet us. Miss Campbell asked him
where the skeleton was, and he pointed to an overhanging piece of rock
about a hundred yards from where we were standing. On reaching this
spot, we found a few rough stones lying at the foot of the low crag.
These the man, stooping down, gently removed, and below them lay the
bleached bones. We took up the skull, which was well formed and must
have belonged to a full-grown man. A piece of bone about the size of
half-a-crown had, evidently by the sweep of a claymore, been sliced off
the top of the skull, leaving a clean, smooth cut. This wound, however,
had not been considered enough, for the head had been cleft by a
subsequent stroke of the weapon, and there was the gash in the bone, as
sharply defined as on the day the deed was done. We gently replaced the
bones, with the stones above them, and there they remain as a memorial
of ‘battles long ago.’[24]

[Sidenote: LEGENDS IN JURA]

The west side of Jura is pierced by many caves, which were worn by the
sea at a remote period when the land stood somewhat lower than it does
now. At the far end of one of these caves a human skull is said to lie.
This grim relic has more than once been removed and buried, but always
in some mysterious manner finds its way back again. Nothing appears to
be known of its history, and nobody likes to say much about it. If it
exists at all, its return to its cavern may be due to a superstitious
feeling on the part of the natives, some one of whom secretly transfers
it back to what is regarded as its rightful resting-place. These Jura
caves are the scenes of certain weird legends where a black dog, a
phantom hand, and a company of ghostly women perform some wonderful
feats.[25]

When I first visited the island in 1860, the proprietor of Jura was
a keen deer-stalker, and used to live for a day or two at a time in
one of these caves, when his sport took him over to that side of the
island. On one occasion a party of ladies from an English yacht, then
at anchor in the inlet, had landed, and in passing the mouth of the
cave had noticed the laird inside, whom they took to be a hermit,
retired from the vanities of this world. Pitying his forlorn condition
and the necessarily scanty supply of food which he could scrape
together in so wild a place, they, on their return to the yacht, very
kindly made up a basket of provisions and sent it ashore for his
sustenance. Next morning, before the anchor was weighed, a boat came
alongside with a gamekeeper, who had brought a haunch of venison for
the owners of the yacht, with the thanks and compliments of Campbell,
of Jura.

[Sidenote: CHARM OF THE WEST HIGHLANDS]

I cannot pass from the subject of these Western Isles and the adjacent
part of the mainland without a reference to their indescribable charm,
and an expression of my own profound indebtedness to them for many
of the happiest hours of my life. To appreciate that charm one must
live for a while amidst the scenery, and learn to know its infinite
diversity of aspect under the changing moods of the sky. The tourist
who is conveyed through this scenery in the swift steamer on a grey,
rainy day, naturally inveighs against the climate, and carries away
with him only a recollection of dank fog through which the blurred
bases of the nearer hills could now and then be seen. Nor, even if he
is favoured with the finest weather when, under a cloudless heaven,
every island may stand out sharply in the clear air, and every
mountain, corrie, and glen on the mainland may be traced from the edge
of the crisp blue sea up to the far crests and peaks, can he realise on
such a day how different these same scenes appear when the atmospheric
vapour begins to show its kaleidoscopic transformations. Having sailed
along a good part of the coast of Europe, including Norway and the
Aegean Sea, I am convinced, that for variety of form, the west coast of
Scotland is unsurpassed on the Continent, while for manifold range and
brilliance of colour it has no equal. One who has passed a long enough
time amidst this scenery, more especially if he has made his home upon
the water, sailing across firth and sound, threading the narrows of
the kyles, and passing from island to island, can watch how the very
forms of the hills seem to vary from hour to hour as the atmospheric
conditions change. Features that were unobserved in the full blaze
of sunlight come out one by one, pencilled into prominence by the
radiant glow of their colour, as the cloud-shadows fall behind them.
In the early morning, when the sun climbs above the Invernessshire and
Argyleshire mountains and the mists ascend in white wreaths from the
valleys, there is presented to the eye a vast and varied panorama,
comprising the highest and most broken ground in the British Isles,
rising straight out of the Atlantic. In the evening, when the sun sets
behind the islands, and the hills, transfigured by the mingled magic
of sunlight, vapour, rain and cloud, glow with such luminous hues as
almost to be lost in the glories of the heaven, one feels that surely
‘earth has not anything to show more fair.’

Wandering through these scenes, one’s mind comes to be filled with a
succession of vivid pictures printed so indelibly on the memory that,
even after long years,

    In vacant or in pensive mood,
    They flash upon that inward eye
    Which is the bliss of solitude.

Among these mental impressions some stand out with especial prominence
in my own memory. Such is a sunset seen from the top of the lighthouse
on Cape Wrath when, above the far ocean-horizon, there rose a mass
of cloud, piled up into the semblance of mountains and valleys, with
sleeping lakes and bosky woods, castle-crowned crags and one fair
city with its streets and stately buildings, its steeples and spires.
The late Professor Renard of Ghent, had accompanied me to that far
north-western headland, and we amused ourselves naming the various
parts of the topography of this gorgeous aerial Atlantis. Another
memorable sunset was seen from the Observatory on the top of Ben
Nevis, when the chain of the Outer Hebrides, at a distance of a hundred
miles, stretched like a strip of sapphire against a pale golden sky.
Next morning a white mist spread all over the lower hills like a wide
sea, with the higher peaks rising like islets above its level surface.
Through all these memories of landscape there runs, as a tender
undertone, the recollection of the human interest of the scenes. One’s
mind recalls the fading relics of ancient paganism, the devoted labours
of the Celtic saints who first brought the rudiments of civilisation
to these shores, the coming of the vikings from the northern seas, the
feuds and massacres of the clans. The landscapes seem to be vocal with
the pathos of Celtic legend and song, and with the romance of later
literature,

    In each low wind methinks a spirit calls,
    And more than echoes talk along the walls.

[Sidenote: ORIGIN OF HIGHLAND DEMURENESS]

The demureness of the Scottish Highlander appears to have been in
large measure developed during last century, and especially since the
Disruption of the National Church and the domination of the Free Kirk.
At the time of the Reformation and for many generations afterwards,
he was wont on Sunday to play games--throwing the stone, tossing the
caber, shinty, foot-races, horse-races, together with music and dance.
It was formerly usual for him to be able to play on some musical
instrument; in older times on the harp and in later days on the pipes,
the fiddle, or at least the Jew’s harp. Writing in 1773 Mrs. Grant of
Laggan averred that in the Great Glen ‘there is a musician in every
house, and a poet in every hamlet.’ In 1811 she could still say, ‘there
are few houses in the Highlands where there is not a violin.’[26]
Whereever there was a good story-teller, or one who could recite the
old poems, songs, tales, legends, and histories of former times, the
neighbours would gather round him in the evenings and listen for hours
to his narratives. These customs continued in practice until the early
part of last century, and some of them still sparingly survive among
the Catholic islands of the Hebrides. But the Presbyterian clergy in
later times have waged ceaseless war against them. ‘The good ministers
and the good elders preached against them and went among the people and
besought them to forsake their follies and to return to wisdom. They
made the people break and burn their pipes and fiddles. If there was
a foolish man here and there who demurred, the good ministers and the
good elders themselves broke and burnt their instruments, saying

    Better is the small fire that warms on the little day of peace
    Than the big fire that burns on the great day of wrath.

The people have forsaken their follies and their Sabbath-breaking, and
there is no pipe and no fiddle here now.’[27]

[Sidenote: CLERICAL RAIDS AGAINST FIDDLES]

The same sympathetic observer from whose pages these words are taken
has given the following illustrative example of the clerical methods:
‘A famous violin-player died in the island of Eigg a few years ago.
He was known for his old-style playing and his old-world airs, which
died with him. A preacher denounced him, saying, “Thou art down there
behind the door, thou miserable man with thy grey hair, playing thine
old fiddle, with the cold hand without, and the devil’s fire within.”
His family pressed the man to burn his fiddle and never to play again.
A pedlar came round and offered ten shillings for the violin. The
instrument had been made by a pupil of Stradivarius, and was famed for
its tone. “It was not at all the thing that was got for it,” said the
old man, “that grieved my heart so sorely, but the parting with it! the
parting with it! and that I myself gave the best cow in my father’s
fold for it when I was young.” The voice of the old man faltered, and
the tear fell. He was never seen to smile again.’[28] Taught to think
their ancient tales foolish and their music and dancing sinful, the
people have gradually lost much of the gaiety which with other branches
of the Celtic race they once possessed.

[Sidenote: HIGHLAND SONGS]

One who was familiar with the Highlands in the middle of last century
will be struck with the further decay or disappearance of various
customs which even then were evidently fading out of use. Of these
vanished characteristics, one of the most distinctive, whose loss is
most regrettable, was the practice, once universal, of singing Gaelic
songs during operations that required a number of men or women, working
together, to keep time in their movements. This picturesque usage
appears to have died out on the mainland, though it still survives
among the Catholic islands of the Outer Hebrides. There were many such
songs, each having a marked rhythm, to which it was easy to adjust the
motions of the limbs. I have already referred to the boat-songs that
kept the rowers in time. Besides these, there were songs for reaping
and other labour in the field. Indoors, too, each kind of work, wherein
two or more persons had to move in unison, had its music. Thus when two
women grind corn with the quern or handmill, as they still do in some
of the Outer Isles, they move to the rhythm of a monotonous chant. When
they thicken (wauk) homespun cloth, they keep themselves in time by
singing--a practice which may also still be heard among the Catholic
parts of the Hebrides. I have only once seen the quern in use, but when
I first visited Skye, the songs still continued to be sung, though not
as accompaniments to concerted movement. In some of the Outer Hebrides
milking-songs are still in use, and the cows are said to be so fond of
them that in places they will not give their milk without them, nor
occasionally without their favourite airs being sung to them.[29] There
are likewise herding-songs sung when the flocks are sent out to the
pasture, which, unlike most of the Gaelic music, are joyous ditties
appropriate to what was once, over all the Highlands, one of the
happiest times of the year.

A notable change among the cottages and houses in the Highlands during
the last fifty years is to be seen in the disappearance of some of the
old forms of illumination, consequent on the introduction of mineral
oil. Candles of course remain, but in former days a common source of
light was obtained from the trunks of pine-trees dug out of the peat
mosses. The wood of these trunks, being highly resinous, burnt with a
bright though smoky flame. Split into long rods it made good torches,
or if broken up into laths and splinters, it furnished a ready light
when kindled among the embers of a peat-fire. If a bright light was
wanted, the piece of wood was held upright with the lighted end at the
bottom, when the flame rapidly spread upward. If, on the other hand, it
was desired to make a less vivid light last as long as possible, the
position of the wood was reversed. Metal stands were made to hold these
pine-splinters, the simplest form consisting merely of a slim upright
rod of iron fastened below into a block of stone, and furnished with a
movable arm which slid up and down, and was furnished at the end with
a clip that would hold the wood at any angle desired. In Morayshire,
these stands were known as ‘puir men.’ A few years ago, Mr. James
Linn, of the Geological Survey, secured from the farms and cots of
that district an interesting collection of these objects which had
been thrown aside and neglected, after they were superseded by cheap
oil-lamps. This collection has since found a place in the Museum of
National Antiquities at Edinburgh.

[Sidenote: DISPERSION OF THE CLANS]

Another old Highland characteristic which has been constantly waning
since 1745 has had its rate of diminution greatly accelerated since
railways and steamboats were multiplied,--the localisation of clansmen
in their own original territories. It is true that the clan name may
still be found predominant there. In Strathspey, for instance, most
families in the Grantown district are Grants; Mackays prevail in the
Rae country, Campbells in Argyleshire, Mackinnons in Strath, and
Macleods in the north of Skye. But in all these old clan districts
there is a yearly increasing intermixture of other Highland names,
together with many from the lowlands.

The application of the clan name Macintosh to a waterproof, has
sometimes given rise to odd mistakes, real or invented, as where an
Englishman, who had got out at one of the stations on the Callander and
Oban railway, is reported to have come back to the carriage from which
he had descended, and into which four or five stalwart natives had
meanwhile mounted, whom he asked, ‘Did you see a black Macintosh here?’
‘Na,’ was the answer, ‘we’re a’ red Macgregors.’

But unquestionably the most momentous of all the changes which have
come upon the people of the Highlands is the gradual, but inevitable
dwindling of their native spoken language. Ever since the barriers
against the free intercourse of Celt and Saxon were broken down, Gaelic
has been undergoing a slow process of corruption, more especially in
those districts where that intercourse is most active. English words,
phrases, and idioms are gradually supplanting their Gaelic equivalents,
until the spoken tongue has become in some districts a mongrel compound
of the two languages. One may still meet with natives who know, or
at least say that they know, no English. ‘Cha n-eil Beurla acom, I
have no English,’ is sometimes a convenient cover for escaping from
troublesome questions. But, unless among the more remote parishes and
outer islands, the younger generation can generally speak English, at
least sufficiently well for cursory conversation.

[Sidenote: GAELIC TOPOGRAPHICAL NAMES]

It is much to be regretted that the Sassenach hardly ever takes the
trouble to learn even a smattering of Gaelic. Apart from the pleasure
and usefulness of obtaining a firmer hold on the good will of the
natives, some little knowledge of the language provides the traveller
with an endless source of interest in the meaning and origin of the
place-names of the Highlands, which are eminently descriptive, and
often point to conditions of landscape, of human occupation, of
vegetation and of animal life very different from those that appear
to-day. The old Gaels were singularly felicitous and poetical, as well
as wonderfully profuse, in their application of topographical names.
In my early wanderings over Skye, I used to be astonished to find that
every little hummock and hollow had a recognised name, not to be found
on any map, yet well known to the inhabitants, who by means of these
names could indicate precisely the route to be followed across a
trackless moorland or a rough mountain range. Even if no attempt may be
made to speak the language, enough acquaintance with it may easily be
acquired for the purpose of interpreting a large number of place-names.
The same descriptive term will be found continually recurring, with
endless varying suffixes and affixes of local significance.

To speak Gaelic, however, without making slips in the pronunciation is
difficult. Some of the sounds are hard for Saxon tongues to accomplish,
and unless they are accurately given, the uneducated peasant has often
too little imagination to divine the word that is intended. Thus, a
lady whom I knew on the west side of Cantyre, told me that when she
first came to live there, being a stranger to Highland manners and
customs, she was desirous at every turn, to increase her knowledge
of them. One day she asked her cook, a thorough Highlander, ‘Kate,
what is a philabeg?’ ‘A what, mam!’ ‘A philabeg; I know it’s a part
of a man’s Highland dress.’ ‘Och, mam, I wass never hearin’ of it at
all.’ Some time afterwards, having meanwhile ascertained what the word
signifies, she happened to come into the kitchen when a Highlander in
full costume was standing there. ‘Oh Kate, I asked you not long ago to
tell me what is a philabeg, and you said you had never heard of it.
There’s a philabeg,’ said she, pointing to the man’s kilt. ‘That, mam!
of course, I know that very well, I’m sure. If you’ll said pheelabeg, I
would be knowin’ at once what you wass askin’ about. I’ve knew what is
a pheelabeg ever since I wass born.’

[Sidenote: DIFFICULTIES OF GAELIC]

It seems hardly possible for a lowlander, unless he begins early in
life and has abundant practice, to lose all ‘taste of the English’ in
his Gaelic talk. Thus a pre-Disruption minister with whom I was well
acquainted in Argyleshire, and who was not a native Celt, but had
learnt Gaelic in his youth, made mistakes in the language up to the
end of his long life. One of his co-presbyters so highly appreciated
humour that some of the stories he told of my old friend were suspected
to be more or less touched up by the narrator. And many were the
stories thus circulated through the Synod of Argyle. One of them, I
remember, referred to a Gaelic sermon of the minister’s in which he
meant to tell his hearers that they were all _peacach caillte_, that
is, lost sinners; but as pronounced by him the words sounded like
_pucach saillte_, which means ‘salted cuddies’ or coal-fish. On another
occasion, being in a hurry to start from a distant inn, he called
the waiting-maid, wishing to desire her to have the saddle put to
his horse. The Gaelic word for a saddle is _Diollaidich_, and he got
the first half of it only, which makes a word with a very different
meaning, so that what he did say was, ‘put the devil (_diabhol_) on the
horse.’

Professor Blackie, who threw himself with all the ardour of his
enthusiastic nature into the study of Gaelic, laid the Highlands and
all Highlanders under a debt of gratitude to him for his untiring
labours on their behalf. He gained an accurate grammatical knowledge
of the language, and a considerable acquaintance with its literature,
but he never properly acquired the pronunciation. During a visit I
once paid to him at his picturesque home on the hillside near Oban,
we crossed over to Kerrera. After rambling along the western and
southern shores of that island, the Professor said he would like to
call on a farmer’s wife who was a friend of his. Accordingly we made
our way to the house, where he saluted her in Gaelic. The conversation
proceeded for a little while in that tongue, but at last the good
lady exclaimed, ‘Oh, Professor, if you would speak English I would
understand you.’

[Sidenote: EXPERIENCES IN GAELIC]

In my early rambles over Skye, I found that ‘a little Gaelic is a
dangerous thing.’ I had sufficient acquaintance with the language to
be able to ask my way, but had made no attempt to ‘drink deep’ at the
Celtic spring. On one occasion when passing a night in a crofter’s
cottage, I could make out that the conversation which the inmates were
carrying on, related to myself and my doings. In a thoughtless moment
I made a remark in Gaelic. It had no reference to the subject of their
talk, but it had the effect of putting an end to that talk, and of
turning a battery of Gaelic questions on me. In vain I protested that I
had no Gaelic. This they good humouredly refused to believe, repeating
again and again, ‘Cha Gaelig gu leor, you have Gaelic enough, but you
don’t like to speak it.’




CHAPTER X.

  The Orkney Islands. The Shetland Islands. Faroe Islands contrasted
    with Western Isles. ‘Burning the water.’ A fisher of men. Salmon
    according to London taste. Trout and fishing-poles. A wolf’s den.


[Sidenote: THE ORKNEY ISLANDS]

The Orkney and Shetland Islands present in many respects a strong
contrast to the Hebrides. Differing fundamentally in their geological
structure, and consequently also in their scenery, they are inhabited
by a totally distinct race of people, and the topographical names,
instead of being Gaelic, are Norse or English. The natives, descendants
of the old Norwegian stock that once ruled the north and west of
Scotland, still retain many marks of their Scandinavian origin. Blue
eyes and fair hair are common among them. They are strongly built
and active, with an energy and enterprise which strike with surprise
one who has long been familiar with the west Highland indolence and
procrastination. My first descent upon the Orkneys was a brief but
interesting expedition, when after a ramble along the north coast
of Caithness, I had reached, with my colleague, Mr. B. N. Peach,
the little inn of Huna, near John o’ Groat’s House. For geological
purposes we were desirous of visiting the nearest of the Orkney group,
Stroma, ‘the island of the stream,’--a name which graphically marks its
position in the midst of the broad tidal current of the Pentland Firth
that sweeps past it like a vast river, and with a flow fully three
times faster than that of an ordinary navigable river. We engaged the
old ferryman, who used to run the mail-boat from Caithness to Orkney,
and were warned by him that, as the weather looked threatening and the
tide in the evening would be against us, he could not give us more
than an hour on the island, and he would not allow the men to have
any whisky on the voyage, since they might need all their wits about
them before we got back. The sail across was easily made. Obeying our
captain’s injunctions to keep within the prescribed hour, we did most
of our work running, and succeeded in ascertaining what we wanted to
know. On re-embarking, we soon perceived that his prognostication as to
the weather was likely to be fulfilled. The sky had become entirely
overcast, and, though no rain fell, ominous moanings of wind warned us
not to linger. The tide had turned and was beginning to flow westwards
against the breeze. As it increased in its rate of flow the surface of
the firth began to curl and boil, streaks of foam were whirled round in
yeasty eddies, while here and there the water, as if in agony, would
rear itself in swirling columns that burst into spray, which was swept
along by the wind in clouds of spindrift. Not far off we could see the
‘Merry men of Mey,’ a tumultuous group of breakers above a dangerous
reef, surging up into sheets of foam-crested water that writhed and
tossed themselves far up into the misty air. Our pilot sat at the helm
watching every advancing billow and cleverly bringing the boat round
in time to meet it. It was a difficult piece of navigation, skilfully
performed. We could then understand why the men were to be prohibited
from tasting whisky till they got back to Huna. But arrived in safety,
we cheerfully ordered the stipulated bottle for them.

[Sidenote: ORKNEY BOATMEN]

Subsequently on crossing over into the Orkney group, I had soon
occasion to note the difference between the boatmen there and those
with whom I was familiar in the west of Scotland. More adventurous and
skilful than their Celtic fellow-countrymen, they generally possess
larger and stronger boats, which they keep in better trim. Some of
their smaller boats are built with sharp sterns, and exactly resemble
the common type one sees in Norway. In the eighteenth century, as
Boswell mentions, the people in the Inner Hebrides sometimes obtained
their boats from Norway. The Orcadians, among other traces of their
Scandinavian descent, seem to take to the water as naturally as the
seals which they shoot. On several occasions my Orkney boatmen piloted
me along the base of cliffs and among rocks against which the heavy
Atlantic swell was breaking, where no Skye boatmen I ever met with
would have ventured. No one can fully realize the grandeur of the great
cliff of Hoy unless he can look up at it from below, as well as from
the crest above. Its warm tints of bright yellow and red make it seem
aglow with light even in dull weather, and from a distance it looks as
if it caught sunbeams which are falling on no other part of the scene.
Viewed from its upper edge, this cliff presents a wonderful picture of
decay. The horizontal beds of sandstone have been split by the weather
into long deep vertical chasms, and etched out into fantastic cusps
and cupolas, alcoves and recesses. From the edge of the precipice,
which rises a thousand feet above the sea, one looks down on the long
Atlantic rollers, seemingly diminished to mere ripples, and their
heavy breakers to streaks of foam, while the surge, though it thunders
against the rocks, ‘cannot be heard so high.’ The Old Man of Hoy, which
has been left standing as an isolated column in front of this great
cliff, is the grandest natural obelisk in the British Islands, for it
rises to a height of 450 feet above the waves that beat against its
base.

Swept by the salt-laden blasts from the ocean, Orkney and Shetland
cannot boast of trees. Hedges of elder grow well enough when under the
protection of stone walls, but are shorn off obliquely when they rise
above them, as if a scythe or bill-hook had cut them across. A group
of low trees, sheltered by the houses at Stromness, appears to be the
resort of all the birds within a compass of many miles. There is a
story of an American traveller who landed at Kirkwall in the dark, and,
after a stroll before breakfast next morning, returned to the hotel
amazed at the ‘completeness of the clearing’ which he supposed the
inhabitants had made of their forests. To the geologist, the antiquary,
and the lover of cliff scenery, the Orkney islands offer much of
great interest. Though it was in the first of these capacities that
I was drawn to the islands, the standing stones, brochs, and mounds,
as well as the magnificent coast-precipices, were soon found to have
irresistible attractions.

[Sidenote: THE SHETLAND ISLES]

Shetland, lying more remote from the rest of Britain, has preserved,
even more than Orkney, traces of the Scandinavian occupation. One
comes now and then upon an old Norse word in the language of the
people, and so foreign are the topographical names that, in hearing
them pronounced, one might imagine oneself to be among the fjords of
Norway. To this day we may hear a Shetlander, who is about to sail for
the south, say that he is going to Scotland, as if he regarded his own
islands as part of another kingdom. On my first visit to Shetland I
spent some time on the mainland, chiefly on geological errands bent,
but not without a glance at the scenic and antiquarian interests of the
islands. One of my excursions took me to Papa Stour--a small island
lying to the west, and exposed to the full fury of the Atlantic
storms, which have tunnelled its cliffs with caverns and gullies. Some
of these perforations have been continued until they open upward in
cauldron-like holes on the surface of the moorland. During gales from
the west, the sea is driven into these clefts with a noise like the
firing of cannon, and bursts out in sheets of spray from the cauldrons
on the moor. On this island, as in so many other parts of Shetland,
the want of fuel is a serious evil. The inhabitants have gradually cut
away and burnt much of the thin coating of turf which covered the naked
rock. Hence over considerable areas there is now no soil,--only sheets
of crumbling stone which supports no vegetation and cannot be made to
yield a crop of any kind.

[Sidenote: IN THE SHETLAND ISLES]

On the way back from Papa Stour to Lerwick, I availed myself of the
kindly offered hospitality of one of the proprietors on the mainland.
The lady of the house was unfortunately confined to bed, but her
daughter and the governess did the honours of the house. This young
lady was said to be descended from one of the daughters of the Shetland
worthy whose likeness Scott drew as Magnus Troil in the _Pirate_.
At all events she was a typical Shetlander, as much at home on the
water as on the land. Mounted on a strong pony, she used to scour
the country far and near, picking her way across bog and stream in a
region where roads were few. In her boat, she had made acquaintance
with every creek and cavern for miles along the coast on either side.
Some time before my visit, a vessel with a cargo of teak had been
wrecked in the neighbourhood, and such part of the wood as could be
reached had been removed. But the young lady, in the true spirit of the
wrecker, knew where every stray log was to be found, in each little
voe and creek into which the waves had carried it. She had a huge
dog which accompanied her on her rambles, and, as one of the family,
was admitted into the dining-room at meal-time. During dinner the
animal, instinctively divining that I was fond of dogs and might be
expected to be attentive to him, placed himself at my side, with his
nose resting on the edge of the table and his eyes directed towards my
plate. Interested beyond measure in the talk of my young hostess, I
forgot my four-footed friend for a little, and, on turning to continue
operations with knife and fork, found to my astonishment that my plate
was empty, and that he was pleasantly looking at me and licking his
lips.

In the course of a cruise in the ‘Aster’ round the Shetland Islands I
enjoyed ample opportunities of becoming acquainted with the whole of
the wonderful coast-scenery of this archipelago. With a steam yacht it
is possible to keep close inshore, and to sail back and forward along
the more interesting parts. In this way I was enabled to see the great
cliffs of Foula well, and to watch the movements of its ‘bonxies’ or
Great Skuas. With the view of protecting these now rare and almost
exterminated birds, the proprietor of the island many years ago gave
strict orders to the natives not to molest them nor take their eggs,
and on no account to let any birds’-egg collectors come and help
themselves. He was on the steamer one day bound for Scotland, when
one of the passengers, entering into conversation with him, began to
talk of Foula, and to complain of the incivility of the people of the
island. The laird inquired in what way they had been discourteous to
him. ‘Well, you see,’ said the bird-man, ‘I am a dealer in birds’ eggs,
and I went to the island to obtain some eggs of the Great Skua. The
natives refused to get me any, and when they saw me preparing to go
and hunt for them myself they gathered round and threatened to pitch
me over the cliff into the sea.’ ‘And, by Jove,’ exclaimed the laird,
‘they would have done it too. They have my orders; I am the proprietor
of Foula.’

[Sidenote: IN THE SHETLAND ISLES]

As the yacht steamed round St. Magnus Bay and past the extraordinary
group of fantastic islets that rise out of its waters, we had the good
luck to see a white-tailed eagle winging its way northward, and pursued
by a flock of large gulls. This bird is now almost extinct along our
coasts. A few pairs are still left. One of these breeds near the top
of a cliff 500 feet high, in a group of islets which is a favourite
anchorage for the ‘Aster.’ Last year (1903), besides the two old birds,
a third was seen.

Rounding the far headland of Unst, the most northerly point of the
British Islands, we ran up a flag to salute the lighthouse on that
lonely spot. So seldom does any yacht pass there, and, judging from our
experience, so few vessels of any kind come within saluting distance of
the place, that the keeper, taken aback apparently at our courtesy, and
not wishing to delay his return of it, seized a pair of white trousers
that were drying on the parapet rail, and waved them enthusiastically,
while his comrade ran to hoist the flag.

One of the greatest obstacles to yachting in these northern seas during
summer is the prevalence of fogs. In two cruises to the Faroe Islands,
the ‘Aster’ had to be navigated for most of the way in a dense white
mist, with a smooth sea below and blue sky above, but when one end of
the vessel was scarcely visible from the other, and the foghorn had to
be kept constantly going. So excellently, however, had the course been
laid, that after soundings had shown that land could not be far off, we
heard the barking of a dog and the firing of a gun. In a few minutes
the top of the Lille Dimon could be seen above the fog, and we entered
the channel for which we had been steering.

[Sidenote: THE FAROE ISLES]

At the time of one of our trips to Faroe, small-pox had been prevalent
in Scotland, and when we ran into the sheltered inlet of Trangisvaag,
the yellow quarantine flag was run up on the wooden building ashore,
and a boat came off to warn us not to land until we had been inspected
by the medical man of the place. In a little while he pulled alongside,
and after some preliminary conversation asked that the whole human
contents of the yacht should be mustered on the deck before him. So we
all placed ourselves in a row, while he marched along and inspected us.
It was interesting to notice the amused and half-contemptuous faces
of the crew at this performance, each man feeling himself as strong
and well as youth, sea-air, and good food could make him. My host
thought that the official should not be allowed to leave without some
refreshment, and called on the steward to bring it. The Doctor selected
a glass of whisky, evidently without knowing what it was, for before we
could make any explanation, he tossed it off as if it had been so much
water. But not until it was well down his throat did he realise the
strength of the liquor. He gave a few gasps, while his eyes filled with
water, and he had to make an effort to compose himself and go on with
the conversation as if nothing had happened. If he had never tasted
Talisker whisky before, we believed he would not forget his first
experience of it.

So exactly do the Faroe Islands reproduce the scenery of the Inner
Hebrides that it is difficult at first to believe that we are not
somehow back again under the cliffs of Skye or Mull. Green declivities
descend from the interior of these islands to the edge of the cliffs,
which then plunge sheer down into the sea. The precipices are built up
of nearly level sheets of brown basalt, edged with narrow strips of
grassy herbage, cleft into chasms, and eaten out into tunnels and caves
by the restless surge. From the horizontal bars of the great cliffs,
the eye ranges upward to the brightly verdant slopes above, and marks
dark-brown ribs of rock running parallel with these bars in a series
of terraces away up to the crests of the ridges and hills. Only in
the little bays, which here and there indent the ranges of formidable
precipice, does one catch sight of evidence of human occupation.

But, while the topography is so similar, the population presents a
singular contrast to that of the Western Isles of Scotland. Everywhere
it gives proofs of energy, industry, comfort, cleanliness, and
civilisation. Each little community at the head of its cliff-girt
inlet has built a hamlet of neat wooden houses, which, with their
painted doors, trim windows, and clean white curtains, show that the
inhabitants are well-to-do, and not without some of the luxuries of
life. Fishing is the main industry, and all the inhabitants are more
or less engaged in it--men, women, and children. The men go to sea
and bring back the fish. The women look after it as it lies drying in
the sun, cover it with tarpaulin if rain comes, and stack it up ready
for export. There is usually a chief man or merchant who takes general
charge of the trade, and arranges for the steamboats to come and carry
off the piles of fish.

[Sidenote: FAROES AND WESTERN ISLES]

To return from such a scene to the west of Skye cannot but fill the
heart with sadness as one passes inlet after inlet, either with
no inhabitants or with only a handful of them, housed in squalid,
miserable, dirty huts, too poor to provide themselves with good
seagoing boats, too timid or too lazy and unenterprising to gather the
harvest of the sea, as the men do in Faroe, but content to live as
their fathers have done, save that now they have become possessed by
a greed for more land, which, when they get it, they will doubtless
cultivate in the same unskilful and slovenly fashion. In the herring
fishing, which is the chief industry among the Western Isles, the boats
come largely from the east side of Scotland, and are manned by the
stalwart and active seamen of the shores of the Moray Firth and other
parts of the coast.

The subject of fish and fishing recalls some recollections of angling
experiences on the mainland. In boyhood I used sometimes to assist at
a ‘burning o’ the water,’ when all the shepherds, poachers, and idlers
of the district assembled to take part in the fun and excitement of
spearing salmon or grilse. The Gala Water on these nights presented a
singularly picturesque sight--the lurid glare and smoke of the torches,
the cautious movements of the men in the river, the shouts of those on
the bank as a successful ‘leister,’ that had transfixed a fish, was
handed over to them, and the chorus of shepherds’ dogs that were among
the most active and excited of the spectators. The account of the night
exploits at Charlie’s Hope in _Guy Mannering_ is as truthful as it is
graphic.

Among the lakes of Sutherland there is one not far from Beinn Griam
which, an enthusiastic angler assured me, consists of ‘three parts of
fish and one water.’ Another sporting friend, not to be outdone, lauded
the extraordinary abundance of game in his native island. ‘There is a
stream there,’ he would say, ‘once so stocked with trout that I never
failed to fill a big basket. But now the feathered game has become so
abundant that though the fish are as plentiful as ever, I can hardly
get any, for almost every time I cast my line I hook a grouse in the
air.’

A former well-known witty editor of an Edinburgh newspaper was fond
of escaping to the banks of the Yarrow or the Ettrick for a few days’
fishing. One Monday morning he was accosted by the clergyman who had
been preaching the day before, and who, though a stranger to him, asked
a number of questions about his sport. The editor replied civilly to
the battery of queries, and at last began to catechise in his turn.

[Sidenote: A FISHER OF MEN]

‘And are you too a fisher?’ he asked.

‘Oh no, I have no time for angling. You see I am a fisher of men.’

‘And have you had much success in your line?’

‘Not nearly as much as I could wish.’

‘Ay, I can believe that. I looked into your creel [the church]
yesterday and there were very few fish in it.’[30]

There is a story told of an amateur angler who with an attendant was
fishing, from the English side, the Carham Burn, which at one part of
the border separates the two kingdoms. His hook had caught under the
opposite bank, and he was under the impression that it had been taken
by a large fish which had run up from the Tweed. His old companion,
however, disabused him by drily remarking, ‘Ay, ye hae got a big fish,
nae doot; ye hae heukit auld Scotland.’

Those who are accustomed to salmon which has been carried in ice a long
distance, and kept for some days before being eaten, do not always
appreciate the newly-killed fish as it is given in Scotland, with its
firm, flaky consistence and fresh curd. A Londoner, who had taken a
house for the summer in Forfarshire, had made the acquaintance of the
lessee of one of the salmon fisheries on the coast of that county,
and asked him one day to be so good as allow him to have a fish for
a dinner party which he was about to give. A fine fresh salmon was
accordingly sent to the house. A few weeks afterwards the Englishman
came down to the coast again, and after expressing his thanks for the
fish, ventured to remark that somehow it was harder and more flaky
than what he was accustomed to in London. He was about to give another
dinner, he said, and would like another salmon. The lessee, promising
that he should have one quite to his taste, went down to one of his
men and gave the following order: ‘Sandy, you’ll take that fish and
hang it up in the sun all day. Then after breakfast to-morrow you’ll
lay it on a stone and thump it hard all over with a heavy stick, then
hang it up in the sun again till the afternoon, and after that send it
up to Mr. ----.’ The Londoner in a few days appeared to express his
thanks for the fish which he pronounced to be exactly what he liked,
and what he was used to in the south.

[Sidenote: TROUT AND FISHING-RODS]

Trouting streams in this country and in Western America have distinct
peculiarities. Some years ago I was rambling up Glen Spean, and along
the heathery and rocky banks of the River Treig with an American
friend, who had spent much of his life in surveying the Western
Territories of the United States. ‘What a fine stream,’ he remarked,
‘not to have trout in it!’ I assured him there were plenty of trout in
all the streams of the district. ‘But how can that be?’ he enquired,
‘there are no poles growing along the banks.’ He explained that in the
Far West, Providence appeared to have so arranged that fish need not
be sought for in streams on the margins of which no wood grew, such as
would supply a fishing-rod.

[Sidenote: A BEAR’S DEN]

The mention of sport in the Highlands brings to recollection another
illustration of the curious vitality of some stories, and the singular
transformations which they may undergo as they are passed on from
mouth to mouth through successive generations. An old legend in the
north-west Highlands tells how two men set out to kill a wolf that was
destroying the sheep of the crofters of Kintail. One of them entered
the animal’s den, while the other stood on guard at the entrance. Soon
afterwards the wolf returned and made for its cave, when the man at the
entrance seized it by the tail as it got inside, and held it fast. His
companion within then called out

    One-eyed Gilchrist
    Who closed the hole?

The other answered

    If the rump-tail should break
    Thy skull shall know that.[31]

Probably this tale was carried to Canada by some of the Highland
emigrants and became naturalised and localised there, for it has come
back in the following guise: Two Scotsmen in a mountainous part of the
colony, climbed up a rocky slope to the mouth of a narrow cave, into
which one of them crawled to discover what might be inside. The other
contented himself by lighting his pipe and sitting down outside, but
had not been there above a minute or two when a huge she-bear came
rushing up the declivity and made straight for the cave. Seeing the
danger to his friend he had presence of mind enough to seize the tail
of the bear just as the animal had got within the entrance, and to
plant his feet firmly against the rock on each side. Presently a voice
from the inner recesses shouted out, ‘Donald, Donald, fat be darkenin’
the hole?’ To which Donald replied, ‘My faith, Angus, gin the tail
break ye’ll fin’ fat be darkenin’ the hole.’[32]




CHAPTER XI.

  Scottish shepherds and their dogs. A snow-storm among the Southern
    Uplands. Scottish inns of an old type. Reminiscences of some
    Highland inns. Revival of roadside inns by cyclists. Scottish
    drink. Drinking customs now obsolete.


The shepherds in the pastoral uplands of the south of Scotland are
a strong, active, and intelligent race. I have spent many a happy
day among them, living in their little shielings, on the friendliest
footing with them, their families, and their dogs. The household at
Talla Linnfoot, in Peeblesshire, was a typical sample of one of these
families. Wattie Dalgleish, the shepherd there when I first went into
the district, was becoming an elderly man, no longer able for the
stiff climbs and long walks that were needed to look after the whole
of his wide charge. His young and vigorous son was able to relieve him
of the more distant ground, which was shared with another man, not of
the family, who slept in one of the outhouses. Wattie’s active wife
and daughter looked well after the domestic concerns of the household.
His laugh had the clear, hearty ring of a frank, honest, and kindly
nature. He delighted to recount his experiences of field and fell, and
his Doric was pure and racy. One evening I had come up from Tweedsmuir
and described to him a man whom I had seen at work there, planing a
shutter which he had placed on tressels in the very middle of the
road. This worthy wore large round-eyed spectacles, a tattered apron
in front of him, and a red-tasselled blue bonnet on his head. The
shepherd recognised the man from my description, and at once asked,
‘And did he speir (enquire) the inside out o’ ye?’ He had certainly put
a good many questions. He turned out to be a kind of factotum down the
valley of the Tweed--‘barber, cook, upholsterer, what you please’--of
whom I afterwards heard much. As among his avocations was that of
paper-hanging, he was once employed by a proprietor in Broughton parish
to paper a bedroom. In the afternoon, when the master of the house came
to see how the work was getting on, he found that the paper had been
stuck on the walls just as it came, without the selvages being cut off.
‘Tammas, Tammas,’ exclaimed the laird, ‘what is the meaning of this?
Why have you not cut off these ugly borders?’ Tammas looked at the
laird for a moment through his great goggles, and then with a toss of
his head remarked, ‘That may be your taste, sir, but on Tweedside we
like it best _this_ way,’ and went on with his pasting.

[Sidenote: PAPER-HANGING ON TWEEDSIDE]

Wattie Dalgleish had a collie which, like himself, was getting
somewhat aged, and no longer fit for the severer work of the hill. The
dog would accompany him in his short rounds and return early in the
afternoon to the cottage. Some hours later I would come back from my
rambles, and as I descended the steep slope opposite, and came within
old ‘Tweed’s’ sight and hearing, he would signify his recognition of
me by a loud barking, which I could always distinguish from other
canine performances, for it showed neither surprise nor anger, but
had an element of kindly welcome in it. As I drew nearer, the barking
underwent a curious change into a sort of short intermittent howl of
delight, and as I came up to the enclosure, the dear old creature would
burst into a loud guffaw. He was the only dog I ever knew that had what
one might fairly call a true honest laugh. And how his tail would wag,
as if it would surely be twisted off, while he marched in front of me
to announce in his own way that the guest of the family had come back.

[Sidenote: SHEPHERDS’ DOGS]

There were so many dogs in the household that one could study the
idiosyncrasies of canine nature on a basis of some breadth. It struck
me then that perhaps there might be more truth than one had been
inclined to suppose in Butler’s facetious remark:

            As some philosophers
    Have well observ’d, beasts that converse
    With man, take after him.

Certainly there did appear to be in that shepherd’s shieling a curious
similarity of disposition between the dogs and their respective
masters. My old friend ‘Tweed’ was a kind of four-footed duplicate of
the honest Wattie, down even to the hearty laugh. On the other hand,
the stranger shepherd had a collie that closely reproduced his own
characteristics. The man was sullen and taciturn, did not mingle with
the family, but sat apart, and retired soon to his own quarters. The
dog usually lay below his master’s chair, refused to fraternise with
the other dogs, receiving them with a snarl or growl when they came
too near, and marching off with the shepherd when he retired for the
night. I tried hard to be on cordial terms with the man, and still
harder to ingratiate myself with the dog, but was equally unsuccessful
in both directions.

The Talla valley is narrow and deep, the hills rising steeply from
1000 to 1400 feet above the flat alluvial haugh at the bottom, which
is about 900 feet above the sea. It must be sadly changed now, when it
has become the site of one of the great Edinburgh water-reservoirs.
But in the days of which I am speaking it was a lonely sequestered
glen, silent save for the bleat of the sheep or the bark of the dogs.
In wet weather the wind drove up or down the defile, separating the
rain into long vertical shafts, which chased each other like pale
spectres. In the narrower tributary gorge of the Gameshope, these
ghost-like forms are even more marked, hence they are known in the
district as the ‘White Men of Gameshope.’ Above Talla Linnfoot, the
ground rises steeply up into the heights around Loch Skene and the
weird hollows of the White Coomb. With my early school-fellow and
colleague in the Geological Survey, the late Professor John Young, of
Glasgow University, I have wandered into every recess and over every
summit of that fascinating ground. On one occasion we extended our
ramble to the Yarrow valley, with the intention of spending the night
under the hospitable roof of Tibbie Shiels, who was then in still
vigorous old age. Next morning we found the ground buried under some
six inches of snow, which still continued to fall. As a return over
the trackless hills was then impossible, we were shut up for several
days, during which we shared in various domestic employments, among the
rest in learning to churn butter. Tibbie encouraged us in our labours
by various recollections of Wilson, Hogg, and other personages of the
_Noctes Ambrosianae_.

[Sidenote: TIBBIE SHIELS]

When the storm ceased and the sun shone out again, the whole landscape
was white up to the crests of the hills, save St. Mary’s Loch and the
Loch of the Lowes, between which the little hostelry stands. These
waters were still unfrozen, and wore a look of inky blackness by
contrast with the surrounding ground. One unlooked-for effect of the
wintry covering was to reveal the surface features of the hills with a
clearness never before realised. These uplands in their ordinary guise
are so rich in colour, and the distribution of the varying tints has
so little relation to the forms of the ground, that most of the minor
details of the topography are lost to the eye. But now that colour was
wholly eliminated, every little dimple and ridge stood out marked by
its delicate violet shadows in the pure white snow.

One of the notabilities of this district was the widow of another
shepherd who occupied the little cottage of Birkhill at the head
of Moffatdale. She had not only lost her husband, but her son had
been smothered in a snow-drift not many yards from her door. Yet she
remained cheerful and contented, with a kindly welcome and a warm
fireside for wayfarers who sought her hospitality. Many a time have I
slept in the little box-bed in her ‘ben,’ and partaken of her ‘scones’
and other good cheer. One of my colleagues in the Survey, who made her
house his station for weeks at a time, discovered that grouse take some
time to get accustomed to the dangers of a wire-fence. Such a line of
division between two sheep-farms had been run up the hillside near
Birkhill, and the grouse when flying low would strike against the wires
and be killed on the spot. Coming down in the evening he used sometimes
to bring with him several brace of dead birds, decapitated or otherwise
mangled, but none the less a welcome addition to his commissariat.

[Sidenote: THE SOUTHERN UPLANDS]

After my marriage I had occasion to revisit Birkhill, and brought my
wife with me. Jenny gave her a kindly greeting, and in parting offered
her this piece of friendly advice: ‘Noo, my leddy, ye’ll mind never
to anger him, and ye’ll see that he ay has a pair o’ dry stockins to
put on when he comes hame at nicht.’ Poor old soul! She had had some
experience of stormy scenes under her own roof, and life in these
uplands had taught her that wet boots are the common lot of humanity
and the beginning of many ailments.

No one who has sojourned for weeks and months among these pastoral
hills can fail to have come more or less under their spell. They show
none of the grandeur and ruggedness of the Highlands. The hills, on
the whole, have smooth, rounded outlines, save here and there, where
some crag of grey rock protrudes from the pervading mantle of green
bent and purple heath. Yet the topography is sufficiently varied not to
become monotonous, while the slopes in every season of the year glow
with colour, spread over them like a delicate sheet of enamel. There is
beauty enough in the landscape of itself to please, and even here and
there to fascinate. Its attractions, however, are infinitely increased
by the human associations which cling to every part of the surface,
with a halo of legend, romance, and poetry.

    Meek loveliness is round it spread,
      A softness still and holy;
    The grace of forest charms decayed
      And pastoral melancholy.

The houses of Tibbie Shiels and Jenny of Birkhill showed the simplest
and most rudimentary form of inns. They varied little from the ordinary
shepherds’ cottages, the most notable difference being that they sold
excisable liquors. They were at least clean, with homely comfort, and
simple but wholesome fare.

The want of cleanliness in the Scottish hostelries, even those of
the chief towns, in the previous century, is continually referred to
by English travellers in the country. Sydney Smith, while praising
Scotland and its natives, among whom he made his home near the close
of the eighteenth century, confessed that they ‘certainly do not
understand cleanliness.’

[Sidenote: SCOTCH DRINK]

The inns or change-houses in country districts remained still in a
state of grievous untidiness and squalor. To many a village and little
town Scott’s lines might have been applied:

    Baron o’ Bucklyvie,
    The muckle deevil drive ye,
    And a’ to pieces rive ye
    For biggin’ sic a town,
    Where there’s neither man’s meat, nor horse meat,
    Nor a chair to sit down.

Nevertheless, already before railways had spread their network across
the kingdom, when the country roads were more frequented than now
by stage-coaches, post-carriages, and pedestrians, many modest and
comfortable little inns had come into existence, and were to be met
with by the roadside. These have now unhappily in great measure
disappeared, or have sunk into mere public-houses, kept open only for
the sake of selling drink. My impression is that proportionately much
more whisky is now consumed by the artizan and labouring classes than
in those days when various kinds of light or heavy ale were in demand.
The ‘tippeny’ of Burns’ time, his ‘reaming swats that drank divinely,’
the ale that ‘richly brown, reams ower the brink in glorious faem,’
were still familiar forms of ‘Scotch drink.’ But nowadays the labourer
no longer ‘sighs for cheerful ale’; when he enters the public-house,
it is usually whisky that he calls for.

In my boyhood a custom still prevailed, which I think must now be
obsolete--that of placing a ‘spelding,’ or dried salt haddock, beside
the glass of ale ordered by a caller at a public-house or roadside inn.
Bitter beer had not yet come into vogue in Scotland. Instead of it, all
the liquors supplied were of native brewing, from the light ‘tippeny,’
which was a refreshing and innocent drink, up to the strongest
Edinburgh ale--a liquor which required to be quaffed with great
moderation. When a few drops of it ran down the glass they glued it
so firmly to the table that some force was needed to pull it off. The
salt fish was, of course, served that it might provoke thirst enough to
require more liquid.

[Sidenote: WHISKY AND GOLF]

Another recollection of these old days brings back the excise-officers
who used to be on the watch at the English frontier to examine the
luggage of passengers from the north. One of the surviving relics of
Scottish independence was to be found in the inland revenue duties,
which, as they differed on the two sides of the border until they were
equalised in 1855, led to a good deal of smuggling. Whisky was then
contraband, and liable to extra duty when taken into England. At
that time, this liquor was hardly known south of the Tweed, save to
the Scots who imported it from their native country. But now it has
made its way everywhere, and has almost completely supplanted the gin
that had previously filled its place. It is prescribed by the medical
faculty as, on the whole, a safer drink than much of the wine that
comes from abroad. The quantity of it made every year is enormously
larger than it was fifty years ago. Not only is it to be found
everywhere in this country, but on the continent, and indeed wherever
English-speaking people travel. If one were asked to name the two most
conspicuous gifts which Scotland has made in recent times to the United
Kingdom, one could hardly go wrong in answering Whisky and Golf.

There used to be, and probably still are, many quiet, unpretending, but
remarkably comfortable little inns in Galloway. The innkeepers were
also farmers, and probably in many cases their farms formed the chief
and most profitable part of their avocations. Fresh farm produce was
supplied to their guests with the amplest liberality--excellent beef
and mutton, fowls, eggs, butter, milk, and such cream as one seldom
met with in other parts of the country.

A notable reform of the last half century in the Highlands has been
seen in the improvement of the inns. I can remember the primitive
condition of some of them which have been enlarged into what are now
pompously called hotels. Many years ago I had occasion to spend a
night or two in one of these antique and uncomfortable houses in Skye.
One Sunday morning I was in bed and awake, when the bedroom door was
quietly opened, and by degrees a half-dressed female figure stealthily
entered. She looked at the bed to see if I were still asleep, and as
I kept my eyes half closed, she thought herself unobserved. Stepping
gently across to the dressing-table, she opened my razor-case, and
having possessed herself of one of the razors, as quietly retreated. I
lay conjecturing what use the landlady (for it was she) would make of
the implement. Visions of murder floated through my mind, but after a
time the door once more opened, and my hostess, as quietly as before,
stalked across the room and replaced the razor in the case. She seemed
too calm for a murderess, and there had been no noise in the house,
but the razor had evidently served some definite purpose. I got up,
dressed, and came down to breakfast. My host met me at the foot of
the staircase with a smile on his face, which on the previous evening
had been ‘rough and razorable,’ but had now lost its stubbly beard
of a week’s growth. I then saw one use at least to which my razor
had probably been put. Whether the old lady had any further private
manipulations of her own in which the implement played a part, I never
found out.

[Sidenote: INNS IN SKYE]

One of the defects of the old Skye inns was the absence of any weights
to the window-sashes, and commonly also the want of any means of
keeping the windows open. The glass was seldom cleaned, though the
outside surface was washed more or less clean by the battering of the
rain. The doors, too, could not always be fastened, and the visitor
who wished to secure privacy might have to barricade the entrance by
getting some chairs and his portmanteau piled up against the door. Even
these precautions, however, were sometimes of no effect. I was once in
an inn at Portree where one of the guests, on awaking in the morning,
found another head reposing on the pillow near him. His first impulse
was to kick out the intruder, who was sound asleep, but on second
thoughts he jumped out of bed and rapidly dressed. Before leaving the
room he recognised that the head in question was that of the waiter,
who had evidently pushed the door open during the night and got into
bed. After taking a walk for an hour the tourist returned to the inn,
which he found in great commotion. On enquiring of the landlord, he was
told that their waiter, a most respectable and trustworthy man, had
disappeared; he had left his clothes in his own room, and must have
gone out and drowned himself in the loch, for they had been searching
for him everywhere, and he could not be found either in the house or
anywhere else; if it were not the Sabbath they would have the loch
dragged for his body, but they would do that next morning. The visitor,
after expressing due sympathy with the distress of the household, asked
whether they had looked into his bedroom. ‘Your bedroom!’ exclaimed the
host somewhat angrily, as if he thought fun were being made of him, on
such a solemn occasion, ‘Your bedroom! No, of course we haven’t. What
should make us look there?’ ‘Well,’ said his guest, ‘you might at least
try.’ And there sure enough was the somnolent waiter, still asleep,
and happily unconscious of all the stir he had caused. It then turned
out that, unknown to the family at the inn, who had recently engaged
him, he was liable to occasional fits of sleep-walking. All’s well that
ends well; but the only consolation the injured visitor ever received
from the landlord was the remark, ‘What a blessing it was your room; it
might else have ruined my business.’

[Sidenote: OLD HIGHLAND INNS]

There is a small inn on one of the north-western sea-lochs, where
in the year 1860 I spent a night with my old chief, Sir Roderick
Murchison. It was in a shocking state of neglect and dirt, with little
more in the way of provisions than oat-cakes, potatoes, and whisky. It
boasted of only one bedroom, which had two beds that did not appear to
have been slept in for many a day. Twenty years later I came back to
the same inn, hoping that the general improvement would have reached
that place too, but I found that as nothing in the way of repair had
been done to it in the interval, it was more dilapidated and untidy
than ever. I had as a travelling companion a well-known man of science,
who, never having been up in that part of Scotland, was glad of the
opportunity of seeing it. We occupied the same double-bedded room as
I had formerly known. Awaking betimes in the morning, I lay for a
while contemplating the ceiling and the undulations and cracks in its
plaster. There was a large downward bulge, like a full-bellied sail,
right above my friend’s head. As I was looking at it, this piece of the
plaster suddenly gave way and fell in a mass upon him, with a shower
of dust all over the bed. Of course he started up in great alarm,
but fortunately he had received no serious injury. It was his first
experience of a Highland inn of the old type.

A distinct revival of the roadside inn can be traced to the wide spread
of bicycle-riding. Wheelmen appear to be ‘drouthy cronies,’ who are not
sorry to halt for a few minutes at an inviting change-house; but many
of them take up their quarters for a night at such places, and this
demand for sleeping-room has led to the resuscitation of little inns
that had almost gone to decay. It is to be hoped that this revival will
continue to spread, and that not only will the old inns come to life
again, but that new and better houses of entertainment will be erected
in parts of the country where the attractions are many, while the
accommodation is but scant.

[Sidenote: AN IRISH PUBLICAN IN SCOTLAND]

From inns one naturally turns to drink, which forms the theme of so
large a proportion of Scottish stories. It must be admitted that this
prominence is a sad indication of the extent to which for generations
past alcoholic liquors of all kinds have been consumed in the country.
I used to imagine that the ‘trade,’ that is, the calling of publican,
was in the hands of Scotsmen, who were themselves entirely to blame not
only for the drinking, but for the selling of whisky. On a visit to
Antrim, however, I learned that others besides natives of Scotland have
a share in the traffic. In driving out from Ballymena on an Irish car,
my talkative ‘jarvie’ noticed me looking at a new villa that was in
course of erection not far from the town.

‘That’ll be a foin place, sorr,’ said he. ‘That’s Mr. O’Donnel’s, sorr.’

‘Who is Mr. O’Donnel?’ I asked.

‘Oh, he was born in Ballymena, and left it when he was a boy. He went
abroad and made his fortune, and now he’s come back and he’s bought
the tinnant roight of the land and he’s puttin’ up that house and them
greenhouses, and plantin’ them trees and layin’ out the garden. Oh,
it’ll be a foin place, that it will, sorr.’

‘You say he went abroad; where did he go to?’

‘To Scotland, sorr.’

‘To Scotland! And how did he come to make his fortune there?’

‘Keepin’ public-houses, sorr.’

The question is often asked why so much whisky should be consumed in
Scotland. One explanation assigns as the reason the moist, chilly
climate of the country, and this cause may perhaps be allowed to have
some considerable share in producing the national habit. No small
proportion of the spirit, especially in the Highlands, is drunk by men
who are certainly not at all drunkards, and who can toss off their
glass without being any the worse of it, if, indeed, they are not,
as they themselves maintain, a good deal the better. But it must be
confessed that, especially among the working classes in the Lowlands,
tipsiness is a state of pleasure to be looked forward to with avidity,
to be gained as rapidly and maintained as long as possible. To many
wretched beings it offers a transient escape from the miseries of life,
and brings the only moments of comparative happiness which they ever
enjoy. They live a double life--one part in the gloom and hardship of
the workaday world, and the other in the dreamland into which whisky
introduces them. The blacksmith expressed this view of life who, when
remonstrated with by his clergyman for drunkenness, asked if his
reverend monitor had himself ever been overcome with drink, and, on
receiving a negative reply, remarked: ‘Ah, sir, if ye was ance richt
drunk, ye wadna want ever to be sober again.’

[Sidenote: SCOTTISH DRUNKENNESS]

The desire of getting quickly intoxicated is perhaps best illustrated
among the miners in the great coal-fields. Thus an Ayrshire collier was
heard discoursing to his comrades about a novel way he had found out of
getting more rapidly drunk: ‘Jist ye putt in thretty draps o’ lowdamer
(laudanum) into your glass and ye’re fine an’ fou’ in ten minutes.’ In
the same county a publican advertised the potent quality of the liquor
he sold by placing in his window a paper with this announcement: ‘Drunk
for three bawbees, and mortal for threepence.’

The quality of the whisky is often bad, since much of what is sold
is raw-grain spirit, sometimes adulterated with water and then
strengthened with some cheap liquid that will give it pungency. There
was some truth in the reply of the Highlander to the minister who was
warning him against excess, and assuring him that whisky was a very
bad thing: ‘’Deed an’ it is, sir, specially baad whusky.’ The mere
addition of water would do no harm, rather the reverse; but it would
be detected at once by the experienced toper. ‘This is no’ a godly
place at all, at all,’ said a discontented labourer in the Perthshire
Highlands. ‘They dinna preach the gospel here--and they wahtter the
whusky.’

Strangers are often astonished at the extent of the draughts of
undiluted whisky which Highlanders can swallow, without any apparent
ill effects. Burt tells us that in his time, that is in the third
decade of the eighteenth century, Highland gentlemen could take ‘even
three or four quarts at a sitting, and that in general the people that
can pay the purchase, drink it without moderation.’ In the year 1860,
in a walk from Kinlochewe through the mountains to Ullapool, I took
with me as a guide an old shepherd who had lived there all his life.
The distance, as I wished to go, amounted to thirty miles, mostly of
rough, trackless ground, and among the refreshments for the journey a
bottle of whisky was included. Not being used to the liquor, I hardly
tasted it all day, but when we reached the ferry opposite Ullapool,
Simon pitched the empty bottle into the loch. He had practically drunk
the whole of its contents, and was as cool and collected as when we
started in the morning.

[Sidenote: ASSUMED RELUCTANCE TO DRINK]

All over the Highlands ‘a glass’ serves as ready-money payment for any
small service rendered, such as when a driver has brought a guest to a
farm or country-house from some distance, when a workman has completed
his repairs and has some miles to walk back to his home, or when a
messenger has come from a neighbour and waits to take back your answer.
A piper who has marched round behind the chairs of a dinner party at
a great Highland laird’s, blowing his pipes till it seems as if the
windows should be broken, ends his performance by halting at the side
of the lady of the house, to whom is brought and from whom he receives
a full glass of the native beverage.

It is a characteristic feature of the Scot that, although usually ready
for a glass of whisky, he feigns an unwillingness that it should be
poured out for him, or at least deprecates that the glass should be
filled up to the top. As an illustration of this national habit, the
story may be quoted of two Highlanders who were discussing the merits
of a gentleman well known to them both. ‘Weel, Sandy, ye may say what
ye like, but I think he canna be a nice man, whatefer.’ ‘But what ails
ye at him, Donald?’ ‘Weel, then, I’ll just tell ye. I wass in his hoose
last week, and he wad be pourin’ me out a glass o’ whusky; and of
course I cried out “Stop, stop!” and wad ye believe it?--he stoppit!’

To prevent any such unwelcome arrest of the liquor, and at the same
time to ‘save the face’ of the would-be participant, he has been known
to arrange beforehand with the host or hostess that, while he is to
protest as usual against the glass being poured out for him, his
scruples are to be peremptorily overcome--‘ye maun gar me tak’ it!’

Should any untoward incident deprive a man of a glass plainly intended
for him, his annoyance may find loud vent. Among curling circles there
is a current anecdote of a well-known adept at the ‘roaring play,’ who
used to be distinguished by a remarkable fur cap which covered not only
his head, but his ears. Appearing one day without this conspicuous
headgear, he was at once questioned by his friends as to the cause
of its disappearance. ‘Ay,’ said he sadly, ‘ye’ll never see that
cap again; it’s been the cause o’ a dreadfu’ accident.’ ‘Accident!’
exclaimed they; ‘where? how? have you been hurt?’ ‘Weel, I’ll no’ just
say I’ve been hurtit. But, ye see, the laird o’ Dumbreck, they tell me,
was ahint me, and he was offerin’ me a glass of whisky----and I never
heard him!’

[Sidenote: EFFECTS OF WHISKY]

Many stories have been told of the efforts of mistresses of households
to avoid the bestowal of strong drink on those employed by them. One of
these ladies had supplied a workman with a liberal dinner, but without
any whisky or alcoholic liquor. Coming back she found that he had
proved a much less efficient trencherman than she supposed he would be,
and she rallied him on his bad appetite. His reply was: ‘Weel, mem, I
canna eat mair, but it wad dae your heart guid to see me drink.’

A whole volume might be filled with the published anecdotes recording
in more or less ludicrous form the effects of whisky. I will only give
one or two, which I have never seen in print. A man who was wending his
way homeward very unsteadily from a lengthened carouse was heard to
address the whisky inside of him, ‘I could ha’ carryit ye easier in a
jar.’ The quantity of liquor he had consumed may be imagined from the
size of the vessel he required to contain it.

Sir Charles Lyell used to tell with great glee a story from his own
county of Forfar, belonging to the days of deep potations, when it
was the belief that ‘drinking largely sobers us again.’ A party had
met at a country-house, and continued their debauch so long that the
laird, Powrie by name, had fallen below the table, while most of the
other guests had gone to sleep. Two or three of them, however, who had
managed to evade the deepest potations, resolved to play off a trick on
the laird. One accordingly climbed up to the roof of the old mansion
and, at the risk of his neck, reached the chimney of the dining-room,
down which he roared in his loudest voice, ‘Powrie, Powrie, it’s the
Day o’ Judgment’; whereupon the laird was heard, by those outside the
door, to raise himself on his elbow and hiccup out, ‘Eh, Lord forgie
me, and me fou’.’

A drunken fellow was found lying at the side of the road by a
policeman, who asked him for his name. The answer was, ‘“My name is
Norval, on the Grampian Hills,”----but _Hicks_ is on the door.’

[Sidenote: AN OLD SCOTTISH TOAST]

With the heavy drinking of those days various connected customs have
nearly or wholly disappeared. One still meets with old-fashioned
gentlemen, especially at public dinners, who ‘take wine with you.’
But the rounds of toasts and sentiments, that must have been such an
insufferable burden to our grandfathers and grandmothers, have happily
vanished. One of the oddest survivals of these toasts was one I heard
proposed by the old landlady of a little inn not far from the scene of
the Battle of Drumclog. Belonging to the type of landlord

    Who takes his chirping pint and cracks his jokes,

she welcomed her chance guests into her roomy and clean kitchen, with
its bright coal-fire flanked on either side by an empty arm-chair.
Having to spend a night in her house, I was invited to one of these
chairs, while she took that on the opposite side of the hearth, and
her family attended to the household work. Honoured thus far, I knew
my duty would be to call for something ‘for the good of the house,’
and soon found that my worthy hostess was not unwilling to partake of
my ‘brew.’ Accordingly I made her a glass of toddy of the strength
and sweetness she preferred, which she accepted, with the following
preface: ‘Here’s to a’ your fouk an’ a’ oor fouk, an’ a’ the fouk
that’s been kind to your fouk an’ oor fouk; an’ if a’ fouk had aye been
as kind to fouk as your fouk’s been to oor fouk, there wad aye hae been
guid fouk i’ the warld, sin’ fouk’s been fouk.’

The change of dinner customs, however, has led to whimsical incidents
of another kind from those of the old days of hard drinking. A story
is told in Forfarshire of an inexperienced lad who was improvised to
do duty at a dinner party, and was instructed by the lady of the house
as to what he was to do with the different wines, particularly as to
the claret, of which one kind was to be served with the dinner, and the
other, of better quality, with the dessert. When the dessert came, she
was dismayed to hear him begin at the far end of the table and ask each
guest in a loud voice: ‘Port, sherry, or inferior clāret.’




CHAPTER XII.

  Scottish humour in relation to death and the grave.
    Resurrectionists. Tombstone inscriptions. ‘Naturals’ in Scotland.
    Confused thoughts of second childhood. Belief in witchcraft.
    Miners and their superstitions. Colliers and Salters in Scotland
    were slaves until the end of the eighteenth century. Metal-mining
    in Scotland.


A notable feature in Scottish humour is the frequency with which
it deals with death and the grave. The allusions are sometimes
unintentionally ludicrous, not infrequently grim and ghastly. The
subject seems to have a kind of fascination which has affected people
in every walk of life, more especially the lower ranks. But like
most of the national characteristics, this too appears to be on the
wane, and one has to go back for a generation or two to find the most
pregnant illustrations of it. Dr. Sloan of Ayr, about forty years
ago, told me that a friend of his had gone not long before to see the
parish minister of Craigie, near Kilmarnock, and finding him for the
moment engaged, had turned into the churchyard, where he sauntered past
the sexton, who was at work in digging a grave. As the clergyman was
detained some time, the visitor walked to and fro along the path, and
at length noticed that the sexton’s eyes were pretty constantly fixed
on him, to the detriment of the excavation on which the man should have
been engaged. At last he stopped, and addressing the gravedigger asked,
‘What the deil are you staring at me for? You needna tak’ the measure
o’ me, if that’s what ye’re ettlin’ at, for we bury at Riccarton.’

Mr. Thomas Stevenson, father of the novelist, told me that when the
gravedigger of Monkton was dying his minister came to see him, and
after speaking comfortable words to him for a while, asked if there was
anything on his mind that he would like to speak out. The man looked
up wistfully and answered, ‘Weel, minister, I’ve put 285 corps in that
kirkyard, and I wuss it had been the Lord’s wull to let me mak up the
300.’[33]

[Sidenote: THE RESURRECTIONISTS]

When Chang, the Chinese giant, was exhibited in Glasgow, an elderly
country couple went to see him. After gazing long at him, they retired
without making any observation. At last, as they were going downstairs,
the wife first broke silence with the remark: ‘Eh, Duncan, whatna
coffin he wull tak.’

All over Scotland, and more especially in the lowlands, memorials
remain of the time when graves were opened and coffins were rifled
of their dead, to supply the needs of the dissecting rooms of the
medical schools. In the middle of the eighteenth century, Shenstone,
in protesting against this sacrilege, contended that the bodies of
convicted malefactors should suffice for the needs of the medical
profession--

    If Paean’s sons these horrid rites require,
      If Health’s fair science be by these refined,
    Let guilty convicts, for their use, expire;
      And let their breathless corse avail mankind.

But though the bodies of executed murderers had for two centuries been
handed over to surgeons for dissection, the supply of evil-doers must
have been still too scanty, even at a time when theft and robbery were
capitally punished. The growing success of the medical schools in
Scotland increased the demand for human bodies to such a degree as to
offer strong temptation to the enterprise of bold and reckless men. So
frequent did violations of the tomb become as to lead to extraordinary
precautions to prevent them. The graves were protected with heavy iron
gratings securely riveted above them, many of which may still be seen
in the churchyards of Fife and the Lothians. Watch-houses were likewise
erected in the burial-grounds to serve as shelters for the men who in
turn every night took their stations there, with guns loaded, on the
outlook for any midnight marauders. In a commanding position in the
graveyard around the parish church of Crail, one of these houses may
still be seen, bearing the suggestive record--

                     ERECTED for securing the DEAD
                         Ann. Dom. MDCCCXXVI.

The trade of the ‘resurrection-men’ was finally destroyed by an Act
of Parliament passed in the year 1832, in consequence of the murders
committed by Burke and Hare in Edinburgh, and Bishop and Williams in
London. This measure, by permitting the unclaimed bodies of paupers,
dying in poor-houses, to be taken for dissection to the medical
schools, provided a supply of subjects which, if not abundant, at least
prevented any further violations of the grave.

[Sidenote: TOMBSTONE INSCRIPTIONS]

Of the monumental inscriptions in Scottish graveyards various
collections have been published, and to these many more might be
added. They have seldom any literary excellence, and their chief
interest arises from their oddities of spelling and grammar, and their
conceptions of a future state. As an illustrative example of them, I
may cite one from the kirkyard of Sweetheart Abbey, in the Stewartry of
Kirkcudbright.

    Here lyes The body of Alex
    ander Houston son of Matthe^w
    Houston and Jean Milligan in
    Parish of New Abbay born
    August y^e 12^{th} 1731 died July y^e 15^{th} 1763
    Non est mortale quid opto
    Farew^{e}ll my obedient Son of Neighbours well belov’d
    and an Exempler Christian near thirty two remov’d
    Farewell a while my parents bot^h Brothers and Sisters all
    I’ll at the Resurrection day obey the Trumpets call.

The insertion of a few words of bad Latin (probably unintelligible to
the grieving family), the farewell to the departed, his farewell in
response, and the sacrifice of grammar to the exigencies of verse,
are characteristic features on the gravestones earlier than the
beginning of the last century. Some of these peculiarities are further
illustrated by a more ambitious piece of versification which I copied
from a tombstone in the churchyard of Berwick-on-Tweed. Though not
strictly within the bounds of Scotland, the stone lies at least on the
north side of the Tweed, and in its defiance of grammatical niceties is
not unworthy of the pen of a northern elegist.

    1.  The peaceful mansions of the dead
        Are scattered far and near
        But by the stones o’er this yard spread
        Seem numerously here

    2.  A relative far from his home
        Mindful of men so just
        Reveres this spot inscribes this tomb
        And in his God doth trust

    3.  That he shall pass a righteous life
        Leve long for sake of seven
        Return in safety to his wife
        And meet them both in heaven

    4.  God bless the souls departed hence
        This church without a steeple
        The king the clergy and the good sense
        Of all the Berwick people

[Sidenote: RAPID DECAY OF TOMBSTONES]

In connexion with tombstones, I may refer to the frequently rapid decay
of the materials of which they are made, in such a climate as that of
Scotland. Nearly five-and-twenty years ago I investigated this subject
among the old graveyards of Edinburgh and other parts of the country,
and found that while some varieties of hard siliceous sandstone retain
their inscriptions quite sharp at the end of two centuries, as in the
case of Alexander Henderson’s tombstone in Greyfriars Churchyard,
no marble monument, freely exposed to the elements in a town, will
survive in a legible condition for a single century. As an example of
this disintegration I cited the handsome monument erected, in that
same churchyard, to the memory of the illustrious Joseph Black, who
died in 1799. It consisted of a large slab of white marble, let into
a massive framework of sandstone. Less than eighty years had sufficed
to render the inscription partly illegible, and the stone, bulging out
in the centre and rent by numerous cracks, was evidently doomed to
early destruction. Three years ago I returned to see the condition of
the tomb, and then found that the marble had disappeared entirely, its
place being now taken by a sandstone slab, on which the authorities
had with pious care copied the original inscription. Here the marble,
though partially protected by the overhanging masonry of the monument
and by a high wall that screened it in some measure from the western
rains, had fallen into irreparable ruin in less than a hundred years.

A curious attitude of mind towards one who has died, but is still
unburied, is shown by the use of the word ‘corp,’ which is popularly
supposed to be the singular of ‘corpse.’ This usage may be illustrated
by an incident told me by the late Henry Drummond as having occurred
in his own experience. While attending the funeral of a man with whom
he had had no acquaintance, he enquired of one of the company what
employment the deceased had followed. The person questioned did not
know, but at once asked his next neighbour, ‘I’m sayin’, Tam, what was
the corp to trade?’

An old couple were exceedingly annoyed that they had not been invited
to the funeral of one of their friends. At last the good wife consoled
her husband thus: ‘Aweel, never you mind, Tammas, maybe we’ll be haein’
a corp o’ our ain before lang, and we’ll no ask them.’

A gentleman came to a railway station where he found a mourning party.
Wishing to be sympathetic, he enquired of one of the company whether
it was a funeral, and received the reply: ‘We canna exactly ca’ it a
funeral, for the corp has missed the railway connection.’

[Sidenote: FUNERALS]

At a funeral in Glasgow, a stranger who had taken his seat in one
of the mourning coaches excited the curiosity of the other three
occupants, one of whom at last addressed him, ‘Ye’ll be a brither o’
the corp?’ ‘No, I’m no a brither o’ the corp,’ was the prompt reply.
‘Weel, then, ye’ll be his cousin?’ ‘No, I’m no that.’ ‘No! then ye’ll
be at least a frien’ o’ the corp?’ ‘No that either. To tell the truth,
I’ve no been that weel mysel’, and as my doctor has ordered me some
carriage exercise, I thocht this wad be the cheapest way to tak’ it.’

It has often been remarked how great an attraction funerals have for
some half-witted people. There used to be one of these poor creatures
in an Ayrshire village, who, when any one was seriously ill, would from
time to time knock at the door and enquire, ‘Is she ony waur (worse)?’
his hopes rising at any relapse, and the consequent prospect of another
interment.

A great change for the better has come over the usages connected
with burials in Scotland. In old days, as already mentioned, the
‘lyke-wakes’ were often scenes of shocking licence and debauchery.
By degrees these painful exhibitions have become less and less
objectionable until now, except that there is still sometimes too
liberal a dispensing of whisky, there is little that can be found
fault with. In country places, where the mourners have often to come
from long distances to attend a funeral, refreshments of some kind are
perhaps necessary, but it is unfortunate that the average Scot would
think such refreshments decidedly ‘wairsh’ (tasteless) if they did not
include an adequate provision of the national drink. Accordingly, it is
still too common to think first of seeing that whisky enough has been
obtained, even where the claims of pedestrians from a distance have
not to be considered. Thus one of the family of an old dying woman was
asked, ‘Is your Auntie still livin’?’ ‘Ay,’ was the answer, ‘she’s no
just deid yet; but we’ve gotten in the whusky for the funeral.’

[Sidenote: VILLAGE NATURALS]

I remember the first funeral I saw fifty years ago in the Highlands. It
was in the old graveyard of Kilchrist, Skye, where a large company of
crofters had gathered from all parts of the parish of Strath. There
was a confused undertone of conversation audible at a little distance
as I passed along the public road; and as soon as I came in sight two
or three of the mourners at once made for me, carrying bottle, glasses,
and a plate of bits of cake. Though I was an entire stranger to them
and to the deceased, I knew enough of Highland customs and feelings to
be assured that on no account could I be excused from at least tasting
the refreshments. The halt of a few minutes showed me that much whisky
was being consumed around the ruined kirk.

In former days most parishes in the country possessed one or more
‘naturals,’ whose lives were embittered by the persecution of the
children, though they might be kindly enough treated by the elders,
whom they amused by the oddities of their ways and the quaintness
of their expressions. Since the establishment of the Lunacy Board,
however, they have been mostly drafted into asylums, much to the
increase of the decency of the communities, though a little of the
picturesqueness of village life has thereby been lost. One of these
‘fules’ was seen marching along quickly with a gun over his shoulder.
Its owner knew it not to be loaded, but he called out, ‘Archie, where
are you going wi’ the gun? You are no’ wantin’ to shoot yoursell?’
‘No,’ said he, ‘I’m no’ jist gaun to shoot mysell, but I’m gaun to gie
mysell a deevil o’ a fleg (fright).’

[Sidenote: AN ARRAN NATURAL]

Many years ago a half-witted but pawky attendant, perhaps as much knave
as fool, was a well-known figure at the old inn of Brodick, in Arran.
He was employed in miscellaneous errands and simple bits of work about
the inn or the farm, such as suited his capacity, and he was noted for
having a specially pronounced love of brandy. One day he was seen by
two visitors at the hotel, pushing a boat down the beach and getting
the oars ready. They accosted him and asked where he was bound for. He
answered that he was going across the bay to Corriegills for a bag or
two of potatoes. Their request to be allowed to accompany him was all
the more willingly complied with, inasmuch as they at once proposed
that they should pull the oars if he would steer. Sandy had not much
English, but he employed it to the best of his ability in the hope that
it might be the means of gaining him some of his favourite liquor.
Having crossed the bay, the boat was pulled towards the large granite
boulder that forms so notable a landmark on that part of the shore. He
directed the attention of his crew to it, and said:

‘D’ye see that muckle stane? Weel, maybe ye’ll no’ be believin’ me, but
it’s the truth I’m tellin’ ye. If onybody wad be climmin’ to the tap o’
that stane and wad be roarin’ as loud as he likes, there’s naebody can
hear him.’

‘Nonsense; we don’t believe a word of it.’

‘But I wad wager ye onythin’ ye like it’s true. I wad be wagerin’ ye a
bottle o’ brandy, if ye like.’

‘Very well, we’ll try. You jump ashore and get on the stone and roar.’

Sandy with great alacrity sprang out of the boat, and was speedily on
the great grey boulder. He opened his mouth and swung his body, as if
he were roaring with the strength of ten bulls of Bashan, until he
grew purple in the face with his apparent efforts to make a noise. But
though he stooped and gesticulated, he took care that never a sound
should escape from him.

‘Wass you hearin’ me?’ he asked with a triumphant face when he had come
down to the boat again.

‘You rascal, you never gave a sound.’

‘Ochan, ochan, wass you not seein’ that I was screamin’ till I couldna
scream ony more, whatefer?’

‘Very extraordinary, to be sure. Well, we’ll try ourselves.’

So saying they jumped upon the beach, and, with rather less agility
than Sandy had shown, clambered up the stone, while he stood beside the
boat. When they were both on the top, they proceeded to shout with such
vehemence that they might have been heard on the other side of the bay.
Sandy, however, as if intent on hearing the faintest sound, put his
hand behind each ear in turn, and bent his head now to one side, now to
the other. When the two strangers had had enough of this performance,
they came down, and indignantly demanded:

‘Well, Sandy, do you mean to tell us that you did not hear?’

‘Hear ye!’ said he. ‘Wass you roarin’ at all. I was never hearin’ wan
bit.’

He had a remarkable power of expressing astonishment by his mere looks,
and put on a face of child-like innocence when he protested that no
sound at all had been heard by him. Feeling that they had been ‘sold’
by this apparent ‘natural,’ they left him to fetch his potatoes and
pull the boat back himself. But he had his brandy that evening.

[Sidenote: AYRSHIRE WITCHES]

Removed into asylums, the village idiots lose the opportunity of giving
expression to the memorable sayings which free contact with their
kinsfolk and the irritation caused by their young persecutors used
to produce. But even there their oddity of phrase comes occasionally
forward. My old companion, John Young, already referred to, used
to tell how, when he was one of the assistant physicians in the
Morningside Asylum at Edinburgh, he was one morning reading prayers.
The weather being raw and chilly, he had a cough, which interrupted him
at the end of the petition, ‘Give us this day our daily bread.’ During
the pause, one of the patients, sitting in front of him, added in an
audible voice, ‘and _butter_.’

The second childhood of old age among people who have been sane all
their lives sometimes gives rise to confusion of thought and language
such as no half-witted creature can rival. I knew an old Scottish lady
who used to make curious lapses of this kind. Her nephew met me one day
and said, ‘I must give you auntie’s last. She was in bed, and, calling
her maid, said to her: “Jenny, if I’m spared to be taken away soon, I
hope my nephew Thomas will get the doctor to open my head, and see if
anything canna be done for my hearin’.”’

The belief in witchcraft, though it still maintains its hold in
the remote districts of the Highlands and Islands, may be regarded
as practically extinct in the non-Celtic parts of the country. Yet
it flares out now and then in the lowlands, as if it were still
smouldering underneath the surface, ready to be awakened once more when
the occasion arises to revive it. Forty years ago, in the valley of
the Girvan Water, there were some old colliers whose grandmothers had
been reputed witches, and who, though they professed to disbelieve the
report, had evidently a deep-grounded respect for it. One of these men
described to me some of his own experiences in the matter. When still a
lad, he was walking one Sunday evening along the road near Kilgrammie
with a companion and a fox-terrier. The dog had jumped over a low wall
into a field, and they were attracted by its loud barking. Looking over
the wall they saw that it was chasing a hare, which, instead of making
its escape, seemed to be enjoying the game, and was racing to and fro
across the field. The two lads soon leapt over the wall to join in the
sport. At last the hare, tired apparently of the exercise, made for a
low part of the far wall and scrambled over it. When they got up to
the place they were just in time to see the animal lie down on the
doorstep of his grandmother’s cottage, pass both its paws across its
nose, and disappear into the house. It then flashed upon him that as
his grandmother was believed to be able to take the shape of a hare, he
might really have been chasing her all the while. He added that he went
home as fast as he could.

[Sidenote: A WITCH’S FUNERAL]

Another old woman in the neighbouring village of Dailly, who had been
long bed-ridden, was at last near her end. On the afternoon of the
day she died, the boys of the place were busy with their games in the
street, when a hare appeared from the country and tried to pass them.
They at once gave chase, and the animal retreated along the road by
which it had come. Again, a little later, it returned, and once more
attempted to get into the village, but was again chased away. A third
time, however, when their game had carried the boys further along the
street, puss was successful, and before her enemies could reach her,
gained the outside stair that led up to the old woman’s garret, and
disappeared inside the doorway. The invalid died that evening, and the
hare was believed to be either herself or one of her accomplices who
had come to be with her at the last.

Let me try to repeat in the vernacular of the district the tale told
by the grandson of one of these helpless and harmless old women. ‘My
grannie was weel kent to be no’ canny. She had ways of doin’ things and
kennin things that naebody could mak oot. At last she deeit, and she
behoved to be buryit i’ the Barr, that’s a village on the ither side
o’ the hills, laigh doon by the Stinchar. When the funeral day cam’,
we carryit the coffin up the steep road, and when we were gettin’ near
the tap, and hadna muckle breath left, for the coffin was nae licht
wecht, a fine-lookin’ gentleman, ridin’ a fine black horse, made up to
us. Nane o’ us kennt him or had seen him afore. But he rade alangside
o’ us, and cracked awa’ maist croosely, and cheered us sae that we
gaed scrievin’ doon the brae on the ither side. Weel, you may jalouse
we were a wee bit forfeuchen when we cam’ to the kirkyard, and some o’
us thocht we wadna be the waur o’ bit drappie afore we gaed on wi’ the
buryin’. Sae we steppit into the public-hoose. Weel, ye mauna think
we bydeit lang there, but losh me! when we cam’ oot the coffin wi’ my
grannie in’t was awa’, and sae was the man an’ the black horse. And to
this day I canna tell what cam’ ower them.’

[Sidenote: COLLIER SUPERSTITIONS]

Miners are generally a superstitious race. Their subterranean
occupation, with its darkness and its dangers, fosters the inborn
human instinct to credit the supernatural. Hence old beliefs that have
died out in the general community may still be found lingering among
them. A miner who meets a woman, when he starts for his work in the
morning, will turn back again, as the day has become unlucky for him.
Any unexpected event in the mine is sure to awaken all his old-world
‘freits.’ If any of his comrades should, by the falling of part of
the roof of the mine, be crushed to death, he dreads to continue his
ordinary work so long as a corpse remains in the pit, and will spare
himself no labour until he has tunnelled through the fallen roof. A
memorable instance of this devotion has been already alluded to as
having taken place in the little coal-field of Dailly, where one of
the miners was shut off from all communication with mankind by the
crushing down of the roof between him and his fellow-workmen. They
toiled day and night to cut a passage through the material, with the
view of reaching and removing his body, and they found him actually
alive, after being shut up for twenty-three days without food. He died,
however, three days after his rescue.[34] Such an incident could not
fail to awaken to life all the dormant superstitions and fears of the
collier mind. For a long time after, strange sounds and sights were
imagined in the mine.

A more ludicrous recollection of that time was narrated to me by a
survivor of the tragedy. One of his comrades had returned unexpectedly
from work in the forenoon, and, to the surprise of his wife, appeared
in front of their cottage. She was in the habit, unknown to him, of
solacing herself in the early part of the day with a bottle of porter.
On the occasion in question the bottle stood toasting pleasantly before
the fire when the form of the ‘gudeman’ came in sight. In a moment she
drove in the cork and thrust the bottle underneath the blankets of
the box-bed, when he entered, and, seating himself by the fire, began
to light his pipe. In a little while the warmed porter managed to
expel the cork, and to escape in a series of very ominous gurgles from
underneath the clothes. The poor fellow ran outside at once, crying
‘Anither warning, Meg! Rin, rin, the house is fa’ing.’ But Meg ‘kenn’d
what was what fu’ brawly,’ and made for the bed, in time to save only
the last dregs of her intended potation.

[Sidenote: COLLIERS AS SLAVES]

It is strange to reflect that many people now alive have known natives
of Scotland who were born slaves. The colliers and salters had, from
time immemorial, been attached for life to the works in which they
were engaged. They could not legally remove from them, and if they
escaped, could be lawfully pursued, arrested, and brought back to their
proprietors. Their children, too, if once employed in any part of their
work, became from that very fact bondsmen for life. In my own boyhood I
have seen old men and women who were born in such servitude, and worked
in the mines of Midlothian. The women were employed in the pits to
carry up heavy baskets of coals on their backs from underground to the
surface--a laborious and degrading occupation from which they dared not
try to escape.

It is related by Robert Chambers that Bald, the mining engineer,
about the year 1820, came upon an old miner near Glasgow who had been
actually bartered by his master for a pony. When the famous decision
was made by the Court of King’s Bench in June, 1772, that slavery could
not exist in Great Britain, the Court hardly realised that at that
very moment there were hundreds of slaves in Scotland who were bought
and sold as part of the works on which they and their forbears were
employed.

By an act of Parliament of the United Kingdom passed in 1775 (15 George
III. cap. 28) the villainage of colliers and salters was meant to be
finally abolished. The act, which took effect from 1st July of that
year, decreed that all colliers under 21 years of age were to be free
in seven years from that date. Those between 21 and 35 were to be
released after a further service of ten years from the date of the act,
and those between 35 and 45 after a service of seven years, provided
that these two classes, if required, should find and sufficiently
instruct ‘in the art and mystery of coal-hewing or making of salt,’
an apprentice of at least 18 years, and on the perfection of such
instruction, should then be free from further bondage. All persons
above 45 years of age were to be discharged in three years.

[Sidenote: COLLIER WOMEN UNDERGROUND]

Nothing could apparently have been more precise than these
stipulations. Unfortunately, however, they were saddled with a
provision that before any collier or salter could claim the benefit
of the act and gain his freedom, he was compelled to obtain ‘a decree
of the Sheriff Court of the county in which he resides, finding and
declaring that he is entitled unto his freedom under the authority of
this act.’ It may readily be understood that only a small proportion of
the workmen had the means of defraying the cost of such an action at
law. As narrated in the subsequent act of 1799, there was ‘a general
practice among the coal-owners and lessees of coal, of advancing
considerable sums to their colliers, or for their behoof, much beyond
what the colliers are able to repay; which sums are advanced for the
purpose of tempting them to enter into or continue their engagements,
notwithstanding the sums so advanced are kept up as debts against
the colliers.’ Hence, in spite of the legislation, the provision for
emancipation remained a dead letter in regard to the great majority of
the colliers, who continued to be slaves until their death. It was not
until the act of 13th June, 1799 (39 Geo. III. cap. 56) was passed that
the shackles were finally broken, and the colliers of Scotland were
‘declared to be free from their servitude.’

But though no longer legally bound to these collieries, women continued
to be employed in the same laborious and degrading occupation within
the coal mines. Quarter of a century after the act of emancipation
was passed, Hugh Miller, when working as a stone-mason at Niddry,
in Midlothian, found the women-toilers still at their task, and he
has left the following account of them: ‘The collier women of the
village, poor over-toiled creatures, who carried up all the coal from
underground on their backs by a long turnpike stair inserted in one
of the shafts, continued to bear more of the marks of serfdom than
even the men. How these poor women did labour, and how thoroughly,
even at this time, were they characterised by the slave nature! It has
been estimated that one of their ordinary day’s work was equal to the
carrying of a hundredweight from the level of the sea to the top of
Ben Lomond. They were marked by a peculiar type of mouth. It was wide,
open, thick-lipped, projecting equally above and below.... I have seen
these collier-women crying like children, when toiling under their
load along the upper rounds of the wooden stair, and then returning,
scarce a minute after, with the empty creel, singing with glee.’ Some
of these women were still at work when, as a child, I first visited
the district. It was not indeed until 10th August, 1842, that the
act (5 and 6 Vic. cap. 99) was passed which declared it to be ‘unfit
that women and girls should be employed in any mine or colliery,’ and
absolutely prohibited any mine-owner from employing or permitting to
be employed underground any female person whatsoever.

[Sidenote: COLLIER HUMOUR]

Their mole-like operations underground do not wholly eradicate a
sense of humour in the colliers. When engaged in a study of the
Borrowstouness coal-field, I had occasion to see some of the miners
at Kinneil House. One of them remarked to me that they had lately
found ‘Mother Eve’ in one of their pits. I was thereupon shown a large
concretionary mass of sandstone, having a rude resemblance to a human
head and bust. Seeing that this counterfeit presentment of our first
parent did not greatly interest me, a younger member of the band, with
a sly twinkle in his eye, whispered that besides Eve, they had found
the Serpent, and that he was sure I should wish to see that. I was then
taken to the back of the house where the ‘serpent’ lay extended for a
length of some ten or twelve feet. The specimen proved to be one of
the long tree-roots known as _Stigmaria_, and common among the fossil
vegetation of the Coal-measures. Not content with having found the
tempter of the Garden of Eden, the miners had resolved to beautify and
preserve his remains, and had accordingly procured some black lead
with which they had burnished him up like a well-polished grate. Of
greater interest to me at the time was the remembrance that this same
Kinneil House had been the retreat of the illustrious Dugald Stewart
during the later years of his life, whence he gave to the world those
essays and dissertations which mark so notable an epoch in the history
of Scottish philosophy.

Metal-mining, save that of iron, has on the whole, been unsuccessful
in Scotland. The experience of Lord Breadalbane in this direction has
been that of most proprietors who have sought to discover ‘what earth’s
low entrails hold.’ The mines of Leadhills and Wanlockhead are the only
examples that have long been worked, and can still be carried on. The
history of the metal-mining industry in Scotland is well illustrated
by the story told by Chambers of one of the old lairds of Alva, on the
flanks of the Ochil Hills. Walking one day with a friend, he pointed to
a hole on the hillside, and said he had taken fifty thousand pounds out
of it. A little further on he came to another excavation, and added, ‘I
put it all into _that_ hole again.’




CHAPTER XIII.

  Town-life in old times. Dirtiness of the streets. Clubs. Hutton
    and Black in Edinburgh. A feast of snails. Royal Society Club.
    Bailies ‘gang lowse.’ Rothesay fifty years ago. James Smith
    of Jordanhill. Fisher-folk of the Forth. Decay of the Scots
    language. Receipt for pronouncing English.


Town-life a hundred years ago presented many contrasts to what it is
now in Scotland. Means of locomotion being comparatively scanty and
also expensive, communication with England was too serious a matter
to be undertaken by any but those who had plenty of money or urgent
business. And the number of Englishmen who found their way north of
the Tweed was correspondingly small. The Scottish towns, too, though
connected by lines of road and stage coaches, were far more cut off
from each other than they have now become, since they have been
linked together by railways. They still to some extent continued to
be centres, to which the landed gentry betook themselves for part
of the winter. Hence they retained some old-world ways and local
peculiarities, which modern intercourse has more or less completely
effaced. They were much smaller in size and more compact, for the vast
acres of suburban villadom, now surrounding our cities and larger
towns, had hardly begun to come into existence. They were likewise so
much less populous, that each of them rather resembled an overgrown
family, where everybody of special note was known more or less
familiarly to the whole community.

[Sidenote: DIRTINESS OF THE STREETS]

There can be little doubt that Scottish towns were once almost
incredibly dirty. Drainage, in the modern sense of the word, was
unknown. Edinburgh, especially at night, must have been one of the most
evil-smelling towns in Europe, when with shouts of ‘Gardyloo’ the foul
water and garbage of each house were pitched out of the windows. The
streets were thus never decently clean, save immediately after a heavy
rain had swept the refuse into the central gutter, which then became
the channel of a rapid torrent. Laws had indeed been framed against
throwing foul water from the windows, and Boswell tells us that in his
time the magistrates had taken to enforce them, but that owing to the
want of covered drains the odour still continued. When he walked up the
Canongate with Johnson, who had just arrived, he could have wished his
companion ‘to be without one of his five senses on this occasion;’ for
he could not keep the lexicographer from grumbling, ‘I smell you in
the dark.’ In Byron’s youth the same state of things continued, and he
could still say tauntingly to Jeffrey,

    For thee Edina culls her evening sweets,
    And showers their odours on thy candid sheets.

The state of the Edinburgh streets in a snowy winter must have been
deplorable. Sydney Smith, writing from the town in 1799, after a thaw,
remarked that ‘except the morning after the Flood was over, I should
doubt if Edinburgh had ever been dirtier.’ By the time that proper
sanitary arrangements came into practice, the well-to-do citizens had
forsaken their abodes in the high tenements of the Old Town, and the
houses came to be tenanted by a poorer class. Although the nocturnal
cascades were prohibited, the refuse was carried down and deposited
in the streets. I can remember when these thoroughfares were still
disgustingly odoriferous and unsightly, until the dustman had been
round with his cart and a perfunctory brush, which seemed never to find
its way into the narrow closes.

The domestic habits of the townsmen were in many respects less
luxurious and more homely than they are now-a-days, and people saw more
of each other in a friendly unostentatious way. Instead of the modern
stiff, ceremonious dinner party, receding further and further into
the late hours of the evening, there was the simple and often frugal
supper, the praises of which have been so enthusiastically recorded by
Cockburn. It was customary to ask friends, especially strangers, to
breakfast, a usage which still survived in my youth, especially among
the University Professors. As already mentioned, long after I had left
college, I used to enjoy the breakfasts given by Pillans, and the
company he gathered round his table for that meal.

[Sidenote: CONVIVIAL CLUBS]

The people of an older generation gave themselves to social
intercourse much more freely and simply than we do now. One feature of
town-life, formerly conspicuous in Scotland, is now almost gone--the
multiplication of convivial clubs. During the seventeenth and the early
part of the eighteenth century, every town in the country had its
clubs, to which the male inhabitants would adjourn once a week, or even
every evening. In the larger towns these gatherings included the most
intellectual and well-born members of the community, who met for the
discussion of literary, philosophical or scientific topics, as well
as for free social companionship. But no doubt in these towns and in
the smaller centres of population throughout the country, there were
many associations which had no such laudable aims, but fully deserved
Butler’s description of them:

    The jolly members of a toping club,
    Like pipe-staves, are but hooped into a tub;
    And in a close confederacy link
    For nothing else but only to hold drink.

The clubs, whatever might be their object, did not then number in
each case hundreds of members, most of them unknown to one another,
and frequenting a luxuriously furnished mansion, such as the word
club suggests now, but consisted of mere handfuls of men, all knowing
each other, and meeting in a tavern. These associations often boasted
of jocular names, which referred to their origin or customs. Thus,
in Edinburgh, the _Antemanum Club_ was so named from its members
declaring their hands of cards before beginning play, or as has been
suggested, because they ‘paid their lawing’ before they began to
consume the liquor. The _Pious Club_ was so named because it met every
night in a pie-house. The _Spendthrift Club_ received its title from
its members disbursing as much as fourpence-halfpenny each night. Then
there were the _Oyster Club_, the _Dirty Club_, the _Mirror Club_, the
_Friday Club_ (so called because they met on Sunday), and many others.
Robert Chambers, in his _Traditions of Edinburgh_, has preserved some
interesting reminiscences of these institutions.

[Sidenote: AN EDINBURGH CLUB]

Lord Cockburn has left a graphic picture of a scene in his boyhood when
he saw the Duke of Buccleuch, with a dozen more of the aristocracy of
Midlothian, assembled in the low-roofed room of a wretched ale-house in
the country, and spending the evening in roaring, laughing, and rapidly
pushing round the claret. As an illustration of the way in which even
the most intellectual members of society would forsake their own homes
for convivial intercourse in a tavern, the following anecdote may be
given. Among the citizens of Edinburgh none were more illustrious than
Joseph Black, the discoverer of carbonic acid, and James Hutton, the
author of the _Theory of the Earth_. These two men, who were intimate
friends, and took a keen interest in their social meetings, were once
deputed by a number of their literary acquaintances to look out for a
suitable meeting-place in which they might all assemble once a week.
The two philosophers accordingly ‘sallied out for this purpose, and
seeing on the South Bridge a sign with the words, “Stewart, Vintner
down stairs,” they immediately went into the house and demanded a sight
of their best room, which was accordingly shown to them, and which
pleased them much. Without further enquiry the meetings were fixed by
them to be held in this house, and the club assembled there during the
greater part of the winter, till one evening Dr. Hutton, being rather
late, was surprised, when going in, to see a whole bevy of well-dressed
but somewhat brazen-faced young ladies brush past him, and take refuge
in an adjoining apartment. He then for the first time began to think
that all was not right, and communicated his suspicions to the rest
of the company. Next morning the notable discovery was made, that our
amiable philosophers had introduced their friends to one of the most
disreputable houses in the city.’

[Sidenote: A DISH OF SNAILS]

The record of another incident in the close intercourse of Black and
Hutton has been preserved, and may be inserted here. ‘These attached
friends agreed in their opposition to the usual vulgar prejudices, and
frequently discoursed together upon the absurdity of many generally
received opinions, especially in regard to diet. On one occasion
they had a disquisition upon the inconveniency of abstaining from
feeding on the testaceous creatures of the land, while those of the
sea were considered as delicacies. Snails, for instance--why not use
them as articles of food? They were well known to be nutritious and
wholesome--even sanative in some cases. The epicures, in olden time,
esteemed as a most delicate treat the snails fed in the marble quarries
of Lucca. The Italians still hold them in esteem. The two philosophers,
perfectly satisfied that their countrymen were acting most absurdly in
not making snails an ordinary article of food, resolved themselves to
set an example; and accordingly, having procured a number, caused them
to be stewed for dinner. No guests were invited to the banquet. The
snails were in due season served up; but, alas! great is the difference
between theory and practice. So far from exciting the appetite, the
smoking dish acted in a diametrically opposite manner, and neither
party felt much inclination to partake of its contents. Nevertheless,
if they looked on the snails with disgust, they retained their awe for
each other; so that each, conceiving the symptoms of internal revolt
to be peculiar to himself, began with infinite exertion to swallow, in
very small quantities, the mess which he internally loathed. Dr. Black
at length broke the ice, but in a delicate manner, as if to sound the
opinion of his messmate:--“Doctor,” he said in his precise and quiet
manner, “Doctor, do you not think that they taste a little--a very
little--queer?” “D---- queer! d---- queer, indeed!--tak’ them awa’,
tak’ them awa!” vociferated Dr. Hutton, starting up from the table, and
giving full vent to his feelings of abhorrence.’[35]

The most noted survivor of these old social gatherings in Edinburgh
is the ‘Royal Society Club,’ to which allusion has already been made.
This association was founded to promote good fellowship among the
fellows of the Royal Society and to ensure a nucleus for the evening
meetings. The club has from the beginning been limited in numbers, but
has always included the most distinguished and ‘clubbable’ of the
fellows. It meets in some hotel on the evenings on which the Society’s
meetings are held, and after a pleasant dinner, with talk and songs,
its members adjourn in time to take their places in the Society’s hall.
When Neaves, Maclagan, Blackie, Christison, and Macnee were present, it
will be understood how joyous such gatherings were. Many a good song
was written for these occasions, and many an excellent story was told.
A favourite ditty by Maclagan, sung by him with great effect, ended
with the following verse, which illustrates the delightful mixture of
science and fun with which the professor was wont to regale us:

    Lyon Playfair last winter took up a whole hour
    To prove so much mutton is just so much power;
    He might have done all that he did twice as well
    By an hour of good feeding in Slaney’s Hotel;
    And instead of the tables he hung on the wall,
    Have referred to the table in this festive hall;
    And as for his facts--have more clearly got at ’em
    From us than from Sappers and Miners at Chatham;

            Whilst like jolly good souls
            We emptied our bowls,
          And so washed down our grub
            In a style worth the name,
            Wealth, honour, and fame
          Of the Royal Society Club.

Dr. Terrot, Bishop of Edinburgh, and Professor Pillans were members
of this club. The bishop used to be a pretty constant attendant both
at the dinners and at the Society’s meetings afterwards. Pillans, on
the other hand, while he came to the dinner, shirked the meeting,
the subjects discussed being usually scientific and not especially
intelligible or interesting to him. He would say to those who rallied
him for his absence, ‘I enjoy the play [meaning the dinner] very much;
but I can’t stand the _farce_ [F.R.S.] that comes after it.’

[Sidenote: DISAPPEARANCE OF CONVIVIAL CLUBS]

The change to modern domestic habits, more especially the increasing
lateness of the dinner hour, has gradually extinguished most of the
social clubs that used to make so prominent a feature in the society
of the larger towns of Scotland. An effort was made in Edinburgh some
thirty years ago to start a new club at which the literary, artistic,
and scientific workers in the city might informally meet and enjoy each
other’s company and conversation over a glass of whisky and water,
with a pipe, cigar or cigarette. Its meetings were fixed for Saturday
evening, so as to avoid, as far as might be, dinner engagements, which
were less frequently fixed for that than for the other evenings of the
week. It began with considerable success, and continued for a number of
years to be a chief centre of cultivated intercourse. But it too has
now gone the way of its predecessors.

The proverbial patriotism of a Scot shows itself not merely in his
love of his country. His attachment binds him still more closely to
his shire, to his town, or even to his parish. This intense devotion
to the natal district could not be more forcibly illustrated than by
the remark of an Aberdonian who, in a company of his fellow townsmen
met together in Edinburgh, appealed to them by asking, ‘Tak’ awa’
Aberdeen and twal mile round about, an’ faure are ye?’ There are times
and places, however, where even the most perfervid Scot, Aberdonian or
other, is compelled to be candid. Another native of the granite city,
in his first visit to London, was taken into St. Paul’s Cathedral. He
gazed around for a few moments in silent astonishment, and at last
exclaimed to the friend who accompanied him, ‘My certy, but this makes
a perfect feel (fool) o’ the Kirk o’ Foot Dee.’

[Sidenote: PROVOSTS AND BAILIES]

Local patriotism was fostered by the multiplication of clubs, even
in small towns. But in these places also the advance of the modern
spirit seems to have destroyed the old club-life. There remain,
however, the trade corporations, or guilds, and the magistracy, which
in the old burghs still form centres round which much of the life and
human interests of these communities cluster. To be a bailie, still
more to attain to the dignity of provost, has long been an object of
ambition, even in the most insignificant place, and much scheming and
string-pulling continue to be carried on in order to obtain the coveted
position:

    For never title yet so mean could prove
    But there was eke a mind which did that title love.

The old proverb expresses a truth which has been time-out-of-mind
exemplified in every burgh in the country: ‘Ance a bailie, aye a
bailie; ance a provost, aye My Lord.’ Many anecdotes have been related
of the consequential airs assumed by local magnates, who have been
as fair game for the caustic remarks of outsiders as even ministers
themselves. An English traveller on board of a Clyde steamer, sailing
down the firth, got into talk with a native on deck, who good-naturedly
pointed out the various places of interest along the coast. When
they were passing Largs, the stranger asked some questions about the
town. ‘It seems a nice large place. Have they magistrates there?’
‘Ow ay; they have a provost and bailies at the Lairgs.’ ‘And do these
magistrates when they meet wear chains of office, as they do with us in
England?’ ‘Chains! no, no, bless your sowl, they aye gang lowse.’[36]

[Sidenote: A ROTHESAY WORTHY]

During the last forty years the steamboat traffic down the Clyde has
so enormously increased, locomotion is so much easier, cheaper, and
more rapid, that the temptation to escape from Glasgow to the pleasant
shores of the Firth has grown strong in all classes of society.
Villages on the coast have accordingly grown into towns, until an
almost continuous row of villas and cottages has grown up on both
sides of the estuary. Hence, as the older towns have been invaded and
increased by a population from the outside, they have lost most of
their former peculiarities. Rothesay furnishes a good illustration
of this growth and transformation. I can remember it as a place with
an individuality of its own, when everybody might be said to know
everybody else. But it has now become almost a kind of marine suburb
of Glasgow. When I first came to it, one of its conspicuous inhabitants
was known familiarly as ‘the Bishop,’ not from any ecclesiastical
office which he filled, but on account of his somewhat pompous and
consequential manner. He was in many respects a worthy man, glad to
take his share in any useful work, and to be on friendly terms with
everybody. One of his peculiarities consisted in the misuse of words,
and as he had no hesitation about speaking in public, his mistakes
often gave great amusement. His daughter had been shipwrecked, and
in referring to her experiences he declared her to be a ‘perfect
heron, for she was the last man to leave the ship.’ The Free Church
congregation at Ascog had been for some time without a pastor. When
at last one was chosen, a soiree was held to celebrate the event, and
the ‘Bishop’ was invited to it. In the speech which he made on the
occasion he congratulated the meeting, and expressed the hope that ‘now
that they had got a new _incumbrance_, they would have a long time of
prosperity and peace.’

When the parliamentary representation of Bute was contested by Mr.
Boyle, afterwards Earl of Glasgow, and Mr. Lamont of Knockdhu, the
‘Bishop’ acted as one of Mr. Lamont’s committee in Rothesay. The
ballot had not then come into use, and as the result of the polling
in Rothesay, Mr. Lamont at the end of the day obtained a majority of
votes. On the other hand, Mr. Boyle had an excess of supporters in
Cumbrae. All depended on the result of the voting in Arran, and the
arrival of the steamer from that island was anxiously awaited. Mr.
Lamont’s committee were sitting in their room when at last the news
arrived. The majority in Arran for Mr. Boyle proved to be so large as
to turn the scale, and decide the election in his favour. The silence
of disappointment hung for a few moments over the committee. The first
man to break it was the ‘Bishop,’ who consoled his colleagues with
these words, ‘Well, well, what can we say? what can we say? but that
God always overdoes everything.’ He probably meant ‘overrules.’

[Sidenote: FISHER HAMLETS]

One of the most familiar objects on the Clyde and in Rothesay Bay fifty
years ago was the little sailing yacht of James Smith, of Jordanhill.
During the summer he lived on the water, and took a share in all
that was going on around him there. As far back as 1839 he was the
first to detect, in the clays along the shores of the Kyles of Bute,
remains of Arctic shells which no longer live in our seas, but still
flourish in the north of Norway, and in the Arctic ocean. When I made
his acquaintance, he had long ceased to carry on original scientific
researches, or at least to publish anything new, but he retained his
interest in the subjects which had early engaged his attention. In his
little cabin he had a shelf of geological and other scientific books as
his travelling companions, and kept himself in touch with the progress
of enquiry in his own department. But it was in yachting all round
the Firth of Clyde and its islands that he found the chief employment
and solace of his old age. I shall treasure as long as I live the
recollection of him in his yacht, attired as a genuine old seaman, his
face ruddy with sun and sea-air, and beaming with the heartiest good
nature.

On the east side of the kingdom it has long been noted how tenaciously
the fisher folk cling to their old habits and customs. Red-tiled,
corby-stepped houses, thrusting their gables into the street, climbing
one above another up the steep slope that rises from the beach, and
crowned by the picturesque old church or town hall with its quaint
spire, give a picturesqueness to the shores of the Forth such as no
other part of the coast-line can boast. Then the little harbours with
their fleets of strong fishing boats, rich brown sails, ‘hard coils of
cordage, swarthy fishing nets,’ and piles of barrels and baskets, bear
witness to the staple industry of the inhabitants. The men are square,
strongly built, and bronzed with exposure to sea-air. The women may
be seen sitting in groups at their doors, mending nets or baiting the
lines for next night’s fishing. Such places as St. Monans, Pittenweem,
Anstruther, Crail, and St. Andrews, afford endless subjects for the
artist, whether he selects the buildings or their inhabitants. These
places lie outside the main lines of traffic through the country;
they have only in recent years been connected together by a line of
railway, and have thus been brought into direct touch with the outer
world. Thanks to this seclusion, they have preserved their antique
character, and their natives are among the most old-fashioned Scots in
the lowlands. An anecdote told by Dr. Hanna serves to illustrate the
state of backwardness in some of these coast villages. A clergyman,
in the course of a marriage ceremony at Buckhaven, repeated several
times to the bridegroom the question whether he would promise to be a
faithful, loving, and indulgent husband, but got no response from the
man, who remained all the while stiff and erect. At last a neighbour,
who had learnt a little more of the ways of the world, was so provoked
by the clownishness of his friend that he came forward, and giving him
a vigorous thump on the back, indignantly exclaimed, ‘Ye brute, can ye
no boo to the minister?’ Dr. Chalmers’ comment on this scene was--‘the
heavings of incipient civilisation!’[37]

[Sidenote: FORTH FISHER-FOLK]

On the south side of the Forth the fishwives of Newhaven, Fisherrow,
and Musselburgh have long been famous for their conservatism in the
matter of the picturesque costume which they wear. Dunbar, once a busy
port, and the centre of an important herring fishery, used to boast
a number of queer oddities among its sea-faring population. One of
these men would now and then indulge in a prolonged carouse at the
public-house. After perhaps a day or two thus spent, he would return
to his home, and, standing at the door, would take off one of his
large fisherman’s boots, which he would pitch into the house, with the
exclamation, ‘Peace or war, Meg?’ If the goodwife still ‘nursed her
wrath to keep it warm,’ she would summarily eject the boot into the
street. Whereupon the husband, knowing that this was Meg’s signal of
war, returned to his cronies. If, on the contrary, the boot was allowed
to remain, he might hope for forgiveness, and crept quietly into the
house.

Another of these Dunbar worthies had arranged with old Mr. Jeffray,
the parish minister, to have his infant baptised at the manse. On the
evening fixed he duly made his appearance, but not until after he had
fortified himself for the occasion by sundry applications to the whisky
bottle. When he stood with the child in his arms, he seemed so unsteady
that the minister solemnly addressed him, ‘John, you are not fit to
hold up that child.’ The stalwart sailor, thinking his personal prowess
called in question, indignantly answered, ‘Haud up the bairn, I could
fling’t ower the kirk,’ the church being the loftiest building and most
prominent landmark in the burgh.

[Sidenote: GOLFING HUMOUR]

A fisherman from another hamlet in the same district had found a set of
bladders at sea which he claimed as his property. The owner of them,
however, sued him for restitution of the property, which bore, in large
letters, P.S.M., the initials of his name and seaport, as proof of his
assertion. The East Lothian man, nothing daunted, exclaimed loudly to
the presiding bailie, ‘Naething o’ the kind, sir, P.S. stands for
Willie Miller, and M. for the Cove.’

These lowland regions of the Lothians and Fife, with their strips of
sand-hills and links along the shore, have for centuries been the
headquarters of Golf--a game which has now naturalised itself over the
whole civilised globe. Golfing anecdotes are innumerable and form a
group by themselves, of which only one or two samples may be culled
here.

A landed proprietor and his son were playing at North Berwick when the
young man drove a ball close to his father’s head. The observant caddie
remarked quietly to him, ‘Ye maunna kill Pa!’ and then after a pause
added, ‘Maybe ye’ll be the eldest son?’

Strong language appears to be a natural accompaniment of the game. A
laird in trying to get his ball out of a ‘bunker’ swore so dreadfully
that his caddie threw down the bundle of clubs on the ground
exclaiming, ‘Damn it, sir, I wunna carry clubs for a man that swears
like you.’

An English caddie on a links in Kent, who was listening to a discussion
among the players as to the proper way of spelling the word ‘golf,’
broke into the conversation with the remark, ‘Surely there’s no h’_l_
in it’ (aspirating the letter in Cockney fashion). ‘Is there not?’
exclaimed a young Scotswoman, ‘You should just hear my father on the
St. Andrews links.’

A marked and regrettable change has passed and is passing over lowland
Scotland--the decay of the old national language--the Doric of Burns
and Scott. The local accents, indeed, still remain fairly well-marked.
The Aberdonian is probably as distinguishable as ever from a Paisley
‘body,’ and the citizen of Edinburgh from his neighbour of Glasgow.
But the old national words have almost all dropped out of the current
vocabulary of the towns. Even in the country districts, though a good
many remain, they are fast becoming obsolete and unintelligible to the
younger generation. It is sad to find how small a proportion of the
sons and daughters of middle aged parents in Scotland can read Burns
without constant reference to the glossary. A similar inevitable change
was in progress for many centuries on the south side of the Tweed,
though it has become extremely slow now:

    Our sons their fathers’ failing language see,
    And such as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be.

I can remember men and women in good society, who if they did not
ordinarily speak pure Scots, at least habitually introduced Scots
words and phrases, laying emphasis on them as telling expressions, for
which they knew no English equivalents. I have watched the gradual
vanishing of these national elements from ordinary conversation, until
now one hardly ever hears them. Lord Cockburn used to lament the decay
of the old speech in his day; it has made huge strides since then.

[Sidenote: HOW TO SPEAK ENGLISH]

Not only have the old words and phrases disappeared, but there has
arisen an affectation of what is supposed to be English pronunciation,
which is sometimes irresistibly ludicrous. The broad, open vowels, the
rolling _r_’s and the strongly aspirated gutturals, so characteristic
of the old tongue, are softened down to a milk and water lingo, which
is only a vulgarised and debased English. There was unconscious satire
in the answer given by a housemaid to her mistress who was puzzled to
conjecture how far the girl could be intelligible in London whence she
had returned to Scotland.

‘You speak such broad Scotch, Kate, that I wonder how they could
understand you in London.’

‘O but, mam, I aye spak’ English there.’

‘Did you? And how did you manage that?’

‘O, mam, there’s naethin’ easier. Ye maun spit oot a’ the _r_’s and
gi’e the words a bit chow in the middle.’




CHAPTER XIV.

  The Scottish School of Geology. Neptunist and Vulcanist
    Controversy. J. D. Forbes. Charles Maclaren. Hugh Miller. Robert
    Chambers. W. Haidinger. H. von Dechen. Ami Boué. The life of
    a field-geologist. Experiences of a geologist in the West
    Highlands. A crofter home in Skye. The Spar Cave and Coruisk.
    Night in Loch Scavaig.


As it has been in pursuit of geological investigation that I have been
enabled to see so much of Scotland, I hope the reader will not think it
inappropriate that a few of the pages of this volume of reminiscences
should be devoted to some recollections of Scottish geologists, more
especially of those with whom I have been personally acquainted,
and to some illustrations of my own experiences of the life of a
field-geologist in Scotland. Let me preface this chapter with a brief
reference to the rise of the Scottish School of Geology.

[Sidenote: THE SCOTTISH SCHOOL OF GEOLOGY]

The intellectual society for which Edinburgh was distinguished in the
later decades of the eighteenth and the early years of the nineteenth
century, besides its brilliant company of literary men, included
also some of the founders of modern science. To three of these men
reference has already been made--Joseph Black, one of the pioneers
of modern chemistry; James Hutton, the father of modern physical
geology; and John Playfair, who first revealed to the general public
the far-reaching scope of Hutton’s philosophy. With these illustrious
men there was likewise associated Sir James Hall of Dunglass, who
introduced experimental research as a potent method of testing
geological speculation. A striking characteristic of this group of men
was shown in their indifference to the opinion of the world outside,
and to the making of converts to their views. It was not until some
years after Hutton’s death in 1797 that his teaching was recognised as
the initiation of a new school of thought, which bade fair to rival or
even to supersede that of Werner at Freiberg, who was then attracting
pupils from all parts of the world. This Scottish school, inasmuch as
it laid great stress on the importance taken by the internal heat of
the earth in geological history, came to be known as the Vulcanist.

While these men were at work in Scotland, by a curious irony of fate
one of Werner’s most distinguished pupils returned to Edinburgh,
and in 1804 was appointed to the Chair of Natural History in the
University there. Robert Jameson, like the other disciples of the Saxon
teacher, was fired with zeal to spread the doctrines of his master,
and as these doctrines were diametrically opposed to those of Hutton,
there began a lively controversy which for a number of years had its
chief battlefield in the Scottish metropolis. Werner claimed that
by far the most important part in the history of the earth had been
taken by water. His system was accordingly known as the Neptunist.
It is difficult now to realise the fierceness of this warfare. The
rocks round Edinburgh were appealed to with equal confidence by both
sides, and many a lively discussion arose upon them. After a good
many years, however, Jameson came to see that his master’s theory
offered but a partial explanation of the phenomena of nature, and
that essentially the Vulcanists were right. He publicly recanted his
early opinions, and the defection of their leading protagonist led
to the extinction of the Scottish Neptunists. With the dying out of
the fires of controversy, a kind of languor seems to have settled
down upon the progress of geological science in Scotland. There was
no longer an active resident school of geologists, and though many
Scotsmen had acquired renown as geologists, it was mainly by work in
other countries, rather than in their own. In an address which he
gave to the Royal Society of Edinburgh in 1862, James David Forbes
expressed himself as follows: ‘It is a fact which admits of no doubt,
that the Scottish Geological School, which once made Edinburgh famous,
especially when the Vulcanist and Neptunian war raged simultaneously
in the hall of this Society and in the class-rooms of the University,
may almost be said to have been transported bodily to Burlington House
[London]. Roderick Murchison, Charles Lyell, Leonard Horner, are
Scottish names, and the bearers of them are Scottish in everything
save residence.... Our younger men are drafted off as soon as their
acquirements become known.... Of all the changes which have befallen
Scottish science during the last half-century, that which I most deeply
deplore, and at the same time wonder at, is the progressive decay of
our once illustrious Geological School. Centralisation may account for
it in part, but not entirely.’[38]

Notwithstanding this somewhat gloomy retrospect, there were still
a few able men in Scotland, who continued to hold aloft the torch
of geological progress. The illustrious Principal Forbes himself
was widely known to the geological world for his researches on the
glaciers of the Alps and of Norway, and on Earth-temperature. As one
saw him in the street or in the class-room, he looked singularly
fragile, and it was not easy to realise how such a seemingly frail
body could have undergone the physical exertion required for his
notable Alpine ascents. His tall spare figure might be seen striding
from the University to the rooms of the Royal Society, of which for
many years he was the active Secretary. His clear brown eyes wore a
wistful expression, and his pale face and sunken cheeks showed how his
well-chiselled features had been preyed on by serious illness. Round
his long neck he always wore one of the large neckcloths then in vogue,
and above this, when out of doors, he carried a thick muffler, from
under which, as one passed him, one might hear now and then the cough
that told of the malady from which he was suffering. In his own house,
especially when showing some of the beautifully artistic water-colour
drawings which he had made in the course of his wanderings, the thin,
white, almost transparent, hands told the same tale of suffering.
And yet, in spite of all these visible signs of increasing bodily
feebleness, his mind remained to the last clear and bright, his memory,
even for minute details, perfect, his interest in men and things, more
particularly in scientific progress, as keen as ever, and his kindly
helpfulness to those whom he could assist as prompt and effective as
of old. He was one of the most beautiful and interesting personalities
whom I have ever known.

[Sidenote: SCOTTISH GEOLOGISTS]

Two of the ablest resident Scottish geologists were editors of leading
Edinburgh newspapers--Charles Maclaren and Hugh Miller--and to both of
them science was the recreation of such leisure hours as they could
snatch from literary labour and political controversy. Maclaren was
the founder, and for a quarter of a century, editor of the _Scotsman_,
from which, as far back as 1845, he had retired to spend his later
years in a delightful retreat on the southern outskirts of Edinburgh.
His editorial task had been relieved by many a pleasant geological
excursion among the rocks around that city, and he had worked out the
volcanic history of the district with a minuteness, accuracy, and
breadth of view which no one had attempted before him. After passing
the results of his researches through the columns of his newspaper, he
collected them into a small volume entitled _Geology of Fife and the
Lothians_, which, though little known to the general reader, has long
ago taken its place among the classics of Scottish geology.

Maclaren had acquired a command of clear, forcible English, and was a
great admirer of good style in literature. I remember a conversation
with him, in which he enlarged on the tendency of the age to pile
up intensitives in description, both in ordinary conversation and
in writing. The words ‘awful’ and ‘awfully’ were then beginning to
come into vogue in the familiar slang. He strongly objected to such
tasteless misuse of terms, holding with Pope that expletives give but
a feeble aid in composition. ‘Take my advice,’ he said, ‘after the
experience of a long life, and be careful to strike out the word “very”
in almost every place where you find it in your manuscript. You will
discover that this excision will really strengthen your style, in the
same proportion that the frequent repetition of the word would weaken
it.’

[Sidenote: HUGH MILLER]

Hugh Miller, as editor of the _Witness_ newspaper, the accredited organ
of the Free Church, was one of the living forces of Scotland during the
last sixteen years of his life. He threw himself with great ardour into
all the controversies, political and ecclesiastical, of the time, and
his articles were read with eager interest from one end of the country
to the other. His establishment in the editorial chair, however, and
the consciousness of the influence which his pen enabled him to wield
over the minds of his fellow-countrymen, never led him to put into the
background the fact that he had been a journeyman mason. His appearance
on the streets was certainly most uneditorial. Above the middle
height, strongly built, with broad shoulders, a shock of sandy hair,
large bushy whiskers, and dressed in rough tweeds, with a shepherd’s
plaid across his shoulder, he might have been taken for one of the
hill-farmers who, on market days, come to Edinburgh from the uplands
of the Lothians. He had the true ‘Highlandman’s ling’--the elastic,
springy and swift step of the mountaineer, accustomed to traverse
shaking bog and rough moor. As he swung down the North Bridge, wielding
a stout walking stick, looking straight before him, his eyes apparently
fixed on vacancy and his lips compressed, one could hardly help turning
to look after him and to wonder what manner of man he could be. His,
however, was a familiar figure on the line of streets and roads that
led from the _Witness_ office to his home in Portobello. His fellow
citizens were proud of him as one of their literary lions, who had
also made for himself in science a name which was known all over the
English-speaking world.

[Sidenote: HUGH MILLER]

To Hugh Miller I owe much, and am glad of every opportunity of
acknowledging my indebtedness. His _Old Red Sandstone_ kindled in
me, as it has done in so many others, an enthusiasm for the science
to which he devoted his leisure hours, and an admiration for the
well of English undefiled to be found in every page of his writing.
He personally encouraged me in my earliest efforts at original
observation. He introduced me to Murchison, and thus opened the way for
my entry into the Geological Survey.

At the end of each summer we met at his house to talk over the results
of our geological wanderings. The last note I had from him, written
on 9th October, 1856, only a few weeks before his sudden and tragic
end, asked me to ‘drop in upon him on the evening of Saturday first,
and have a quiet cup of tea.’ He added, ‘my explorations this season
have been chiefly in the Pleistocene and the Old Red. I have now got
boreal shells in the very middle of Scotland, about equally removed
from the eastern and western seas. But the details of our respective
explorations we shall discuss at our meeting.’ That discussion duly
took place, and full of interest it was to me. He displayed on the
table the shells he had gathered, and he looked forward with keen
pleasure to the task of describing them, and showing the important
bearing they had on the geological history of the country. It proved
to be his last excursion, as that evening was also the last of our
intercourse, for before the end of the year I followed him to his
resting place, near to his great hero Chalmers, in the Grange Cemetery.

Another literary man in Edinburgh who had also made some interesting
contributions to geology was Robert Chambers. He especially concerned
himself with the later phases of geological history, more particularly
the proofs that Britain had been overspread with ice, and that
important changes of level had taken place along the coasts of Scotland
and northern Norway. He was also generally believed to be the author of
the famous _Vestiges of Creation_--a belief which was fully confirmed
after his death. When he heard that I purposed to become a member of
the Geological Survey he gave me, I remember, an account of a recent
excursion which he had made with a party of the Survey in North Wales.
‘Being the oldest member of the company,’ he said, ‘I was voted into
the chair, and had to carve. A leg of Welsh mutton was placed before
me, from which I was kept supplying the demands of the geologists,
until there was nothing left on the dish but a bare bone. So if
you join the Survey, my young friend, you must be prepared for the
development of a portentous appetite.’

[Sidenote: CHAMBERS, FLEMING, NICOL]

The house of Robert Chambers in Edinburgh was one of the chief centres
at which literary and scientific strangers met the intellectual society
of the town. He was an excellent host. His fund of anecdote and
reminiscence went back to near the beginning of the century. When no
more than twenty years of age he had published a volume illustrative of
the Waverley novels, followed next year by two volumes of _Traditions
of Edinburgh_, which astonished Scott, who wondered where the boy could
have picked up all the information.

Besides the geologists here enumerated there were others contemporary
with them who did good service, but with whom my acquaintance was too
slight to furnish me now with any personal reminiscences of them.
Dr. John Fleming, author of the well-known _Philosophy of Zoology_,
was trained as a Wernerian, and never quite adopted the views of
modern geologists. I remember him as a tall rather grim figure, full
of personal kindness, and gifted with keen critical power. He seemed
never to be happier than when he had an opportunity of exercising that
power in sarcastically demolishing the arguments of those to whom he
was opposed. James Nicol, after he became Professor in Aberdeen in
1853, devoted himself with much enthusiasm and success to the study of
the Highland rocks, and I only met him occasionally at the meetings
of the British Association, where his tall figure, his abundant
sandy-coloured hair, and pronounced south-country accent, made him a
prominent personage.

In the early decades of last century a few students from foreign
countries were attracted to Scotland for the purpose of examining the
rocks, which since the days of the Huttonian and Wernerian controversy
had become famous on the Continent. In my journeys abroad I met three
of these veterans, each of whom retained a vivid recollection of his
stay in this country.

W. Haidinger, who was long at the head of the Austrian Geological
Survey and Museum in Vienna, had established his reputation as an able
mineralogist, and came to Scotland to study the various cabinets of
minerals, public and private, to be found in the country. When I saw
him in Vienna in 1869, he had retired from all official duties, and as
he sat in his study, surrounded with his books and papers, presented a
singularly picturesque appearance, not unlike that in which Faust is
usually represented on the stage before transformation into youth by
Mephistopheles. Enveloped in a long dressing gown, he sat in an easy
chair, his white beard flowing down his breast, and his head covered
with an equal exuberance of snowy hair (which, however, was said to
be a wig), while his feet were encased in large warm slippers. He
remembered well the various mineral collections he had studied in
Scotland, and was interested in hearing about the places he had seen,
and the survivors of the acquaintances he had made.

[Sidenote: HAIDINGER, VON DECHEN, BOUÉ]

H. von Dechen came to Scotland in 1827, and travelled over a good deal
of the country, of which he subsequently gave an account in one of the
German scientific journals. I first met him in Bonn, where he had a
large house commanding fine views up to the Siebengebirge, which he had
studied so minutely and described so carefully. His age, the number
and excellence of his geological writings, and his friendly interest
in the career of younger men made him the popular Nestor of Prussian
geologists. The last time I met him was in Berlin on the occasion of
the meeting of the International Geological Congress in 1885, of which
he was president. There was one lady member present at his address,
and the audience was amused by the formal courtesy with which he
began--‘Lady and Gentlemen.’

Ami Boué had an interesting history. He was descended from a French
family which could trace its pedigree back for some 400 years. In the
reign of Louis XIV, his ancestor, being Protestant, had to escape from
Bordeaux in a barrel. Boué himself was born in Hamburg. His mother had
been educated in Geneva, and French was the language she used in her
family circle. His early education was also given in Geneva, but as the
French armies had overrun Europe, and the family property in Hamburg
consisted largely of houses, which might at any moment be destroyed in
the political convulsions, it was considered desirable that Ami should
have a profession to fall back upon, in case of any such catastrophe.
He was accordingly sent to Edinburgh to study medicine. As he long
after remarked to me, ‘I really went to Scotland to escape from
Napoleon.’ But although, when Napoleon was finally crushed at Waterloo,
the Hamburg property was saved, Boué determined to continue his medical
studies and to take his degree, which he gained in 1817.

[Sidenote: AMI BOUÉ]

During his residence in Scotland he became greatly interested in
geological pursuits, and travelled over a good deal of the country,
examining its rocks. When he returned to the Continent, he settled
for a time in Paris, where he wrote his Esquisse _Géologique sur
l’Écosse_--a most valuable treatise which in many respects was far
in advance of its time. Subsequently, after wandering over much of
Europe, he finally fixed his home in Austria.

Having occasion in some of my own early writings to refer
appreciatively to Boué’s work, I one day received a letter written
in broken English and in a minute, cramped calligraphy, the lines
slanting obliquely across the page. To my astonishment the letter bore
the signature Ami Boué. This was the beginning of a correspondence
which lasted up to the time of his death. I paid him a visit in 1869,
and spent some time with him at his pleasant country-house on the
last spurs of the Alps near Vöslau, where he had planted quinces,
almond-trees, peaches, apples, and vines, and where I found his
recollections of Edinburgh and Scotland as vivid as if he had only
returned from that region a few years before.

Boué was singular in this respect, that he never thoroughly mastered
any language. Although French was the tongue that in early life came
most naturally to him, his French sometimes betrayed his German
connections. In German he only acquired fluency after middle life,
when he had settled in Vienna, and it was in German that all his
later contributions to science were written. English he never learned
to speak or write correctly. But he was rather proud of what he
thought to be his facility in that language, and all his letters
to me, extending over a period of thirteen years, were written in
broken English. As a specimen of the way in which he expressed
himself, I may quote a sentence from a letter written by him on 21st
November, 1870, during the calamitous Franco-German war. ‘The dreadful
war-pre-occupations did take me all time for thinking at scientific
matter, and now perhaps that distress will approach till nearer our
abode! When you will know that I have very good and near parents
in both armies and you perceive the possibility of parents killing
themselves without recognizing themselves, nor having the opportunity
to do so, you will understand that I have often headach when I ride the
newspapers or hear from the quite useless slaughters, which have been
provocated only by those men at the head of the human society.’

[Sidenote: A FIELD-GEOLOGIST]

The life of a field-geologist, being spent to a large extent in the
open air, brings him into contact with various classes of the people,
to whom his occupation is exceedingly mysterious. They see him marching
up and down the face of a rocky declivity, chipping the rock here and
there, putting the chips up to his eye, scrutinising them narrowly
through his lens, which is popularly supposed to be an eye-glass for
extremely short sight, then perhaps wrapping them up in paper and
putting them in his pocket, or in a bag slung across his shoulder.
They watch him taking out a map and marking down something upon it, or
whipping out a note-book and writing in it, perhaps for so long a time
that the patience of the watchers behind a neighbouring wall or hedge
is nearly exhausted, when off he marches again, or comes back to the
place he started from, as if he had left something behind him, or had
hopelessly lost his way.

A member of the Geological Survey, whose daily avocation consists in
such pursuits, is of course specially liable to become the victim of
curiosity and suspicion. He carries his accoutrements about his person
in such a manner that they do not attract notice, so that his object
and actions become extremely puzzling to the country people among whom
he has taken quarters for a time. He finds himself set down now for a
postman, now for a doctor, for a farmer, a cattle dealer, a travelling
showman, a country gentleman, a gamekeeper, a poacher, an itinerant
lecturer, a gauger, a clergyman, a playactor, and often as a generally
suspicious character. A member of the Survey, who afterwards became a
University Professor, received and posted many a letter entrusted to
him in the belief that he was the authorised bearer of Her Majesty’s
mails. Another member, also subsequently Professor, was taken for a
policeman in plain clothes, and could not for some time make out why
a poor woman poured into his ears a long story about her son, who
had been taken up for something that he had not done, and did quite
unintentionally, and was quite justified in doing.[39]

[Sidenote: EXPERIENCES OF GEOLOGICAL SURVEY]

Gamekeepers are sometimes sorely at a loss what to make of the
Geological Survey trespasser: afraid to challenge him lest he prove
to be a friend of their master, and yet afraid to let him go his way
for fear he be on poaching thoughts intent, though the absence of a
visible gun piques their curiosity. One member of the staff, who had
taken up his quarters in a coast town in Fife, was watched by the
police on suspicion of having been concerned in a recent burglary.
Another was stalked as a suspect who had been setting fire to farm
buildings. A third was watched hammering by himself in the bed of a
stream near Girvan, and as he gave vent to some strong expression when
the obstinate boulder refused to part with a splinter, the onlooker
on the other side of an adjoining hedge fled in terror to the village
and reported that this strange man who had come among them was stark
mad, and should not be left to go by himself. Sometimes the laugh goes
distinctly against the geologist, as in the case of one of the most
distinguished of the staff who, poking about to see the rocks exposed
on the outskirts of a village in Cumberland, was greeted by an old
woman as the ‘sanitary ‘spector.’ He modestly disclaimed the honour,
but noticing that the place was very filthy, ventured to hint that such
an official would find something to do there. And he thereupon began
to enlarge on the evils of accumulating filth, resulting, among other
things, in an unhealthy and stunted population. His auditor heard him
out, and then, calmly surveying him from head to foot, remarked: ‘Well,
young man, all I have to tell ye is, that the men o’ this place are a
deal bigger and stronger and handsomer nor you.’ She bore no malice,
for she offered him a cup of tea, but, like Falstaff, he was ‘as
crestfallen as a dried pear,’ and could not face her any longer.

[Sidenote: EXPERIENCES OF GEOLOGISTS]

Professor James Geikie supplies me with the following record of his
experience when he was on the staff of the Survey: ‘One warm summer
day I was laboriously forcing my way up a narrow ravine or “cleugh” in
the hills south of Colmonel, in Ayrshire. The geology being somewhat
complicated, it was necessary to use my hammer at almost every step,
and for this purpose I had to keep the bed of the burn where the rocks
were best seen. The cleugh was not only narrow and steep, but choked
in places with blackthorn, so that progress was both slow and painful.
Being far from the madding crowd, there was no reason why, under a
broiling sun, I should affect a philosophical coolness which I was far
from feeling, and it is probable, therefore, that from time to time I
may have sought relief by addressing the obnoxious thorns in vehement
language. At the head of the cleugh I came upon a tall farmer-looking
man, who told me he had been watching my movements, and wondering who
and what I was. When he heard I was trying to find out how the world
was made, he expressed no astonishment, but showed keen interest as I
pointed out the evidence of glacial work--striated rocks, morainic
debris, and large erratics--all of which happened to be well displayed
on the hillside where we stood. As he seemed really anxious to know the
meaning of the evidence, I explained it as well as I could, and then
we parted. A few weeks afterwards I was dining with an old friend--the
late Mr. Cathcart of Knockdolian--who told me he was quite sure I must
have been recently in his neighbourhood. “Only yesterday,” he said,
“I met the old farmer of G----,” who had a strange tale to tell me.
“Dod! Mr. Caithcart,” he began, “I ran across the queerest body the
ither day. As I was comin’ by the head o’ the cleugh I thocht I heard
a wheen tinkers quarrellin’, but whan I lookit doon there was jist ae
wee stoot man. Whiles he was chappin’ the rocks wi’ a hammer: whiles
he was writin’ in a book, whiles fechtin’ wi’ the thorns, and miscain’
them for a’ that was bad. When he cam up frae the burn, him and me had
a long confab. Dod! he tell’t me a’ aboot the stanes, and hoo they
showed that Scotland was ance like Greenland, smoored in ice. A vary
enterteenin’ body, Mr. Caithcart, but--an awfu’ leear.”’

Among my own geological experiences in Scotland I may mention that
on one of my excursions, when, with a large party of my students, I
was passing along the sea-front of a fishing village in Fife, I heard
a stalwart matron ask her gossip at the next door, ‘Whae’s aucht
them?’--that is, who owns them, or has charge of them? She evidently
believed the company to be lunatic patients, but could not see any one
among their number who seemed to her sane enough to be probably their
keeper.

On another occasion in the same district I had been engaged for some
days in geological exploration with a colleague, and had several times
come upon a travelling show, which was slowly making its way through
the country. On entering one of the little coast-towns we found that
we were immediately behind this show, which, with its cavalcade of
waggons, had preceded us by only a few minutes. The women were still
standing at their doors, making remarks on the new arrival, when my
companion and I came up. As we passed a couple of them, we heard the
one remark to the other, ‘Na noo, arena thae twa daicent-lookin’ chiels
to be play-actin’ blackguards!’

[Sidenote: GEOLOGISTS IN THE HIGHLANDS]

If, fifty years ago, the ongoings of a field-geologist gave rise to
much curiosity and speculation in the lowlands, it may be imagined
how strange his occupation would seem to the natives of the Highlands,
especially among the Western Isles, and in districts where little
English was spoken, and where, consequently, he might be the subject
of audible remarks that he did not understand or could not reply to.
When I first set foot in Skye, most of my rambles there had geological
pursuits as their aim. The general character and succession of the
rocks of the island had been made known by Macculloch in his classic
_Description of the Western Islands of Scotland_. I found that he
was still remembered by some of the older inhabitants, but less as a
geologist than as a writer who had maligned them. In his four volumes
of letters to Sir Walter Scott on _The Highlands and Western Isles
of Scotland_--on the whole a somewhat tedious work, though often
amusing and occasionally even brilliant--he had given an account of
his experiences as a traveller and geologist in the Highlands. This
account was angrily resented by the natives as exaggerated, and even
untruthful. They had entertained him in their houses, furnished him
with boats, carriages, men, and other assistance, and he repaid them by
satirising their households and holding their manners and customs up
to public ridicule. Old Mackinnon of Corriehatachan was so indignant
that the next time he went to Glasgow after the publication of the
book, he took the engraved portrait of its author to a crockery-dealer
and commissioned a set of earthenware with Macculloch’s likeness on
each. These articles were distributed over Skye, and I have been told
that some of them are still to be seen.

Subsequently Skye was visited in 1827 by Murchison and Sedgwick, who
came to Strath. The familiar anecdote of the geologist who entrusted
his bag of specimens to a lad to be carried some miles to his inn, and
who found that the bag had been emptied and refilled with stones picked
up near the door, is told of Hugh Miller, of Sedgwick and of Murchison.
I was assured in Skye that the trick was played on Macculloch. But to
contrive to escape from the apparently unnecessary fatigue of carrying
a heavy bag a long distance is so natural that we can believe it may
have been carried out with all these worthies. I heard the anecdote in
Skye, from the late Dr. Donald Mackinnon. But the most circumstantial
account of it I have met with is that of Dr. Norman Macleod. ‘A
shepherd, while smoking his cutty-pipe at a small Highland inn, was
communicating to another in Gaelic his experiences of “mad Englishmen,”
as he called them. “There was one,” said he, “who once gave me his bag
to carry to the inn by a short cut across the hills, while he walked by
another road. I was wondering myself why it was so dreadfully heavy,
and when I got out of his sight I was determined to see what was in
it. I opened it, and what do you think it was? But I need not ask you
to guess, for you would never find out. It was stones!” “Stones!”
exclaimed his companion, opening his eyes, “Stones! well, well, that
beats all I ever knew or heard of them! and did you carry it?” “Carry
it! Do you think I was as mad as himself? No! I emptied them all out,
but I filled the bag again from the cairn near the house, and gave him
good measure for his money”!’

Another well-known story to the detriment of a geologist, is also
claimed for Skye. I was assured that it was Sedgwick, who, when
chipping a rock by the roadside as he went along on a Sunday, was
stopped by a Strath man with the query, ‘Do you know what you are
doing?’ and, on answering that he was breaking a stone, was told, ‘Ay,
you are doing mair than that; you are breakin’ the Sabbath.’ But here,
again, the remark is so obvious in a Sabbatarian country that it may
have been made by independent censors on more occasions than one.

The memory of the visits of these early geological pioneers had faded
away when I came to Skye. It seemed that no geologist since their day
had been seen in Strath, so that the appearance of a lad wandering
about alone and, as it looked, aimlessly, with a hammer in his hand and
a bag over his shoulder, gave rise to much wonderment and conjecture
among the crofters. They knew me by the name of _Gille na Clach_,
or the ‘Lad of the Stones,’ and came in the end to see that I was
harmless. But now and then they would express their convictions or
their pity. Once, when passing some huts on the shore of Loch Slapin,
I stopped to break off a fragment from a projecting rock in front
of them. As usual, I looked at the chip with my lens, and, having
satisfied myself as to the nature of the rock, was resuming my walk,
when I heard two old crones at their doors speaking of me. I knew very
little Gaelic, but I caught up the emphatic remark that closed the
conversation--‘As a cheill.’ When I returned to Kilbride I asked the
tutor of the family the meaning of the expression, and learnt that it
was, ‘He’s wrong in the head.’

[Sidenote: LIFE ON PABBA]

One of my earliest excursions from Kilbride led me to the island of
Pabba, which lies like a flat green meadow in front of Broadford Bay.
Hugh Miller had described to me its richly fossiliferous Liassic
shales, and I went with the determination to spend some time on the
island, and make a good collection of its fossils. The only habitation
in the place was one small hut, tenanted by Charles Mackinnon and
his family, who looked after the cattle sent across from the farm of
Corrie. Coming with the recommendation of their master, I was cordially
welcomed. But the resources of the island were slender. My sleeping
quarters were a heap of heather in a corner of the upper floor of a
barn, while for my dining-room I had the use of the ‘ben’ or inner room
in Charles’ hut. The food consisted chiefly of potatoes, oat-cakes,
milk, and tea, with an occasional herring or an egg. After a day’s work
along the shore, I would spend the evening in the hut, labelling and
wrapping up my specimens, while Mackinnon, who knew a little English,
sat by the side of the peat fire, and gave me his company. We had been
engaged in this way for some time the first evening, when the door
opened, and his wife looked in. After watching me for a few moments
arranging my bits of stone, she made a remark in Gaelic which drew an
angry reproof from her ‘goodman,’ who ordered her to go away. With some
difficulty I drew from him the admission that the poor woman had only
said ‘if she wassna kennin’ ye had sense, she wad be thinking ye wass a
terrible eediot.’

When it was time to retire for the night, my hostess would take a live
peat between the tongs in one hand and a candle in the other, and sally
out into the night, then up an outside stair, without any rail, to my
barn, where she lit the candle, and left me. I shall never forget the
moaning of the wind through the open louver-boards that served for
windows, the gusts that swept through the place and nearly blew out the
candle, and the shrieking of the sea-fowl, like the agonised cries of
drowning seamen. But the heather was soft, the blankets warm, and with
youth on one’s side one slept soundly till the morning.

[Sidenote: A GEOLOGIST IN SKYE]

At my departure I pressed my kind host and hostess to accept
remuneration for their services, but they rejected the notion almost
with indignation. At last Charles was persuaded to let me send him
some remembrance when I got back to the south country. He said he would
prefer a book, and when asked to choose his book, he timidly enquired
whether he might have ‘_Josaiphus_.’ Although his knowledge of English
was scanty, he used to read English books aloud to his children, but I
am afraid that much of what he read must have been unintelligible both
to him and to them. However, I procured and sent him an illustrated
copy of _Josephus_, which, I was told, he used to show with pride as
the largest book on his shelf.

A more distant excursion took me to the extreme north-eastern part of
Skye. After spending some time on the shore of Loch Staffin and making
a collection of the well-preserved fossils to be obtained there, I
started late one afternoon for the hamlet of Lonfern, in which my
friends at the Manse of Snizort, told me I would get a warm welcome at
Mrs. Nicolson’s, if I mentioned that I came from them. The distance
was only a few miles, but there was much to interest me by the way,
so that the gloaming had set in, and still no sign could be seen of
the hamlet. At last I came upon a man returning from the hill with a
creel of peats on his back, and asked him the path to Lonfern, when
a conversation ensued, which may here be given as an illustration of
crofter inquisitiveness.

‘Lonfern! Are you gaun to Lonfern? And where hae ye come frae?’

‘I have come this evening from Loch Staffin.’

‘Frae Loch Staffin! and ye’ll be a marchant?’

‘No, I’m not a merchant.’

‘Not a marchant! and what is’t that ye’ll be carryin’ in your bag?’

‘My bag is full of stones.’

‘Full of _stones_! Ochan, ochan! d’ye tell me that? STONES in your bag.
And what wull ye be doin’ wi’ the stones?’

‘Well, I mean to take them south and look at them all very carefully.’

‘Lookin’ at stones! Well, well! And have ye no stones in your ain
countrie?’

‘O yes, plenty of them; but they are not the same as you have in Skye.
But will you not tell me how I am to go to reach Lonfern.’

‘To Lonfern! Ow ay, to be sure, the way to Lonfern. But what use are
the stones to you?’

‘Well, I told you, I wished to have samples of the Skye stones beside
me.’

[Sidenote: CROFTER INQUISITIVENESS]

‘To think o’ a man keepin’ stones to look at them! But are they worth
onythin’? Can you make onythin’ oot o’ them?’

‘Yes to me they are worth a great deal, for they show me what Skye was
like long, long ago. But it is getting dark now, and I really must push
on to Lonfern, if you will point out the track.’

‘Ay, ay; well, well, that’s queer enough. To think that ye wud be
comin’ all the way frae the south country to pick up a wheen stanes at
Loch Staffin. And I’ll warrant the bag’s heavy too. So it is, whatever’
(gently lifting it from my back).

‘Well, my friend, I must say good night, if you won’t help me to find
Lonfern.’

‘Ow ay, but I wull that. D’ye see thae twa peat-stacks. Weel then,
ye’ll be keepin’ round by them to the burn, and ye’ll be coming to the
wood plank across the burn, and ye’ll cross over there, and then ye’ll
be keepin’ straught on by the side o’ the dyke, and in a wee while you
will be seein’ Lonfern forenenst you.’

‘Thank you, thank you, and good night.’

‘Gude nicht, and I’m wussin’ ye safe hame wi’ that bag.’

[Sidenote: A CROFTER HOME IN SKYE]

I had been told by my Snizort friends that Jessie Nicolson’s cottage
could easily be found, for it was the largest of the row that formed
the hamlet. But by the time I arrived there, the darkness had settled
down, so that only by stooping, in order to get the outline of the
roofs against the western sky, could one judge of the relative size
of the huts. At last I selected what seemed to be the right one,
and knocked at the door. There was no answer for a time, and while
waiting I could hear, to the left hand, under the same roof, the heavy
breathing and crunching noises of the cows. After a second knock, the
door was eventually opened, and the figure of an elderly woman appeared
against the faint light of a candle in the room to the right hand. I
asked if this was Mrs. Nicolson’s. Instead of answering, she began to
pass her hand over my face, neck, and shoulders. Not knowing whether
she might be deaf and dumb, I shouted out that I had come from the
Manse of Snizort. At the sound of these words, she took me by the arm
and almost dragged me into the room with the light. ‘Frae the Manse o’
Snizort, are ye?’ she exclaimed. ‘And very welcome here.’ Planting me
down by the side of the peat fire, which she raked together and stacked
up with more fuel, she plied me with questions as to how they all were
at the manse, and at every additional detail of news, her joy seemed
to increase. By degrees her family of well-grown sons and daughters
began to assemble, and to every one I was introduced afresh as from
the Manse of Snizort, and had to answer a similar round of questions.
Meanwhile the old lady, from a handsome brass-bound chest of drawers
(perhaps a marriage gift from her friends at Snizort) which stood on
one side of the room, took out a tablecloth of beautiful snow-white
linen, and spread it on the table. One of the sons had come in from
the bay with a fresh salmon, which, cut up into steaks, formed part of
an excellent supper, enlivened with much talk, wherein the Manse of
Snizort and its inmates played a large part.

In this same room there were two beds, one of which was spread afresh
for me, while the other was occupied by one of the sons. My experience
among the crofters had accustomed me to peat-reek, but its pungency
this evening surpassed anything I had previously undergone. After the
family had retired, and I had lain down between the soft white sheets,
it was some time before the smarting of the closed eyelids would allow
of sleep.

The architecture of one of these houses is of the simplest kind. On
one side of the door is the division reserved for the cattle. On the
other is the part occupied by the human inmates, which in the smallest
huts may consist of a single room. Where there are more rooms than
one, they are joined on to each other, with only a thin wattled or
blanket partition between them. There is no separate passage, so that
from the innermost room it is necessary to pass through the others to
reach the outside. The doors between the rooms often consist only of a
blanket hung across the opening, and pushed aside when one wishes to
enter or to leave. On the morning following my arrival I was awakened
by the footsteps of some one passing through my room, and noticed a
female skirt disappearing beyond the blanket. In a few moments the
eldest daughter of the house entered bearing a tray laden with bottles
and glasses, which she brought up to my bedside, in order that, as she
said, I might ‘taste something before I got up.’ Not being used to
such a matutinal habit, I declined her offer with my best thanks. But
she grew quite serious over my refusal, assuring me that my tasting
would give me an appetite. In vain I maintained that at breakfast time
she would see that I stood in no need of any help of that kind. She
only the more ran over the choice of good appetising things she had
brought me. ‘Some whusky nate? some whusky and wahtter? some whusky
and milk? some acetates?’ This last I conjectured to be a decoction of
bitter roots in whisky, often to be found on Highland sideboards in the
morning. Seeing that a persistent refusal would have displeased her, I
consented at last to have some milk and whisky, but I did not discover
that the draught in any way improved my breakfast.

[Sidenote: A HIGHLAND BREAKFAST]

There are few meals in the world more enjoyable than a true Highland
breakfast. It presupposes, however, good health, a good digestion,
and freedom from the daily visits of the penny post. The porridge and
cream at the beginning provide a sensible substratum on which the later
viands can be built up. Even if you confine your efforts to only one
or two of these viands, the variety of the whole table, redolent of
the hillside and the moor, and so unlike the typical morning repast
of ordinary southerners, imparts a sense of plenty and freedom, and
renews the longing to be out once more in the glen or on the mountain.
Christopher North, who more than most men appreciated the merits of
this repast, used to say, after having made a good meal, ‘now is the
time to pitch in a few eggs.’ Johnson, too, who liked good living,
admitted that the Scots, both Lowland and Highland, excel the English
in breakfast. ‘If an epicure,’ he says, ‘could remove by a wish, in
quest of sensual gratification, wherever he had supped, he would
breakfast in Scotland.’[40]

The breakfast at Lonfern was worthy of the supper of the evening
before. When I had to address myself to my journey to Portree those
kindly folk gathered round me with expressions of the most affectionate
interest, as if I had been an old friend instead of an unknown
stranger. They would not hear of my starting off by myself. It was a
walk of eighteen miles, they said, and the track was rough, and in
many places not easy to find. Besides, there was a high cliff on the
left hand, and if mist came on I might fall over into the sea, several
hundred feet below, and there were deep slacks (ravines) to cross, and
many burns which might be swollen, together with other dangers which
were duly detailed. So one of the sons must accompany me all the way,
and carry my bag. To refuse the escort would have given offence; so we
parted with the heartiest good wishes on both sides, and I had unlooked
for companionship through the moors and boggy tracts that lie between
the edge of the sea-washed precipices and the steep hillsides of
Trotternish.

[Sidenote: THE SPAR-CAVE]

During my earlier visits to Skye, the Admiralty survey of the
surrounding seas and coasts was in progress, under the direction of
Captain Wood, R.N. He used to be a welcome guest at Kilbride, and he
sometimes took the house party on board his gunboat for a sail down
Loch Slapin. On one of these occasions we visited the Spar Cave, and,
with the help of the sailors and Bengal lights, we saw that famous
cavern more completely than perhaps it had ever been seen before. But
its glory was gone. A couple of generations of Sassenach tourists,
aided by the hammers, candles, and torches of ignorant Celts, had
defaced the place beyond belief, shorn it of the beauty of its white
crystalline pillars, and left it mangled and smoke-streaked. In the
course of centuries, if left undisturbed, ‘Nature, softening and
concealing, and busy with a hand of healing,’ would doubtless repair
the damage. But the ruthless iconoclast should in the meantime be
debarred access to the grotto, until the ‘sweet benefit of time’ has
renewed the former glories of the place.

We went on to Loch Scavaig, landed at the head of that gloomy fjord,
and walked over to Coruisk. I have often been there since, but have
never a second time witnessed a sight which was provided for us by the
tars of the gunboat. As everybody knows, who has been to this most
sombre of Scottish lakes, the declivities around the water are dotted
over with boulders of all sizes, left there by the glacier which once
filled the basin of Loch Coruisk and passed down Loch Scavaig out to
sea. Some of these blocks of stone stand perched in the most perilous
positions, on steep slopes and on the edge of cliffs, whence from a
little distance it seems as if a mere touch would suffice to send them
bounding into the lake below. Their number and situation evidently
interested the sailors, who, as a change from their usual boating and
sounding for the marine survey, dashed off for the nearest hill, along
the profile of which the boulders lay in especial abundance. We had not
noticed at first in which direction the men moved, when our attention
was attracted by a thundering noise from the hill in question, followed
by a loud splash in the lake below. The tars had found some of the
perched blocks capable of being moved, and no doubt they dislodged
as many as they could. But, fortunately for the sake of geologists,
they could not succeed with the larger and finer boulders, which still
remain where the melting ice allowed them to rest.

[Sidenote: NIGHT AT LOCH SCAVAIG]

In recent years, while the ‘Aster’ has been cruising along these
coasts, it has several times anchored for the night at the head of Loch
Scavaig, and a more impressive anchorage can hardly be imagined. The
precipices on either side plunge almost perpendicularly into the water,
and mount upwards, crag over crag, into the far black, splintered
crests and pinnacles that surround Coruisk. The tints of sunset flame
along these peaks, while the evening shadows creep slowly upwards, and
deepen into such darkness below that one cannot tell where land and
water meet. The sea, though tidal, may be motionless as the calmest
lake. The stillness is only broken by the hoarse roar of the torrents
that tumble in white cascades through rifts in the black rocks. In the
long summer nights the northern sky remains full of light, and even at
midnight the striking outlines of the surrounding mountains stand out
sharp and clear against it. Now and then a sea-gull may circle slowly
past and disappear in the gloom, but for the most part there is little
sign of life at these hours.




CHAPTER XV.

  Influence of Topography on the people of Scotland. Distribution
    and ancient antagonism of Celt and Saxon. Caithness and its
    grin. Legends and place-names. Popular explanation of boulders.
    Cliff-portraits. Fairy-stones and supposed human footprints.
    Imitative forms of flint. Scottish climate and its influence on
    the people. Indifference of the Highlander to rain. ‘Dry rain.’
    Wind in Scotland. Shakespeare on the climate of Morayland.
    Influence of environment on the Highlander.


It is impossible to wander with attentive eyes over Scotland without
recognising how powerfully the topography of the country has controlled
the distribution of the races that have successively peopled it,
and how seriously the combined influences of topography and climate
have come to affect the national temperament and imagination. As I
have elsewhere discussed this subject, I will only refer briefly to
it here as an appropriate ending to these chapters of a geologist’s
reminiscences.

[Sidenote: INFLUENCE OF TOPOGRAPHY]

I. First as regards the Topography. Confining our attention to the
Saxon and Celtic elements of the population, we can readily see from
the mere form of the ground why the two races have been distributed as
we now find them. On the west side of the country the Norse sea-rovers
seized upon the islands and the narrow strips of cultivable land along
the coasts of the mainland. They were ‘vikings’ or baysmen, at home
on the sea and unwilling to wander far from its margin. They had no
inducement to quit their harbours and surrounding farms in order to
penetrate into the bleak mountainous fastnesses of the interior which
they left in possession of the older Celtic people. When the Norwegian
sway came to an end, and the invaders returned to the cradle of their
race in the north, they left behind them some of their own stock who
had intermarried with the Gaels, and as a still more enduring memorial
of their presence, abundant Norse names, which still cling to hamlet,
island, promontory, bay, and hill. But the selvage of coast-line which
they had occupied was so narrow, and the chain of islands lay so near,
that the mountaineers would have little difficulty in moving down from
the high grounds, overspreading the Norse settlements, and mingling
with their inhabitants. The spoken language of the vikings disappeared,
and Gaelic once more became the native tongue of the whole district.

[Sidenote: ANTAGONISM OF CELT AND SAXON]

On the east side of the country, however, the conditions were somewhat
different. In that region the mountains here and there retire so far
from the sea as to leave wide stretches of lowland. On these spaces
of comparatively fertile land the early Teutonic invaders found more
ample room for their settlements. They accordingly possessed themselves
of these tracts from Caithness southward, along the shores of the
Moray Firth to Aberdeen, and thence round the eastern end of the
Grampian range into the broad valley of central Scotland. They seem
to have in large measure driven out the earlier Celtic people who, on
this side of the island also, were left to live as best they could
among the mountains. The topography which enabled the invaders to
possess themselves of this territory has sufficed ever since to keep
the races apart. Gradually, indeed, along their mutual boundaries,
though apparently less distinctly than on the West Coast, they came to
intermingle with each other. But the ancient antagonism between Celt
and Saxon lasted down through the centuries, and in an attenuated form
almost to our own day. The Highlander, when he used to raid the cattle
and burn the farms of the Lowlander, was avenging the wrongs which his
remote ancestors had suffered at the hands of the hated Sassenach.
The Lowlander, on the other hand, who found himself often powerless
to ward off or revenge these outrages, and had to pay blackmail to
prevent their repetition, solaced himself by losing no opportunity of
expressing his contempt for his Celtic neighbour. The word ‘Highland’
actually came to have an opprobrious meaning, summing up, as it did,
all the bad qualities of the race to which it was applied. More
particularly, the imperfect knowledge of English on the part of the
mountaineers, and their slowness or inability to understand what was
said to them in that language, led their Saxon fellow-countrymen to
the foolish conclusion that this apparent dullness arose from innate
stupidity. The poor Celts, in their efforts to express themselves in
the language of the Lowlands, naturally made use of the words they
heard there, so that a Highlander who was warned against doing what
would have been a foolish action, could innocently exclaim, ‘She’s no
sae tam Heelan’ to do that.’ I can remember in my boyhood, being much
struck by coming across some survivals of this use of the word, and of
the feelings of contempt with which it was employed. There were then
many stories current illustrative of what was thought to be the dense
stolidity and ignorance of the Celts. The type of conceited Lowlander,
so well represented in Bailie Nicol Jarvie, never realised his own
vulgarity, or recognised the innate gentlemanliness of even the poorest
and least educated Highlander who had escaped Sassenach contamination.
But these misunderstandings have been buried and forgotten.

[Sidenote: THE FLAT OF CAITHNESS]

Probably the best district of the country for the purpose of marking
the topographical conditions that determined the limits within which
the two races are confined, is to be found on the east side of
Sutherland and Ross, and in the county of Caithness. To this day these
limits remain fairly well marked. The low ground forms but a narrow
strip along the coast from the Moray Firth to the Ord. On that strip,
and through the Black Isle to Tarbat Ness, the people are Teutonic,
but as we penetrate into the hills, the squalid cabins, poor crofts,
peat reek, and sounds of the Gaelic tongue, tell unmistakeably that
we have entered upon the domain of the Celt. Caithness offers one of
the most singular pieces of topography in Scotland. Looking at the
map, one would naturally regard it as a continuation of the highlands
of Sutherland, and expect its population to be also Gaelic. But in
actual fact, it belongs not to the mountains, but to the lowlands,
and has been for many centuries in possession of the Scandinavian
stock. It consists of a flat platform or tableland, in places not
more than 100 feet above the sea, into which it descends in an almost
continuous line of abrupt precipices. The contrast between the varied
and picturesque coast-line and the tame monotony of the featureless
interior is singularly striking, and again, that between the wide,
moory, peat-covered plain, and the bold Sutherland mountains that
spring up from its border. The names of places over this plain and
along the shore bear witness to the long occupation of the territory
by the descendants of the Norsemen. But as soon as we enter the hills,
Gaelic names appear, and we find ourselves among a population that
still speaks Gaelic.

As a consequence of the flatness of the interior of Caithness, the
few roads which cross the county run for miles in straight lines.
Their rectilinear direction is said to have had a curious effect
on the physiognomy of the inhabitants. Two men coming from opposite
quarters recognise each other long before they can come within speaking
distance. A smile of recognition, however, begins to form itself on
their faces, and this lasts so long, before they actually meet, that
it becomes stereotyped into a kind of grin, which is alleged to be
characteristic of the most typical natives of Caithness.

[Sidenote: LEGENDS AND TOPOGRAPHY]

That the topographical features of Scotland have influenced the
national imagination is well indicated by the legends and place-names
that have been attached to them. A deep cleft on a mountain-crest, a
bowl-shaped hollow scooped out of a hillside, a profound ravine, a
conical mound or a group of such mounds, rising conspicuously above a
bare moorland, a solitary boulder of gigantic size, or a line of large
boulders--these and many other prominent elements in the scenery,
alike of the Lowlands and the Highlands, have arrested attention from
the earliest times. As they appear so exceptional in the general
topography, exceptional causes have been sought to explain them, and
they have given rise to legendary beliefs that have been gradually
interwoven in the mythology and superstition of the races that have
dwelt among them. That these apparently abnormal features owed their
origin to some form of direct supernatural agency has been tacitly
assumed as their only possible explanation. Now and then they are
referred to the immediate action of the Deity. Thus all over the hills
and valleys of the south of Ayrshire, an incredible number of boulders
of grey granite have been scattered. So abundant are they in some
places as, when seen from a distance, to look like flocks of sheep,
and so distinct are they in form, colour, and composition from any of
the rocks round about them, that they could not fail to excite the
imagination in trying to account for them. A stonebreaker who was asked
how he supposed they had come to lie where they are, after a pause gave
the following picturesque explanation, ‘Weel ye see, when the Almichtie
flang the warld out, He maun hae putten thae stanes upon her to keep
her steady.’

[Sidenote: WITCHES’ CANTRIPS]

More usually the popular fancy has fixed on the Devil, with his
copartnery of wizards, warlocks, witches and carlines, as the authors
of the more singular parts of a landscape. I have already referred to
this aspect of diabolic agency, and by way of further illustration
may cite here an example of the kind of legend which has grown up
in all parts of the country. I was once directed to a shoemaker in
the village of Carnwath as possessing more local knowledge of his
district than anyone else. By a piece of bad luck for himself, but of
good fortune for me, on the day of my call upon him the man had so
injured a finger that he could not at the moment continue to ply his
trade. He was accordingly delighted to accompany me over the ground,
and point out some of the changes which it had undergone within his
own memory. A conspicuous feature in the district was furnished by a
number of boulders of dark stone scattered over the surface between the
River Clyde and the Yelping Craig, about two miles to the east. Before
farming operations had reached their present development there, the
number of these blocks was so much greater than at present that one
place was known familiarly as ‘Hell Stanes Gate’ (road), and another
as ‘Hell Stanes Loan.’ The tradition runs that Michael Scott, the
famous wizard, had entered into a compact with the Devil and a band of
witches to dam back the Clyde with masses of stone to be carried from
the Yelping Craig. It was one of the conditions of such pacts that the
name of the Supreme Being should never on any account be mentioned
from the beginning to the end of the transaction. All went well for a
while, some of the stronger carlines having brought their burden of
boulders to within a few yards from the river, when one of the younger
members of the company, staggering under the weight of a huge block of
greenstone, exclaimed, ‘O Lord! but I’m tired.’ Instantly every boulder
tumbled to the ground, nor could witch, warlock, or devil move a single
stone one yard further. And there the blocks had lain for many a long
century, until the modern farmers blasted some of them with gunpowder
to furnish material for dykes and road-metal, and got rid of others by
tumbling them into holes dug to receive them.

The shoemaker, however, though he enjoyed the popular explanation,
had got far beyond the thraldom of old superstition, and had made
some acquaintance with modern science. When I asked him how he would
himself account for the scattering of these blocks of stone over the
district, he replied at once, ‘O, ye ken, they cam on the backs o’ the
icebairges,’ and he proceeded to give me a graphic picture of what he
supposed must have been the condition of Clydesdale when it lay below
an icy sea, across which the stones were transported and were left
where they now lie.

In many cases the origin of striking local features is referred to the
doings of powerful witches alone, as in the case of Ailsa Craig, which
is said to be the work of

                      A witch so strong
    That could control the moon, make flows and ebbs.

The legend relates that for some purpose she designed to carry over
a hill to Ireland, and selected one near Colmonell. Having lifted it
up in her apron, she set off on her broomstick through the air, but
unfortunately, when some miles out over the firth, her apron-strings
broke, and the huge mass fell into the water, where its upper part has
projected ever since as the well-known ‘craggy ocean-pyramid.’ In proof
of the truth of this tale, the hollow is pointed out from which the
rock was removed.

[Sidenote: CLIFF-PORTRAITS]

Even among the minor topographical features of the country, the natural
play of the imagination may be seen where the instinctive feeling
for the detection of resemblances has led to the recognition of so
many likenesses to men and to animals, sometimes obvious, sometimes
far-fetched, among the outlines of hills and crags. This tendency may
be seen at work in every country. Anyone can perceive the strikingly
lion-like aspect of Arthur’s Seat, which seems to sit watching over
Edinburgh, ready to spring at a foe. The profile of Samuel Johnson’s
(some say Lord Brougham’s) face and his portly body have long been
familiar on the southern front of Salisbury Crags, though it seems to
me that the mouth is wider open and the chin hangs a little more than
when I used to admire it as a boy. The ‘tooth of time’ is incessantly
gnawing at all such cliffs, and while some fancied resemblances are
gradually effaced, others are brought into existence. Travellers up
Loch Carron see in front of them on the summit of the mountain Fuar
Thol a gigantic recumbent profile, which from generation to generation
is likened to that of some contemporary personage. At present it
is spoken of as the face of a well-known politician whose features
are familiar in the pages of _Punch_. Our grandchildren will find a
likeness in it to some one of their own time. In the little anchorage
of the Shiant Isles, the face of one of the surrounding cliffs
presents the outline of a man in the attitude so often depicted in the
background of Teniers’ pictures.

Further illustration of this universal habit of mind may be gathered
from even the smaller objects in nature. Children delight to recognise
resemblances in things; the grown man learns to detect differences. Yet
in regard to things that are unfamiliar, the man’s first instincts are
those of the child. He seizes on the likeness which the newly observed
objects bear to some already known to him, and he may even go so far
as to mistake similarity for identity. Perhaps in no department of
nature does this habit of mind manifest itself more flagrantly than in
the mineral kingdom. People who know little or nothing of minerals or
rocks, readily enough perceive a resemblance between some pieces of
stone and certain plants, animals or inanimate objects, with which they
at once compare or even identify them. In the vast majority of cases,
there is no real connection between the stone and the object which it
resembles. The likeness is merely accidental and external. Among the
multitudinous shapes which concretions of mineral matter have assumed,
a curious collection might be made of imitative forms. The ‘fairy
stones’ of Scotland, found as concretions among deposits of clay,
present endless rude figures of manikins, or portions of the human
body, of fishes, birds, plants, cannon-balls, snuff-boxes, shoes, and
innumerable familiar objects. Similar concretions occur all over the
world, and have long attracted popular notice.

[Sidenote: SUPPOSED ANIMAL FOOTPRINTS]

An Orkney laird once wrote to me that his people, while removing
flagstones from the shore of his island, had made an extraordinary
discovery, no less than ‘the footprints of men, women, children
and animals,’ all impressed on the solid stone and in excellent
preservation, and he courteously offered to send me some specimens
of these interesting remains. The identification of the impressions
as human relics was of course out of the question, for the rock that
contained them belonged to the Old Red Sandstone, which was deposited
long before any trace of man appeared upon the earth. Nevertheless,
as there was just a possibility that among the specimens, there might
be some new fossils, which might add to our knowledge of the flora or
fauna of that ancient formation, I asked the proprietor to be good
enough to send a few examples of the ‘find.’ In due course one or
two large boxes arrived containing several hundredweight of stone.
But every one of the specimens was merely the cast of a mineral
concretion. Yet they were curiously like footprints. One looked as if
a young man, in going out to a ball, had stepped with his dress-boot
upon soft mud, into which he had sunk about an inch. Another seemed as
if it might have been made by a rough-shod farmer, springing from his
dog-cart upon the surface of a muddy pool. There were prints resembling
misshapen female feet, and one or two might, with a little imagination,
have been taken for prints of infants, whose fond mothers were trying
to make them stand on a soft clay floor. But not a single one of them
had anything to do with a human being, or with any fossil plant or
animal.

[Sidenote: IMITATIVE SHAPES IN FLINT]

The flints which lie dispersed through the chalk, and which are
distributed in such profusion over the surface of parts of the
north-east of Scotland, present many curiously imitative shapes,
either belonging to them originally, or brought about by the irregular
fracturing and rolling which the stones have undergone under the sea or
on the beds of rivers. The following letter, written to me by a workman
in the south of England, where chalk-flints are immensely abundant,
and are largely used for road making and other purposes, may be taken
as an illustration of the popular view of these objects. It is given
_verbatim et literatim_.

  I have a collection of flints In fantistic Shapes of a human Race
  such as leg with foot also feet harms legs Hand with finger also
  finger skul and other Parts of Human frame about 50 Pieces weight
  nearley One hundred I have also Kelt harrow heds speer heds and set.
  My Collection of the Human Race is a splended one and I dont think
  they Can be beeten they look as natrel as the boddy they or far sale
  and honestly worth a thousand Pounds I will take a Reasonable Offer
  for them they are on View at my House and I should like to find a
  Home for them. Faithfully yours, ---- Gravel Thrower.

II. Not less important than the topography of a country, as a factor in
the bodily and mental development of a people, is the Climate. Alike in
prose and verse the climates of northern countries have been abundantly
maligned, though it has been generally allowed that they produce men of
mark both in body and mind. We are told that the sun ‘ripens spirits in
cold northern climes,’ and that courage, strength, and endurance may be
looked for in people inured to exertion in these regions. In English
literature the climate of Scotland has naturally offered a convenient
butt for sarcasm and abuse, coupled occasionally with an admission
that, at all events, it has fostered a sturdy race. Waller, in order to
enhance his praise of the doings of Cromwell in Scotland, speaks of his
successes over

    A race unconquered, by their clime made bold,
    The Caledonians, arm’d with want and cold.

There can be no doubt that most of this dispraise of the climate has
been based on mere hear-say report, and that where it has been grounded
on actual personal observation in Scotland, it has generally been the
result of exceedingly brief experience, during short excursions into
the country. It has in large measure arisen from the confounding of
climate with weather. A man who comes into a country for a few weeks,
and is unlucky enough to meet with a spell of bad weather which lasts
most of the time of his visit, may be pardoned if he abuses what he has
himself suffered from, but he has no right to pass any judgment on the
climate of the country. Climate is the average of all the variations
of weather during a long succession of years, and cannot be tested by
any mere summer tour. A Scot may fairly claim that his country can
boast of two or three climates, tolerably well marked off from each
other, but all of them healthy, and on the whole, not disagreeable.
There is the oceanic climate of the western isles and firths, under
which in sheltered places many flowering shrubs and evergreens flourish
luxuriantly, which can scarcely be grown elsewhere in the country save
under glass. The eastern climate, being further removed from the warm
Atlantic waters, and more directly exposed to the chilly east-wind, is
less genial. The central climate of the mountains is one of greater
extremes, the summer temperature in the valleys being sometimes high,
while the frosts in winter are often severe, and the snow-rifts remain
unmelted in the shaded corries all the summer. To these might perhaps
be added the Shetland climate, characterised by the prevalence of winds
and sea-fogs. The winds are there fierce, and always more or less laden
with salt from the spindrift of the surrounding ocean, so that shrubs
cannot grow above the limit of their sheltering wall, and true trees
are not to be seen. The white sea-fogs spread rapidly over the islands
during summer, and though dense enough to blot out the view, are not
always so thick as wholly to obscure the sun.

[Sidenote: SCOTTISH CLIMATES]

To one accustomed to more southern latitudes the chief defect of the
Scottish climate is the want of sunshine. The _nimbus Britannicus_
spreads too frequently as a grey pall across the sky. But the native
who has been used to this canopy all his life, and has never seen the
continuous unclouded blue of a southern clime, manages to enjoy good
health, lives often a long and active life, and resents imputations
on the meteorology of his country, though he reserves to himself,
especially if he be a farmer, the privilege of a good grumble, when no
stranger is at hand to overhear it.

[Sidenote: HIGHLANDERS IN RAIN]

Most people shun a shower, and think themselves worthy of pity if
one should overtake them when they can find no shelter, or have no
umbrella to protect them. But to ordinary Highlanders exposure to
heavy rain is a matter of indifference, even if not a source of real
pleasure. On any wet day you may see these men standing together in
pouring rain, although a shed or other shelter may be close at hand.
They get soaked to the skin, but it does not seem to do them any harm.
In fact, they say themselves that the wet thickens the cloth of their
raiment and keeps them warm. And that they are often really warm is
obvious enough when the steam may be seen rising from them, as if
they were drying themselves before a fire. The only concession I ever
noticed a Highlander make is now and then to take off his cap, if the
water is trickling from it down his neck, and to wring the rain out of
it before putting it on again. As an illustration of how strong and
persistent this national trait is, it may be mentioned that about the
middle of the eighteenth century a Highlander from the forest of Mam
More emigrated to Canada, where after some years he was visited by an
old friend from Scotland who, when the man was out of the way, asked
his wife and daughters whether he ever talked of the Highlands. They
said he frequently did so, and though he was fairly content with his
home in the colony, he would often complain that there was not rain
enough. When a good heavy shower came, he would go out and stand in it
till he was quite drenched; and returning into the house, dripping wet,
but with a smile of satisfaction on his face, he would say, ‘What a
comfortable thing rain is!’[41]

A lady of my acquaintance on the west coast, to whom I remarked that
it was a pity for ordinary mortals that so much rain fell there,
immediately answered me, ‘O, but you must remember, it is _dry_ rain.’
The remark appears stupidly absurd, but she was an intelligent and
observant person, who would not have made an idiotic statement. I
learnt that what she referred to was the rapidity with which the rain
disappeared from the surface of the ground and from the garments of
those exposed to it. She maintained that, owing to the more genial
climate of the west, the rain, as it fell, was warmer than on the east
side of the country, and owing to more rapid evaporation, and perhaps
to greater porousness of the soil, it vanished out of sight sooner.
Certainly from my own experience, I do not think one catches cold from
severe wetting so readily on the west as on the east coast.

In the year 1728, Aaron Hill, who is now chiefly remembered because of
his connection with Pope, became popular in the north of Scotland owing
to the vigorous, but ultimately unsuccessful efforts, he made to cut
and float down timber on the Spey, for the uses of the navy. He was
entertained by the nobles and magistrates, and received the freedom of
the town of Inverness. But he must have happened upon a spell of bad
weather, for when he halted at Berwick he wrote on the window of the
inn the following lines:

    Scotland! thy weather’s like a modish wife;
    Thy winds and rains for ever are at strife;
    So Termagant a while her thunder tries,
    And when she can no longer scold--she cries.[42]

[Sidenote: WIND AND RAIN]

More trying to the temper than the rain is the wind that too often
sweeps across the country. Men who have to ‘strive with all the tempest
in their teeth,’ acquire a certain compression of the lips and look of
determination which sometimes, by the end of a long and weather-beaten
life, may become permanent. Edinburgh, built on ridges exposed to the
breeze from all quarters, is said to be distinguished by the ‘windy
walk’ of its inhabitants. Ami Boué was struck with the wall that ran
along the middle of the earthen mound which was thrown across the
central valley, in order to connect the old and the new town of that
city, and he tells us that pedestrians chose one or other side of this
wall according to the quarter from which the continual and often
violent winds blew. ‘How many hats,’ he exclaims, ‘were lost there in a
year! I wore out more umbrellas in my four years of residence in Great
Britain than during all the rest of my life. Macintoshes had not been
invented.’[43]

[Sidenote: WEATHER SALUTATIONS]

To any one intent on some definite employment out-of-doors, such as
fishing, sketching, botanising, geological mapping, or any pursuit
where quiet air is necessary, nothing can be more exasperating than a
struggle against the ceaseless driving of the blast. Mere heavy rain,
if it fall straight, can be endured, for it allows one to stand, to
turn round, and if an umbrella be used, to consult a map or guide-book.
With a furious wind, however, you can do nothing but

    Grow sick, and damn the climate--like a lord.

In Scotland, as in other countries having a variable climate, the
weather has long been a staple subject with which to introduce a
conversation. And it is curious that even when the sky is overcast,
with a threatening of rain, the usual greeting, ‘It’s a fine day,’
may not infrequently be heard as the beginning of the colloquy. So
inveterate is this habit that the observation is apt to escape from
the lips, even when the meteorological conditions make it grotesquely
out of place, as in the case of the man who made use of it on a day of
howling tempest, but immediately corrected himself: ‘It’s a fine day,’
said he,--‘but coorse.’

Remarks about the weather have been known to be resented on Sundays as
an unbecoming topic of conversation for that solemn season. When the
usual salutation had been made to one of the more strait-laced elders,
he testily answered, ‘Ay, but whatna a day’s this, to be speakin’ about
days?’

Still more gruff was the Aberdonian response to the ordinary greeting
of a stranger on a country road, ‘Ou ay, fae’s findin’ faut wi’ the
day. There’s some folk wad fecht wi’ a stane wa’.’

The number of days in a year when an outdoor walk is impracticable on
account of the weather is in Scotland far smaller than people might
imagine. Of course there come storms of wind and rain that will keep
one a prisoner for a day or so at a time. But even in these storms
there are not infrequently lulls, when a brisk walk may be enjoyed
before the tempest begins again. Geological surveying affords a good
test of climate, and I have found it quite possible to carry this work
on the whole year through. Snow puts a stop to it, but many winters
come and go without leaving snow on the lowlands at all, or at least
for more than a day or two altogether.

Those who are familiar with the peculiarly genial and healthy climate
of the southern shores of the Moray Firth have sometimes thought
that as good an argument as many that have been brought forward
to prove that Shakespeare visited Scotland, might be based on the
extraordinarily minute and accurate description which he gives of the
climate of that region.

                              The air
    Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself
    Unto our gentle senses. This guest of summer,
    The temple-haunting martlet, does approve
    By his loved mansionry that the heaven’s breath
    Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze,
    Buttress nor coign of vantage, but this bird
    Hath made his bed and procreant cradle;
    Where they most breed and haunt I have observed
    The air is delicate.

The salubrity of the climate has been recognised for many years by
medical men, who, as already mentioned, send their patients from the
south of England to these northern shores.

[Sidenote: IRISHMAN AND HIGHLANDER]

The most suggestive illustration of the influence of environment upon
the character of the people is probably to be found in the Highlands.
There can be no doubt that the Celtic inhabitants of that region belong
to the same stock as those of Ireland. We know, indeed, as a historical
fact, that the south-western districts of Scotland were actually
peopled from Ireland. Yet no one familiar with the population of the
two countries can fail to recognise the contrasts which they present
to each other, both in general physique and in habits and temperament.
Neither race has kept itself pure and unmixed, but in each case the
foreign infusion has been of the same kind in varying proportions.
Norsemen, Danes, Normans, English, have mingled with the Celtic stock
in both islands. The Irishman, however, has had the advantage of, on
the whole, a better climate. His country possesses far more level
ground and a much larger proportion of arable soil. His mountains rise
up for the most part as islands out of a vast plain, and thus have
offered little serious impediment to the free intercourse of the people
from one end of the island to the other. Hence he has been able to sow
and reap his crops, and to rear his sheep, cattle and horses, with
comparatively little opposition from nature. Moreover, he has escaped
the shadow of the Calvinistic gloom. His religion has not repressed his
natural liveliness of temperament. His clergy have not set themselves
to eradicate all his superstitions and usages, habits and customs, but
have allowed these free play where they were not clearly opposed to
the cause of morality. And thus his gaiety, if it has not been greatly
promoted by the cheerfulness of his surroundings, has at least not
been always and everywhere dimmed and chastened by a contest with his
environment for the means of subsistence, save where the population has
increased beyond the capacity of the ground to support it, nor by a
stern and inquisitorial interference on the part of his priesthood.

[Sidenote: GRIMNESS OF THE HIGHLANDER]

The fate of the Celt in the Highlands has been far different. There he
has found himself in a region of mountains too rugged and lofty for
cultivation, save along their bases, and too continuous to permit easy
access from one district to another, yet not sufficiently impassable
to prevent the sudden irruption of some hostile clan of mountaineers,
carrying with it slaughter and spoliation. Shut in among long, narrow,
and deep glens, he has cultivated their strips of alluvium, but has
too often found the thin stony soil to yield but a poor return for his
labour. For many a long century he had to defend his flocks and herds
from the wolf, the fox, and the wild cat.[44] The gloom of his valleys
is deepened by the canopy of cloud which for so large a part of the
year rests upon the mountain-ridges and cuts off the light and heat of
the sun. Hence his harvests are often thrown into the late autumn, and
in many a season his thin and scanty crops rot on the ground, leaving
him face to face with starvation and an inclement winter. Under these
adverse conditions he could hardly fail to become more or less subdued
and grim. But he has likewise been exposed, more irresistibly than his
fellow-countrymen of the Lowlands, to the misguided solicitude and
sombre fanaticism of kirk-sessions and Presbyteries. His tales, his
legends, and his superstitions have been derided by his ecclesiastical
guides as foolish fables; his songs, his instrumental music, and
his dances, have been stigmatised as vain and unworthy exhibitions,
his musical instruments have been broken and burnt. His natural and
innocent ebullitions of joy and mirth have been checked and repressed
as unbecoming in a being who is journeying onward to eternity.

[Sidenote: HIGHLAND CHARACTER]

Need it be matter for wonder if under these various restraining
influences the gaiety which the Highlander doubtless shared originally
with his brother in Ireland, has been in large measure replaced by
a serious sedateness, passing even into depression. When he chooses
to solace himself with music, its sad cadences seem to re-echo the
monotonous melancholy of the winds that sough past his roughly-built
cot, or howl down his glens and across his wastes of barren moorland.
But while the lighter side of his nature has thus suffered, his higher
qualities have probably been only further fostered and developed. His
struggle with climate and soil has strengthened in him a spirit of
stubborn endurance and self-reliance, which his moral training has
directed towards praiseworthy ends. This spirit finds its freest scope
in the life of a soldier. In that career, also, the instincts and
traditions of his race meet with their fullest realisation. And thus
it has come that for more than a century and a half the British Army
has had no braver or more loyal body of men than those of the Highland
regiments. On many a hard-fought field, in all parts of the world,
wherever deeds of heroism had to be done, the pibroch has thrilled and
the tartan has waved in the front.




FOOTNOTES


[1] In 1773, when Mrs. Grant of Laggan, as a girl, had to make
the journey from Inveraray to Oban there was ‘no road but the
path of cattle,’ ‘an endless moor, without any road, except a
small footpath, through which our guide conducted the horses with
difficulty.’--_Letters from the Mountains_, 5th edit., vol. i., p. 4.
Half a century later the conditions do not seem to have altered much
in that region, as shown in Dr. Norman Macleod’s _Reminiscences of a
Highland Parish_.

[2] _Lives of the Lord Chancellors_, vol. vi., p. 50. This was written
in the early years of railway enterprise. The journey is now performed
every day in seven hours and three quarters, and the time will probably
be further shortened in the not distant future.

[3] Chambers’ _Domestic Annals of Scotland_, vols. ii. and iii.

[4] _Letters from a Gentleman in the North of Scotland_ [Captain Burt],
5th edit., vol. i., p. 203, footnote by Editor R. Jamieson.

[5] Dr. Norman Macleod, writing in 1867, stated that since the
beginning of the last wars of the French Revolution the island of
Skye alone had sent forth 21 lieutenant-generals and major-generals;
48 lieutenant-colonels; 600 commissioned officers; 10,000 soldiers; 4
governors of colonies; 1 governor-general; 1 adjutant-general; 1 chief
baron of England; and 1 judge of the Supreme Court of Scotland. The
martial tide is now but feeble, though some additions could still be
made to the list.

[6] It will be remembered what a high opinion Johnson formed of the
learning and breeding of the West Highland clergy. There is no reason
to think they have deteriorated since his time, though possibly their
learning would not now be singled out for special eulogium.

[7] _Life of Chalmers_, vol. iv., p. 450. The catastrophe of the last
ladleful is not given by Dr. Hanna.

[8] _Primitiæ et Ultima, or the Early Labours and Last Remains that
will meet the public eye_, etc., etc., _of the late Rev. and learned
Mr. Thomas Boston, minister of the Gospel at Ettrick, now first
published from his MSS_. In three volumes. Edinburgh, 1800.

[9] Many years ago I told this story to my friend Mr. Thomas Constable
(son of Scott’s publisher), and a few days thereafter received a note
from him asking if I would write it down. This I did, and he told
me afterwards that for a time he carried my MS. in his pocket and
read from it to his friends, but that the paper becoming tender with
frequent use, he had the manuscript thrown into type, struck off a
number of copies, and circulated them among his acquaintance. One of
these copies must have fallen into the hands of Mr. Mark Boyd, who, in
his _Social Gleanings_, London, 1875, p. 57, printed the story as here
given.

[10] A. Carmichael, _Carmina Gadelica_ (1900), vol. i. p. 163.

[11] _Superstitions of the Highlands and Islands of Scotland, collected
entirely from oral sources_, 1900, and _Witchcraft and Second Sight in
the Highlands and Islands of Scotland_, 1902.

[12] _Horae Sabbaticae_, by Godfrey Higgins, 1833, p. 2.

[13] Higgins, _Horae Sabbaticae_, p. 53.

[14] _English Bards and Scotch Reviewers_, l. 632.

[15] Thus Mrs. Grant of Laggan tells us that she sat up on Sunday
night, 17th October, 1794, that she might write a letter to a friend
‘without infringing on a better day.’--_Letters from the Mountains_,
5th edit., vol. iii., p. 14.

[16] _Satyre of the Three Estaitis_, Part ii.

[17] More ludicrous still was the desire of the Highland porter in
Glasgow who, as Dr. Norman Macleod relates, ‘sent his amputated finger
to be buried in the graveyard of the parish beside the remains of his
kindred. It is said also that a bottle of whisky was sent along with
the finger, that it might be entombed with all honour.’

[18] The statistics for Edinburgh University during 1903 show that of
the 1451 students of medicine 677 or over 46 per cent. belonged to
Scotland; 333, or nearly 23 per cent., were from England and Wales; 118
from Ireland; 72 from India; 232, or about 16 per cent., from British
Colonies; and 19 from foreign countries.

[19] This story is sometimes said to have been told by the Rev. Dr.
Guthrie. It is also reported as having had its origin in a smiddy at
Auchtermuchty, in Fife. The idea is probably as old as the human race.
The Ayrshire farmer’s expression of it however was a good deal more
graphic than Pope’s

    We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow,
    Our wiser sons, no doubt, will think us so.


[20] Another version of this story changes the father into the
grandmother!

[21] _Letters from the Mountains_, 5th edition, vol. ii., p. 124

[22] Burt’s _Letters_, 5th edition (1818), vol. ii., pp. 46, 47.

[23] _Essays on the Superstitions of the Highlanders of Scotland_
(1811), vol. ii., p. 143. Writing some thirty years earlier she
expressed herself to the same effect in her _Letters from the
Mountains_, vol. ii., p. 103.

[24] There were probably many descents and slaughters in these islands
of which no historic record remains. It is known, however, that in
1585 a party of Macdonalds from Skye was forced by stress of weather
to take refuge in the part of Jura belonging to Maclean of Dowart.
Two gentlemen of the Macdonald clan, independently driven at the same
time into a neighbouring inlet, remained concealed from their kinsmen
and secretly carried off by night a number of Maclean’s cattle, which
they took with them to sea, intending that the blame should fall on
their chief. The Macleans, on discovering the robbery, attacked the
Macdonalds who remained, and slew sixty of them, the chief escaping
only because he had slept that night on board his galley.

[25] See J. G. Campbell’s _Superstitions of the Highlands and Islands
of Scotland_ (1900), pp. 112, 114, 121.

[26] _Letters from the Mountains_, vol. i., p. 112; _Essays on the
Superstitions of the Highlanders of Scotland_, vol. ii., p. 202.

[27] A. Carmichael, _Carmina Gadelica_, 1900, Introduction, p. xxvi.
Dr. Norman Macleod, who had no sympathy with this bigotry, relates--‘A
minister in a remote island parish once informed me that “on religious
grounds,” he had broken the only fiddle on the island. His notion of
religion, I fear, is not rare among his brethren in the far west and
north.’--_Reminiscences of a Highland Parish_, p. 35.

[28] A. Carmichael, _op. cit._, p. xxviii.

[29] A. Carmichael, _op. cit._, vol. i., pp. 258, 276.

[30] This anecdote has been variously related; but the version given
here is probably the true one.

[31] Translated from the Gaelic by A. Carmichael, _Carmina Gadelica_,
vol. ii., p. 235.

[32] In another version the predatory animal has become a wild sow!

[33] This story is told with variations in the name of the parish and
number of interments.

[34] The story of this entombment alive is told in my _Geological
Sketches at Home and Abroad_, p. 71.

[35] Kay’s _Edinburgh Portraits_, vol. i. p. 57.

[36] There are various versions of this story; and different towns are
assigned as that to which it refers. I heard it more than forty years
ago in the form given above.

[37] _Life of Chalmers_, iv. p. 462.

[38] Opening Address to Royal Society of Edinburgh, 1st December, 1862.
The distinguished author expresses regret that a certain feeling of
patriotism did not still keep a portion of the labours of the Scottish
geologists for the Transactions of the Scottish Royal Society, and he
makes a kindly and half prophetic allusion to my own probable removal
to London. I may here say that I never forgot his words, and that I
have considered it a duty as well as a pleasure, even when no longer
resident in Scotland, to send some of the results of my researches to
the Royal Society of Edinburgh.

[39] This and the next paragraph are taken with some alterations from
my _Life of A. C. Ramsay_.

[40] _Journey of a Tour to the Western Islands_, 1757, p. 124.

[41] Burt’s _Letters_, vol. ii., p. 28.

[42] Burt in his _Letters_ says that he found these lines scribbled
on the window with the initials A. H. at the end of them, and he
conjectured them to be Hill’s. They were afterwards included in
the poems of that writer, who seems to have had a passion for thus
disfiguring window-panes, for he has collected a series of his verses
‘written on windows in several parts of the kingdom in a journey to
Scotland.’

[43] From Boué’s _Autobiography_, which he wrote in French some time
before his death, and printed in Vienna. It abounds in misprints, over
and above those of which he appends a long list, and reminds one of the
French of his _Esquisse Géologique sur l’Écosse_. He addressed copies
of the work in his own handwriting to his friends, to be distributed
after his death. Mine was not only inscribed to me inside, but the
postal cover was also addressed by him, and I received it by post
shortly after the news came that he had passed away.

[44] The last wolf is believed to have been killed in Scotland about
the year 1743 in the forest of Tarnaway, Morayland, by Macqueen
of Pall-a’-Chrocain, a deer-stalker of great stature and strength
(Chambers’ _Domestic Annals of Scotland_, Vol. III. p. 609). The
fox is still common in many districts, where it is hunted with dogs
and rifles. The wild-cat is becoming scarce, but continues to haunt
some of the mountainous tracts of the Highlands. A number of captive
individuals are kept in confinement at the Earl of Seaforth’s residence
in Glen Urquhart.




INDEX.


  Aberfoyle, Bailie Nicol Jarvie’s coulter at, 18.

  Accent, persistence of local, 368.

  Advocates at Scottish Bar, 148, 154.

  Ailsa Craig, legendary origin of, 420.

  Alexander, Rev. Dr. W. L., 19.

  Angling experiences, 288.

  Anstruther, 364.

  Arctic shells of Kyles of Bute, 362.

  Ardnamurchan, Point of, 163.

  Argyll, Duke of, 187.

  Arran, village ‘natural’ in, 332;
    Parliamentary election in, 362.

  ‘Aster’ steam yacht, 248, 255, 282, 284.

  Avoch, saint’s well in, 112.

  Ayrshire ministers, 67, 70;
    Sabbath observance in, 138;
    lairds, 190;
    miners, 116, 313, 336;
    witches, 336.


  Bailies in Scotland, 359.

  Bald Robert, 341.

  Baptismal rites, 68.

  Barometer, use of, by farmers, 211.

  Barra, 45.

  Benbecula, 45.

  Berwick-on-Tweed, tombstone at, 326.

  Birkhill, Moffatdale, 300.

  Black Isle, 414.

  Black, Joseph, tomb of, 327;
    anecdotes of, 352;
    one of the scientific lights of Edinburgh, 371.

  Black, William, 31.

  Blackie, John Stuart, 175, 272.

  Boswell, James, 349.

  Boué, Ami, 383, 431.

  Boulders, explanations of origin of, 417.

  Breadalbane, second Marquis of, 185, 346.

  Breakfasts, former sociality of, 350;
    attractions of, in Scotland, 405.

  Brodick, ‘natural’ at, 332.

  Buckhaven, 364.

  Burke and Hare, murders by, 324.

  ‘Burning the water,’ 288.

  Burns, Robert, 116, 144, 368.

  Burt’s _Letters from a Gentleman in the North of Scotland_, 17,
          235, 314, 431.

  Bute, volunteer battery on, 64;
    social changes in, 360.

  Butler, S., cited, 125, 297, 351.

  Butter, superstitions in making of, 114.

  Byron, cited, 126, 157, 173, 349.


  Caithness, 275, 414.

  Callernish, standing stones of, 39, 248.

  Campbell, Lord Chancellor, 12.

  Campbell, Rev. J. Gregorson, cited, 108, 257.

  Canal travelling, 14.

  Canna Island, 45;
    a broken leg in, 162.

  Castles in West Highlands, 253.

  Catechising in church, 71.

  Celtic Church, 40, 60, 108.

  Chalmers, Dr., 179, 365, 379.

  Chambers, Robert, 173, 341, 346, 352, 380, 437.

  Chang, the Chinese giant, 322.

  Christison, Sir R., 177.

  Churchill, 161.

  Clans, dispersion of, 267.

  Cleanliness, former want of, in Scottish inns and towns, 302.

  Clergy, influence of, in Scotland, 47, 101, 438.

  Clubs, convivial, 350, 358.

  Clyde, social changes in district of, 360.

  Cockburn, Henry, 4, 350, 352, 369.

  Collier superstitions, 116, 336;
    servitude in Scotland, 341;
    humour, 345.

  ‘Corp,’ use of the word, in Scotland, 328.

  Crail, 324, 364.

  Crofter-life in Highlands, 219, 224, 330, 397, 399, 401.

  Cromarty, holy well near, 112.

  Cromwell, tradition connected with, in Lammermuir, 208.

  Cullen, Lord, 150.

  Culloden, effects of Battle of, 2.

  Curling, game of, 218.

  Cyclists and inns, 360.


  Dalquharran Castle, 193.

  Dancing, sinfulness of, 141.

  Darlings of Priestlaw, 206.

  Death, Scottish humour in relation to, 321.

  Dechen, H. von, 383.

  Deer, depredations of, in Highlands, 220.

  ‘Deserts’ of the Celtic saints, 41.

  Devil, superstitions connected with the, 114, 417.

  ‘Devilish,’ modern use of the word, 118.

  Dinner customs, 318.

  Disruption of the Church of Scotland, 96.

  Dogs, shepherds’, 296.

  Dolphinton, railways to, 21.

  Drink in Scotland, 303, 310.

  Drunkenness, Scottish, 312.

  Dryden, cited, 129.

  Dunbar, fisher folk of, 365.

  Dunvegan Castle, 253.


  Edinburgh, stage-coaches from, 8, 10, 13;
    street preaching in, 75;
    Sunday walking in, 126;
    medical school of, 156;
    University of, 166;
    former dirtiness of, 348;
    convivial clubs of, 351, 355, 357;
    Geology in, 371;
    cliff portrait near, 421;
    wind of, 431.

  Eigg, steamboats to, 31;
    Roman Catholicism in, 45;
    massacre of Macdonalds in, 254.

  Eviction, a Highland, 225.

  Excise officers on English Border, 304.


  Fairies, 108.

  Fairs in the Highlands, 233.

  Fairy-stones, 422.

  Farm-life in the Highlands, 219.

  Farm-servants, 215.

  Farmers, Lowland, 205.

  Faroe Isles, 284.

  Fast Day, 139.

  Ferries in Highlands, 239.

  Field-geologist, experiences of a, 386.

  Fisher-folk of Eastern Scotland, 363.

  Fisherrow, 365.

  Fleming, John, 381.

  Flint, imitative shapes in, 424.

  Fogs on northern seas, 284, 427.

  Footprints, supposed, in rock, 423.

  Forbes, James David, 373, 374.

  Forth, fisher-towns of the, 363.

  Foula, Isle of, 282.

  Free Church, influence of, in Highlands, 141, 261.

  Funerals and half-witted folk, 329.


  Gaelic in court, 150;
    dying out of, 268;
    topographical names, 269;
    difficulty of acquiring, 270.

  Galloway, inns of, 305.

  Gannets, 42, 251.

  Geikie, Prof. James, 390.

  Geological Survey, 379, 380, 387.

  Geology, Scottish school of, 370.

  Glasgow, stage-coaches from, 8, 13;
    medical school of, 156;
    a professor at, 168.

  Goat in kirk, 89;
    taken for ‘Auld Hornie,’ 118.

  Golf, early attractions of, 122;
    derived from Scotland, 305, 367;
    anecdotes of, 367.

  Grant, Mrs., of Laggan, 9, 234, 237.

  Gravediggers, 322.

  Gravestones, 325,
    rapid decay of, 326.

  Grierson of Lag, 197.

  Gull, Sir W., 160.


  Haidinger, W., 382.

  Hall, Sir James, of Dunglass, 371.

  Hanna, Dr., 69, 74, 81, 364.

  Harris, Sound of, 252.

  Heaven and Hell, influence of belief in a material, 103.

  Hebrides, medical attendance in, 161;
    scenery of, 248;
    charm of, 258;
    geologists in, 393.

  Henderson, Alexander, tomb of, 327.

  Highlander, demureness of, 261;
    gentlemanliness of, 414;
    disregards rain, 428;
    influence of environment on, 435.

  Highlands, history of roads in, 2, 8;
    songs of, 16, 264;
    railway construction in, 23;
    steamboats in, 27–36;
    telegraph in, 37;
    Celtic Church in, 40, 60;
    ministers in, 53–66, 74, 80;
    sermon in, 83;
    church-psalmody in, 92;
    Established and Free Churches in, 96, 141;
    Sabbath observance in, 128;
    dancing in, 141;
    medical attendance in, 161;
    laziness in, 234;
    want of manufactures in, 237;
    ferries and coaches in, 239;
    castles in, 253;
    crusade against music in, 260, 438;
    topographical names in, 269;
    inns of, 306;
    whisky in, 315;
    geologists in, 393;
    breakfast in, 405.

  Hill, Aaron, 430.

  Horner, Leonard, 174, 373.

  Hoy, cliffs of, 277.

  Hume’s ‘Essays,’ 155.

  Humour, character of Scottish 50, 52.

  Hutcheson, David, 29.

  Hutton, James, anecdotes of, 353;
    one of the founders of modern geology, 371.


  Idiots in Scotland, 331.

  Inns, Scottish, 302.

  Iona, cathedral of, 44;
    island of, 244.

  Irishman and Highlander compared, 435.


  Jameson, Robert, 372.

  Jeffrey, Francis, 349.

  Johnson, Samuel, 349, 406.

  Jura, unburied skeleton in, 255;
    caves of, 256;
    laird of, 257.

  Jury-trial in Scotland, 145.


  Kennedy, T. F., of Dunure, 10, 190.

  Knox, Robert, 157.


  _Lady of the Lake_, influence of, 16.

  Lairds, Scottish, 185.

  Lammermuir, 206.

  Landed proprietors, 185.

  Law, Scottish fondness for, 142.

  Legends connected with topography, 416.

  Lesmahagow, 99.

  Lewis, Isle of, 248.

  Litigiousness of Scotsmen, 142.

  Loch Alsh, 63.

  „ Carron, 421.

  „ Coruisk, 408.

  „ Duich, 62.

  „ Katrine in 1843, 15;
      in 1810, 16.

  „ Lomond, first steamboats on, 15;
      ferry on, 16.

  „ Maree, 111.

  „ Roag, 248.

  „ Scavaig, 407, 409.

  „ Striven, 64.

  London, travelling to, 9, 10.

  Lyell, Sir Charles, 317, 373.

  Lyke-wakes, 124, 330.

  Lyndsay, Sir David, 142.


  Macculloch, John, 393.

  Macintoshes and Macgregors, 268.

  Mackinnon of Corriehatachan, 394.

  Mackinnon, Rev. John, of Strath, 53, 96, 219.

  Maclagan, Sir D., 177, 356.

  Maclaren, Charles, 375.

  Macleod, Dr. Norman, 9, 165, 394.

  Macnee, Sir D., 145.

  Maconochie Welwood, Allan, 168.

  Macrae, Rev. Mr., of Glenelg, 61.

  Mania, religious, 105.

  Manses of the Highlands, 57.

  Marble, rapid open-air decay of, 327.

  Martin’s _Western Islands_, 110.

  Medical profession in Scotland, 156.

  Metal-mining, 346.

  Miller, Hugh, on women colliers, 344;
    references to, 375, 377, 394, 397.

  Mineral-oil, consequences of introduction of, 266.

  Minister’s ‘man’, 97.

  Ministers, Scottish, 47, 48, 53–76, 77–106.

  Moffatdale, 300.

  Moray, climate of, 160, 434.

  Mull, steamboats to, 33.

  Murchison, Sir R. I., 129–186, 309, 373, 379, 394.

  Murray, Lord, 192.

  Music, instrumental, in Scottish kirks, 94;
    in the Highlands, 263, 438.

  Musselburgh, 365.


  ‘Naturals’ in Scottish villages, 331.

  Neaves, Lord, 139, 151.

  Neptunist School of Geology, 372.

  Newhaven, 365.

  Nicol, James, 381.

  North Berwick Links, 367.

  North, Christopher, 405.

  Norsemen in Scotland, 411.


  Ochil Hills, metal-mining in, 346.

  Old Red Sandstone, supposed footprints in, 423.

  Orkney Islands, 274.


  Pabba island, 397.

  Paganism, traces of, in Scotland, 38, 107.

  Palmer’s Stage-coaches, 12.

  Papa Stour, 279.

  Parish-visiting by Scottish ministers, 98.

  Parliamentary election in Bute, 361.

  Patriotism, Scottish, 358.

  Peach, Mr. B. N., 275.

  Peat, time for cutting, 114.

  Physiognomy affected by topography, 415.

  Pig, prejudice against, in Highlands, 114.

  Pillans, Professor, 173, 350, 357.

  Pine-candles and torches, 266.

  Pittenweem, 364.

  Playfair, Lord, 139, 178, 356.

  Popery, Scottish abhorrence of, 95.

  Posting in Scotland, 9.

  Precentors, 92.

  Provosts, Scottish, 359.

  Publican, Irish, in Scotland, 311.


  Queensferry, South, 100.


  Raasay, isle of, 93, 227.

  Railways in Scotland, 15, 20–27.

  Rain in Scotland, 428.

  Resurrectionists, 323.

  Roads in Scotland, history of, 2, 8.

  Robertson, Patrick, 148.

  Rodil, church of, 44, 252.

  Roman Catholicism in Scotland, 45, 111.

  Rothesay, growth of, 360.

  Royal Society Club (Edinburgh), 176, 355.

  Rutherford Clark, Lord, 153.


  Sabbath observance, history of, 119;
    illustrations of, 126.

  St. Andrews, Celtic church at, 44;
    Kirk Session Register of, 121;
    professor at, 167;
    fisher part of, 364.

  St. Kilda, 250.

  St. Monans, 364.

  St. Vigeans, 45.

  Saints’ wells, 111.

  Salmon, _à la mode_, 290.

  Salters, formerly slaves, 341.

  Sanday Island, 46.

  Saxon element, cause of distribution of, in population of Scotland, 411.

  Schoolmasters in Scotland, 180.

  Scots drink, 303.

  Scots language, decay of, 368.

  _Scotsman_ newspaper, founded by Charles Maclaren, 376.

  Scott, Michael, and witches, 418.

  Scott, Walter, his influence on the tourist traffic in Scotland, 16;
    his fiction characters, 143, 238, 302;
    his repartee on Patrick Robertson, 148.

  Sculptured Stones, 44.

  Sedgwick, Adam, 394, 395.

  Sermons in Scottish kirks, 77.

  Shakespeare and the climate of Moray, 434.

  Sheep-stealing, 232.

  Shenstone, cited, 323.

  Shepherds, 294.

  Shetland Isles, 274, 279, 427.

  Shiant Isles, 421.

  Shiels, Tibbie, 299.

  Skye, in 1773, 28;
    communication with, 29, 31, 36;
    ministers in, 53–64;
    Disruption in, 96;
    fairies in, 108;
    superstitions in, 112;
    Sabbath observance in, 133;
    farm-life in, 219;
    crofters of, 224, 397;
    an eviction in, 225;
    fairs in, 233;
    place-names in, 269;
    old inns of, 306;
    funeral in, 330;
    geologists in, 393, 395, 396.

  Slaves, Scottish, 341.

  Sleeping in church, 85.

  Smith, James, of Jordanhill, 362.

  Smith, Sydney, 302, 349.

  Snails, a dish of, 354.

  Snow-storm in Southern Uplands, 299.

  South Uist, 45.

  Southern Uplands, reminiscences of, 294–302.

  Spain, insurrection in, 169.

  Spar Cave, 407.

  Speldings and drink, 304.

  Springs, superstitions connected with, 111.

  Staffa, 246.

  Stage-coaches in Scotland, 8, 10.

  Standing Stones, 39, 108, 248.

  Steamboats on Scottish lakes, 15;
    to London, 18;
    in West Highlands, 27–36.

  Stewart, Dugald, 346.

  Stories, perennial reappearance of Scottish, 86, 292.

  Story, Principal, 88.

  Street-preachers, 74.

  Stroma, Isle of, 275.

  Sùla Sgeir, islet of, 41.

  Superstition in Scotland, 107–119, 416.

  Supper, former importance of, 350.

  Sutherland, Sabbath observance in, 131.

  Sweetheart Abbey, 325.


  Tait, Prof. P. G., 180.

  Talla, valley of the, 294, 298.

  Terrot, Bishop, 357.

  Thorn, Rev. Mr., of Govan, 86.

  Tippeny, 303.

  Toasts, Scottish, 318.

  Tombstone inscriptions, 325.

  Topographical features, influence of, on population of Scotland, 410;
    legends suggested by, 416.

  Town-life in Scotland, 347.

  Towns, former condition of Scottish, 347.

  Travel, former modes of, in Scotland, 8.

  Trossachs, 15, 17.

  Trout in a Skye well, 110.


  Universities, changes in the, 165

  University professors, 159.

  Unst Lighthouse, 283.


  Victoria, Queen, and Sabbath observance, 136.

  Vulcanist School of Geology, 372.


  Waller, quoted, 426.

  Water-bull, 113.

  Water-horse, 113.

  Weather and climate, difference between, 426;
    anecdotes connected with, 432.

  Wells, holy, 111.

  Werner, A. G., 371, 372.

  Western Isles. _See_ Hebrides.

  Whisky and law-pleas, 144;
    and interments, 165, 330;
    potency of, 285, 313;
    modern increase in consumption of, 303, 305;
    before breakfast, 405.

  Witches, 115, 336.

  Witnesses, Scottish, 150.

  Wolf in the Highlands, 292, 437.

  Women in Scottish coal-mines, 341, 343.

  Women’s work in the Highlands, 235.

  Wood, Long Sandy, 157.

  Writers to the Signet, 154.


  Yarrow, valley of the, 299.

  Young, Professor John, 298, 335.


GLASGOW: PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO. LTD.




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Transcriber’s note:

Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a
predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they
were not changed.

Simple typographical errors were corrected; unpaired quotation
marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and otherwise left
unpaired.

Running page headers in the original book are shown here as sidenotes,
repositioned between paragraphs and close to relevant text.

The index was not checked for proper alphabetization or correct page
references.