A POET'S SKETCH-BOOK WORKS BY ROBERT BUCHANAN. Ballads of Life, Love, and Humour. With a Frontispiece by ARTHUR HUGHES. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. Selected Poems of Robert Buchanan. With Frontispiece by T. DALZIEL. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. Undertones. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. London Poems. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. The Book of Orm. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. White Rose and Red : A Love Story. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. Idylls and Legends of Inverburn. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. St. Abe and his Seven Wives : A Tale of Salt Lake City. With a Frontis- piece by A. B. HOUGHTON. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 55. The Hebrid Isles : Wanderings in the Land of Lome and the Outer He- brides. With Frontispiece by W. SMALL. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. A Poet's Sketch-Book. Selections from the Prose writings of ROBERT BUCHANAN. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. Robert Buchanan's Complete Poeti- cal Works. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 75. 6d. [In preparation. The Shadow of the Sword: A Ro- mance. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 35. 6d. ; post 8vo, illust. boards, 25. A Child of Nature: A Romance. With a Frontispiece. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 35. 6d. ; post 8vo, illustrated boards, zs. God and the Man : A Romance. With Illustrations by FRED. BARNARD. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 35. 6d. The Martyrdom of Madeline : A Ro- mance. With a Frontispiece by A. W. COOPER. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 35. 6d. Love Me for Ever. With a Frontis- piece by P. MACNAB. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 35. 6d. Annan Water : A Romance. Three Vols., crown 8vo, 315. 6d. CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY, W. POETS SKETCH-BOOK Selections from tlje Prose OF ROBERT BUCHANAN $ n b a it CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY 1883 [A I1 1 ights reserved] CONTENTS. THE POET OR SEER : A DEFINITION I. Vision, ...... i II. Emotion, . .11 III. Music, . . . . .21 DAVID GRAY : A MEMOIR, 3 1 LITERARY SKETCHES Thomas Love Peacock : a Personal Reminiscence, . 93 The Good Genie of Fiction : Charles Dickens, . 119 Ossian, . . . .141 Two Poets: Heuie and de Musset, . . IS 2 Victor Hugo, . . . . .157 Prose and Verse : a Stray Note, . . 165 NATURE SKETCHES The Highland Seasons, . . .183 Lakes and Woods, . . .188 The Moors, ...... 190 The Shielings, ... .192 Dunollie Castle, . . . . 195 Rain and Rainbows.. . . . .197 Drought in the Highlands, . . . 199 The Ascent of Cruachan, . . . . 2OI A Day Afloat, . . . . ' .204 Canna and Skye, . . . . . . 206 Celtic Superstition, . . . . 208 Herring Fishers, ..... 217 CONTENTS. The Outer Hebrides, ..... 224 Hebridean Lagoons, ..... 228 The Lochan, ...... 231 Eagles and Ravens, . . . . 232 Hawks and Owls, ..... 235 The Water-Ouzel, . ... 239 The Kingfisher, . ... 242 Hebridean Birds, . ... 244 Night in the Sea, ..... 247 Morning Glimpses : off Skye, . . . 249 A Sunset, ...... 252 The Birth of the Cuchullins, . . . -255 Hart-o'-Corry, ..... 259 Loch Corruisk, . . . . .261 Canna and its People, . . . .267 Eiradh of Canna, ..... 279 PREFATORY NOTE. THIS volume of Prose Selections is intended as a com- panion to the lately-published volume of selections from the author's Poems. Special prominence has been given in it, therefore, to personal and descriptive matter, to the exclusion of mere criticism. It is, in fact, what it is called, a Poet's Sketch-Book, and will be chiefly interesting to those who take an interest in the author as a writer of poems. The prose tale with which the selection concludes requires, perhaps, a word of special explanation. It is a study in the manner of the Celtic genius, and is, to the author's own thinking, far more completely a poem than anything he has published in verse. THE POET, OR SEER: A DEFINITION THE POET, OR SEER. I. VISION. HAT is the Poet, or Seer, as distinguished from the philosopher, the man of science, the politician, the tale-teller, and others with whom he has many points in common ? He is, indeed, a student as other students are, but he is emphatically the student who sees, who feels, who sings. The Poet, briefly described, is he whose existence con- stitutes a new experience who sees life newly, assimil- ates it emotionally, and contrives to utter it musically. His qualities, therefore, are triune. His sight must be individual, his reception of impressions must be emo- tional, and his utterance must be musical. Deficiency in any one of the three qualities is fatal to his claims for office. I. And first, as to the Glamour, the rarest and most important of all gifts ; so rare, indeed, and so powerful, that it occasionally creates, in very despite of nature, the 4 THE POET, OR SEER. other poetic qualities Yet that individual sight may exist in a character essentially unpoetic, in a tempera- ment purely intellectual, might be proven by reference to more than one writer notably, to a leading novelist. That proof, however, is immaterial. The point is, how to detect this individual sight, this Glamour, how to describe it, how, in fact, to find a criterion which will prove this or that person to be or not to be a Seer. The criterion is easily found and readily applied We find it in the special intensity, the daring reiteration, the unwearisome tautology, of the utterance. The Seer is so occupied with his vision, so devoted in the contempla- tion of the new things which nature reserved for his special seeing, that he can only describe over and over again in numberless ways in infinite moods of grief, ecstasy, awe the character of his sight. He has dis- covered a new link, and his business is to trace it to its uttermost consequences. . He beholds the world as it has been, but under a new colouring. While small men are wandering up and down the world, proclaiming a thousand discoveries, turning up countless moss-grown truths, the Seer is standing still and wrapt, gazing at the apparition, invisible to all eyes save his, holding his hand upon his heart in the exquisite trouble of perfect percep- tion. And behold ! in due time, his inspiration becomes godlike, insomuch as the invisible relation is incorpor- ated in actual types, takes shape and being, and breathes and moves, and mingles in tangible glory into the ap- proven culture of the world. THE POET, OR SEER. 5 For, let it be noted, Nature is greedy of her truths, and generally ordains that the perception of one link in the chain of her relations is enough to make man great and sacerdotal; only twice, in supreme moments, she creates a Plato and a Shakespeare, proving the possibility, twice in time, of a sight imperfect but demi-godlike. " Life is a stream of awful passions, yet grandeur of character is attainable if we dare the fatal fury of the torrent." Thus said the Greek tragedians, but how variously ! The hopelessness of the struggle, yet the grandeur of struggling at all, is uttered by all three each in his own fashion, In despite of madness, adul- tery, murder, incest, in connection with all that is horrible, in defiance of the very gods, (Edipus, Ajax, Medea, Orestes, Antigone, agonize divinely, and, perish- ing, attain the repose of antique sculpture. The same undertone pervades all this antique music, but is never so obtruded as to be wearisome. Never was the tyranny of circumstance, the inexorable penalties enforced even on the innocent when laws are broken, represented in such wondrous forms. Under such penalties the inno- cent may perish, but their reward is their very innocence. Even when they lament aloud, when they exclaim against the direness of their doom, these figures lose none of their nobility. In the Philoctetes, the very cries of physi- cal pain are dignified j in the (Edipus^ the bitterness of the blind sufferer is noble ; in the Prometheus, the shriek of triumphant agony is sublime. These three dramatists uttered the truth as they be- 6 THE POET, OR SEER. held it ; nor do they interfere in any wise with higher interpretations of the same conditions. They used the light of their generation ; and the value of their revela- tion lies in the sincerity and splendour of the contempo- rary utterance. The same thing is not to be said again. It was a cry heard early in time ; it is an echo haunting the temple of extinct gods. But its truth to humanity is eternal. We have the same agonies to this day, but we regard them differently. All that can be said on the heathen side has been said supremely. While the dramatist depicts the fortunes and question- ings of small groups and individuals, the epic poet chronicles the history of the world. It is not every day we can have an epic ; for only twice or thrice in time are there materials for an epic Homer is the historian of the gods, and of the social life under Jove and his peers ; through his page blows the fresh breeze of morning, the white tents glimmer on Troy plain, horses neigh and heroes buckle on armour, while aloft the heavens open, showing the glittering gods on the snowy shoulder of Olympus, Iris darting on the rainbow, whose lower end reddens the grim features of Poseidon, driving his chariot through the foam of the Trojan sea. The passion of the Iliad is anger, the action, war ; in the Odyssty, we have the domestic side of the same life, the softer touches of superstition, the milder influences of gods and goddesses, heroes and their queens. But the life is the same in both large, primitive, colossal absorbing all the social and religious significance of a period. THE POET, OR SEER. 7 What Homer is to the polytheism of the early Greeks, the Old Testament is to the monotheism of the Hebrews. It is the epic of that life the wilder, weirder, more spiritual poem of a wilder, weirder, more spiritual period. It is the utterance of many mouths, the poem of many episodes, but the theme is unique, pre-eminent the spirit of the one God, breathing on His chosen peoples, and steadily moving on to fixed consummations fore- shadowed in the Prophets. We have had no such wondrous epic as this since, and can have none such again. It is the poem of the one God, when yet He was merely a voice in the thundercloud, a breath between the coming and going of the winds. Where else, in Virgil's time, subsisted the matter for an epic ? To sing of ^Eneas and his fortunes was cer- tainly patriotic, but the subject, at the best, was merely local a contemporary, not an eternal, theme. The two great forms of early European life had been phrased in the two great early epics; and till Christ taught, the time for the third great poem of masses had not come. In point of fact, the third great poem has not yet been written. The New Testament, of course, is didactic, not poetic ; and the Paradise Regained of Milton is purely modern and academic. The fourth European epic is the Divine Comedy of Dante ; the fifth and last is the Paradise Lost of Milton. It is scarcely necessary to describe in detail the character of the vision in each of these cases. Dante saw Roman Catholicism as no eye ever saw it before, watched it to 8 THE POET, OR SEER. its uttermost results, made of it an image enduring by the very intensity of its outlines, framed of it the epic of the early church. Milton's perfect sight pictured, under latter lights, the wonders of the primeval world. The theme was old, but the light was new ; and no man had seen angels till Milton saw them, having been first blinded, that his spiritual sight might be unimpeded. Thus, all these men, Homer, the framers of the biblical epos, ^Eschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, Dante, Milton, were poets by virtue of having seen some side of truth as no others saw it. If some were greater than others, their materials were perhaps greater. Not every one is so situated in time as to see the subject of a new epos, waiting to be sung. But the Seer "shines in his place, and is content." Even Goethe had his truth to utter, and was so far a Seer. He was great in literature, by virtue of his spiritual littleness. It needed such a man to see Nature in the cold light of self-worship, to betoken the futility of pure artistic striving. Yet this, at the best, was negative teaching, and so far, in- ferior. But, it may be objected, these men surely expressed more than one truth in their generation. In no wise, for each had but one point of view ; there was no hovering, no doubting ; their gaze was fixed as the gaze of stars. The object is eternal, it is the point of view which changes. Take Milton, for example ; the peculiarity oi Milton as a Seer is the angelic spirituality of his sight, its rejection of all but perfectly noble types for poetic THE POET, OR SEER. 9 contemplation. It would seem that, from having once walked with angels, he sees even common things in a divine white light. He breathes the thin serene air of the mountain-top. He seems calm and passionless ; his heart beats in great glorified throbs, with no tremor ; his speech is stately and crystal clear ; he is for ever referring man to his Maker ; for ever comparing our stature with that of angels. Mark, further, that his spiritual creatures are profoundly intellectual creatures, strangely subtle and lofty reasoners. He holds pure intellect so divine a thing that, in spite of himself, he makes the Devil his hero. " The end of man," he says in effect, " is to con- template God, and enjoy Him for ever." But he says this in a way which is not final ; there may be truth beyond Milton's truth, but one does not belie the other ; this blind man saw as with the eye, and spake as with the tongue, of angels. Utterances such as these once attained, perceptions so peculiar once welded into the culture of the world, it behoves no man to re-utter them in the reiterative spirit of their first discoverers. He who looks at life exactly as Milton, or Chaucer, or Dante did, may be an excellent being, but he is certainly too late to be a Seer. Yet each new Seer is, of necessity, familiar with the dis- coveries of his predecessors ; the white light of Milton's purity chastens and solemnises Wordsworth's diction; while the glow of Elizabethan colour tinges the , pale cheek of Keats the lover. The Seer is not the person of Goethe's epigram, - 10 THE POET, OR SEER. Ein Quidam sagt : " Ich bin von keiner Scliule ; Kein Meister lebt mit dem ich buhle ; Auch bin ich weit davon entfernt, Dass ich von Todten was gelerrit. " Das heisst, wenn ich ihn recht verstand " Ich bin ein Narr auf eigne Hand ! " Nay, as each great Poet sings, we again and again catch tones struck by his predecessors Homer, ^Eschylus, Dante, Job, Solomon, Milton, Goethe, and the rest, but deeper, stronger, more permanent than all, we catch the broken voice of the man himself, saying a mystic thing that we have never heard before. The later we come down in time, the frequenter are the echoes ; they are the penalty the modern pays for his privileges. ^Eschylus and the rest echo Homer and the minstrels. The Hebrew prophets, the heathen poets, the Italian minstrels, Homer, Moses, Tasso, Dante, reverberate in every page of Milton ; yet they only add volume to the English voice. Shakespeare catches cries from all the poetic voices of Europe, 1 daringly translating into his own phraseology the visions of other and smaller singers, and mellowing his blank verse by the study even of contemporaries. In Chaucer's breezy song come odours from the Greek ^Egean, and whispers from Tuscany and Provence. Aristophanes, again and again, inspires the poetically humorous twinkle in the eyes of 1 Note how he spiritualises still further what is already spiritual in the poetic prose of Plutarch ; as an example, compare with the original passage in the Life of Antony the Speech of Enobaibus, descriptive of Cleopatra in her barge. THE POET, OR SEER. n Moliere. But the plagiarism of such writers is kingly plagiarism ; the poets ennoble the captives they take in conquest ; refusing instruction from no voice, however humble ; accepting the matter as divinely sent by nature, but seldom imitating the tones of the medium which transmits the matter. There is no better sign of unfitness for the high poetic ministry than a too tricksy delight in imitating other voices, however admirable. Racine caught the Greek stateliness so well that he has scarcely an accent of his own, save, of course, the mere general accentuation of his people. In reading him, therefore, we have con- stantly before our mind's eye the picture of a Frenchman on the stage of the great amphitheatre; we see the masks, the fixed lineaments expressive of single passions ; and we hear the high-pitched soliloquies of Greece trans- lated into a modern tongue. Racine, indeed, is better reading than any translator of the tragedians, but he is no Seer. On the other hand, Moliere was nearly as much under influence as Racine, but the splendour of his individual vision lifted him high into the ranks of poetic teachers. He was an arrant thief, robbing the playwrights of all countries without mercy, but the roguish gleam of the thief's eyes is never lost under the load of stolen raiment. We think of him, not of what he is stealing ; the dress makes plainer, instead of hiding, the natural peculiarities of the wearer. There is, then, no danger in echoes, where they do not drown the voice ; when they are too audible, that is 12 THE POET, OR SEER. the case. The greatest artists utter old truths with all the force of novelty ; not in philosophy only, but in poetry also, are the worn cries repeated over and over again. These cries are common to all the race of Seers, and may be described as the poetic "terminology." According to the dignity of the revelation will be the rank of the Seer in the Temple. The epic poet is great, because his matter is great in the first place, and because he has not fallen below the level of his matter. The dramatist is great by his truth to individual character not his own, and his power of presenting that truth while spiritualising into definite form and meaning some vague situation in the sphere of actual or ideal life. The lyric poet owes his might to the personal character of the emotion aroused by his vision. Then, there are ranks within ranks. Not an eye in the throng, however, but has some object of its own, and some peculiar sensitiveness to light, form, colour. To Milton, a pro- spect of heavenly vistas, where stately figures walk and cast no shade ; but to Pope (a seer, though low down in the ranks) the pattern of tea-cups, and the peeping of clocked stockings under farthingales. While the rouge on the cheek of modern love betrays itself to the languid yet keen eyes of Alfred de Musset, Robert Browning is proclaiming the depths of tender beauty underlying modern love and its rouge ; each is a Seer, and each is true, only one sees a truth beyond the other's truth. After Wordsworth has penetrated with solemn-sounding footfall into the aisle of the Temple, David Gray follows, THE POET, OR SEER. 13 and utters a faint cry of beautiful yearning as he dies upon the threshold. II. EMOTION. The second essential peculiarity of the Poet is that of emotional assimilation of impressions. Where intellect coerces emotion, by however faint an effort, the result is criticism of life, however exquisite. Where emotion coerces intellect, the result is poetry. It is not enough, observe, to see vividly. Sir Walter Scott could see as vividly as Keats, but he was incap- able of such emotion. Scott, indeed, is the greatest modern writer who may unhesitatingly be described as unpoetic. He was true both to human types and to society. He was able to clothe the bare outline of history with vivid form and colour. Writing at a time when individualism was at its height in England, ere Whig and Tory had merged into one vacuous nonentity, he could not fail to shadow forth those higher aspirations which are the exclusive property of individual men of genius. Yet no man ever laboured to depict trifles with a more lofty devotion to general truth. There was no finicism in the author of "Waverley." He depicted in faithful aesthetic photography the manners and qualities of ordinary or extraordinary men and women. He was not always profound, nor always noble. But over all his works lies the brilliant radiance of the artistic sym- pathies, giving, to what might otherwise have been simply 14 THE POET, OR SEER. a colourless likeness, the marvellous beauty of an ex- quisite literary painting. Scott, however, was no poet. His very success in prose fiction, as well as the failure of his metrical productions, betokens his unpoetic nature. He saw, but was not moved enough to sing. For there is this marked difference between poetic and all other utterance : it owes everything to concentration. Deep emotion is invariably rapid in its manifestation, as we may mark in the case of the ordinary cries of grief; and the temperament of the poet is so intense, so keen, that nought but concentrated utterance suffices him. On the other hand, the true secret of novel-writing is the power of expanding. The apparence of pure coercive intellect varies, of course, according to the nature of the singer. In Sappho and Catullus, and all purely lyrical Seers, the intellectual note is hardly heard at all ; in Ovid and Chaucer, it is heard faintly; in the subjective school of writers, such as Shelley, it is painfully audible. But even in Shelley, wheie he writes poetry, emotion prevails. "Queen Mab" has justly been styled a pamphlet in verse, and the "Re- volt of Islam " is only occasionally poetic. It follows that we are, on the whole, more powerfully moved by purely lyrical utterance than by utterances of higher portent. Sappho troubles us more than Sophocles, Keats more than Wordsworth. The personal cry, so sharp, so rapid, so genuine, can never fail to find an echo in our hearts. The manly exclamation of Burns, THE POET, OR SEER. 15 For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair, Or my puir heart is broken ! the fetid breath of Sappho, screaming, Cold shiverings o'er me pass, Chill sweats across me fly 1 I am greener than grass, And breathless seem to die ! the passionate voice of Catullus, Coeli, Lesbia nostra, Lesbia ilia, Ilia Lesbia, quam Catullus unam Plus quam se, atque suos anavit omnes ! the tender lament of Spenser over Sidney, the scream of Shelley, the warm sigh of Keats, all move deeply in the region of melancholy and tears. But the happy calls move us deliciously, although truly " our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought." The lighter strains of Burns, the songs of Tannahill, some verses of Horace, others of Ovid, the lyrics of Drayton and George Wither, and many other glad poems which will occur rapidly to every student, possess the lyrical light in great intensity and sweetness. But not only in poems professedly lyrical is this lyrical light to be found ; it is noticeable in poetry of any form, wherever there is extreme emotion, and may invariably be looked for as the characteristic of the true singer. CEdipus piteously exclaiming in his blindness, ri yap e'&ei p? opdv, &T6> 7' opwvri 1 6 THE POET, OR SEER. Dante, in the great joy of his divinely beloved one, feeling his pale studious, lips and cheeks turn into rose- leaves. 1 Samson Agonistes groaning, dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon, Irrevocably dark, total eclipse, Without all hope of day. Macbeth's last twilight murmur, 1 have lived long enough ; my way of life Is fallen into the sear, the yellow leaf; And that which should accompany old age, As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, I must not look to have ! Cleopatra in the heyday of her bliss ; the Sad Shepherd, chasing the footsteps of his lovej and warbling in tune- ful ecstasy, Here she was wont to go ! and here ! and here ! Just where those daisies, pinks, and violets grow : The world may find the spring by following her, For other print her airy steps ne'er left ; Her treading would not bend a blade of grass, Or shake the downy blow-ball from his stalk ; But like the soft west wind she shot along, And where she went the flowers took thickest root, As she had sow'd them with her odorous foot. And Bernardo Cenci, in the horror and anguish of that last parting, screaming, O life ! O world ! Cover me ! let me be no more ! To see * Purgatory, xxx. THE POET, OR SEER. 17 That perfect mirror of pure innocence Wherein I gazed and grew happy and good, Shiver'd to dust ! To see thee, Beatrice, Who made all lovely thou didst look upon Thee, light of life, dead, dark! While I say " sister" To hear I have no sister ; and thou, mother, Whose love was a bond to all our loves, Dead ! the sweet bond broken ! These utterances, one and all, sad or glad, are essentially lyrical, only differing from the first class of lyric utterances in belonging to fictitious personages, not to the writer. Romeo and Juliet swarms with lyrics ; every great play of Shakespeare is more or less full of them. They betoken the true dramatic force, and are less distinct in the lesser dramatist. They are plentiful in Beaumont and Fletcher, in Ford, in Webster ; less plentiful in Massinger ; scarcely audible at all in Shirley and Ben Jonson. Where they should appear in the bombastic tragedies of Dryden, rhetoric and rhodomontade appear instead ; and to come down to modern times, where shall we look for the lyrical light in the pretentious tentatives of Sheridan Knowles and Johanna Baillie ? If these tentatives sometimes rise to dignity of movement, that is the most which can be said of them. We have powerful emotional situations, and no emotion. It is here that all professed imitations of the classics fail. They reproduce the repose so admirably, as in many cases to send the reader to sleep. But we search in vain in them for the representation of the great fires, the burning passions of the originals. Insensibly, as has been 18 THE POET, OR SEER. shrewdly remarked, we derive our notions of Greek art from Greek sculpture, and forget that although calm evolution was rendered necessary by the requirements of the great amphitheatre, it was no calm life, no dainty passion, no subdued woe that was thus evolved. The lineaments of the actor's mask were fixed, but what sort of expression did each mask wear? the glazed hope- less stare of OEdipus, the white horror-stricken look of Agamemnon, the stony glitter of the eyes of Clytem- nestra, the horridly distorted glare of the Promethean Furies, the sick, suffering, and ghastly pale features of Philoctetes. Where was the calm here ? The movement of the drama was simple and slow, yet there was no calm in the heart of the actors, each of whom must fit to his mask a monotone the sneer of Ulysses, the blunted groan of Cassandra, the fierce shriek of Orestes. The passion and power have made these plays immortal ; not the slow evolution, the necessity of the early stage. They are full of the lyrical light. But though lyrical emotion is the intensest of all written forms of emotion, and must invariably be attained wherever poetry interprets the keenest human feeling and passion, there are forms of emotion wherein intellect is not coerced so strongly. Two forms may be mentioned, and briefly illustrated here emotional meditation and emotional ratiocination. Either of these forms is of subtler and more mixed quality than the purely lyrical form. We have numberless examples of emotional mediiation in Wordsworth ; the thought is strong, solemn, unmis- THE POET, OR SEER. 19 takably intellectual, but it is spiritualised withal by pro- found feeling. Observe, as an example of this, the following portion of the " Lines composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey :" sylvan Wye ! them wanderer through the woods, How often has my spirit turned to thee, And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, With many recognitions dim and faint, And somewhat of a sad perplexity, The picture of the mind revives again ; While here I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts, That in this moment there is life and food For future years. And so I dare to hope, Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first 1 came among these hills ; when like a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, Wherever nature led ; more like a man Flying from something that he dreads, than one Who sought the thing he loved. For Nature then (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, And their glad animal movements all gone by), To me was all in all. I cannot paint What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms were then to me An appetite j a feeling and a love That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, or any interest Unborrowed from the eye. That time is past, And all its aching joys are now no more, And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this Faint I, nor mourn, nor murmur ; other gifts 20 THE POET, OR SEER. Have followed, for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompense. For I have learned To look on Nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, Not harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts: a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean, and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man, A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. By the side of this exquisite passage, let me place another by the same great reflective writer, When, as becomes a man who would prepare For such an arduous work, I through myself Make rigorous inquisition, the report Is often cheering ; for I neither seem To lack that first great gift, the vital soul, Nor general truths, which are themselves a sort Of elements and agents, under-powers, Subordinate helpers of the living mind. Nor am I naked of external things, Forms, images, nor numerous other aids Of less regard, though won perhaps with toil, And needful to build up a poet's praise. Time, place, and manners do I seek, and these Are found in plenteous store, but nowhere such As may be singled out with steady choice ; No little band of yet remembered names Whom I, in perfect confidence, might hope THE POET, OR SEER. 21 To summon back from lonesome banishment, And make them dwellers in the hearts of men Now living, or to live in future years. Sometimes the ambitious power of choice, mistaking Proud spring-tide swellings for a regular sea, Will settle on some British theme, some old Romantic tale by Milton left unsung ; More often turning to some gentle place Within the groves of chivalry, I pipe To shepherd swains, or seated, harp in hand, Amid reposing knights, by a river side Or fountain, listen to the grave reports Of dire enchantments faced and overcome By the strong mind, and tales of warlike feats, Where spear encountered spear, and sword with sword Fought, as if conscious of the blazonry That the shield bore, so glorious was the strife, Whence inspiration for a song that winds Through ever-changing scenes of voting quest ; Wrongs to redress, harmonious tribute paid To patient courage and unblemished truth, To firm devotion, zeal unquenchable, And Christian meekness hallowing faithful loves. There can be no mistaking the qualities of these two passages. The first is poetry, the second is the merest prose ; the emotion in the first extract so breathes on the thought as to fill it with exquisite music and subtle pleasure not to be coerced by meditation. Yet the mood of both is a meditative mood. In the "Prelude," from which the above extract is taken, and in the " Excursion," prose and poetry alternate most significantly. Where the feeling is vivid and intense, the lines lose all that cum- brousness and pamphletude which have blinded so 22 THE POET, OR SEER. many readers to the real merits of these two composi- tions. All these moods, indeed, are but the consequence of that first mood, wherein the Seer receives his impression. If that first mood be too purely intellectual, if the Seer be not stirred extremely in the process of assimilation, there is a certainty that, in spite of clear vision, he will produce prose, as Milton did occasionally, as Words- worth did very often ; as Shakespeare seldom or never does, and as Keats never did. It is certain, then, that clear vision can exist indepen- dently of emotion ; that, however, emotion is generally dependent on clear vision ; and that, in short, he who sees vividly will in most cases feel deeply, but not in all cases. Let me mention one more notable case in point. I mean Crabbe, the writer to whom modern writers are fondest of alluding, and whom, to judge from their blunders concerning him, they appear to have been least fond of reading. A careful study of his works has re- vealed to me abundant knowledge of life, considerable sympathy, little or no insight, and no emotion. The poems are photographs, not pictures. There is no spiritualisation, none of that fine selective instinct which invariably accompanies deep artistic feeling. There is too constant a consciousness of the " reader," too painful an attempt to gain force by means of vivid details. Now, these are not the poetic characteristique. The poet derives his force from the vividness of the feeling awakened THE POET, OR SEER. 23 by his subject or by his meditation he does not betray himself by clumsy efforts to gain attention. A thought a touch a gleam of colour often suffice for him. Whereas Crabbe betrays his purely intellectual attitude at every step. He describes every cranny of a cottage, every gable, every crack in the wall, every kitchen utensil, when his story concerns the soul of the inmate. He pieces out a churchyard like so much grocery, into so many lives and graves. There is no glamour in his eyes when he looks on death; he is noting the bedroom furniture and the dirty sheets. There is no weird music in his ears when he stands in a churchyard ; he is re- cording the quality of the coffin-wood, sliding off into an account of the history of the parish beadle, and observing whose sheep they are that browse inside the stone wall of the holy place. III. MUSIC. I am now led directly to the discussion of the third poetic gift, that of music ; for metrical speech is the most concentrated of all speech, and proportions itself to the quality of the poetic emotion. The most powerful form of emotion is lyrical emotion, and the sweetest music is lyrical music Poetic vision culminates in sweet sound, always in- adequate, perhaps, to represent the whole of sight, but interpenetrating through the medium of emotion with the entire mystery of life. Nothing, indeed, so distinguishes 24 THE POET, OR SEER. the variety of Seers as their melody. It is the soul's per- fect speech. A break in the harmony not seldom betrays a dizziness of the eyes, an inactivity of the heart. A false note betrays the false maestro. A cold or forced expres- sion indicates insincerity. This music, this last wondrous gift, carries with it its own significance and wisdom ; it has a wondrous glamour of its own, like the dim light that is in falling snow. What exquisite sound is this, where the thought and the emotion die away into a murmur like the wash of a summer sea ? Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird ! No hungry generations tread thee down ; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown. Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears among the alien corn ; The same that oft-times hath Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faeiy lands forlorn. Or this, so perfect in its fleeting rapture : Sound of vernal showers, On the twinkling grass, Rain-awakened flowers, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and sweet, thy music doth surpass. Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine : I have never heard . Praise of love or wine That panted forth a rapture so divine ! THE POET, OR SEER. 25 Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now. Or these lines from the " Willow, Willow," of Alfred de Musset : Mes chers amis, quand je mourrai, Plantez un saule au cimetiere. J'aime son feuillage eplore, La paleur m'en est douce et chere, Et son ombre sera legere A la terre oil je dormirai. I might fill pages with such quotations. The examples just given are examples of purely lyrical music, from its personal nature, the most concentrated of all music. For the sake of contrast, now, let me turn to the least concentrated form of all, as it is represented in particular writers. At a first view, it would seem that epic poetry is most apt to be unmelodious, on account of the diffuse character of its materials as generally conceived. But this is an error h priori. The materials are not diffuse they are only large and various ; and the music is emotional and concentrated, though not to the extent noticeable in less dignified forms of writing. Like dramatic poetry, it is all-embracing, and includes in its compass all elements, from lyrical feeling to emotional meditation. The state- liness and constancy of its movement do not preclude the sharp lyrical cry or the deep meditative pause. 26 THE POET, OK SEER. Homer is the most various of singers. His successors are less various, precisely because they are less great. Again and again in the sharp solemn progress of Dante through Hell are we startled by bursts of wilder melody. Even in " Paradise Lost " there are some occasions when the deep organ bass changes into .a scream. This is but saying what has been already said of lyrical emotion. In brief, lyrical emotion and lyrical music as its expression intersect all great poetry, whatever its nature ; and the reason need not be further explained. Lyric music is the ideal speech of intense personal feel- ing ; and that is why the exquisite music of Greek tragedy is not confined to the choruses. But just as all emotion is not markedly personal, all music is not lyrical. No music is so exquisite, so pro- foundly interesting to men ; but there are more complex kinds of expression, sounds more variegated and diffuse. Take the following passage from the " Paradise Lost " of Milton : For now, and since first break of dawn, the Fiend, Mere serpent in appearance, forth was come, And on his quest, where likeliest he might find The only two of mankind, but in them The whole included race, his purpos'd prey. In bower and field he sought where any kind Of grove or garden plot more pleasant lay, Their tendence or plantation for delight ; By fountain or by shady rivulet He sought them both, but wish'd his hap might fin 1 Eve separate ; he wish'd but not with hope Of what so seldom chanc'd, when to his wish, THE POET, OR SEER. 27 Beyond his hope, Eve separate lie spies, Veifd in a cloud of fragrance, where she stood, Half spy 1 d, so thick the roses blushing round About her glowed, oft stooping to support Each flower of slender stalk, whose head, though gay Carnation, purple, azure, or specKd with gold, Hung drooping, unsustained ; them she upstays Gently with myrtle band, mindless the while Herself, tho' fairest unsupported flower, From her best prop so far, and storm so nigh. Nearer he drew, and many a walk travers'd Of stateliest covert, cedar, pine or palm, Then voluble and bold, now hid, now seen Among thick-woven arborets and flowers Imborder'd on each bank, the hand- of Eve : Spot more delicious than those gardens feign'd, Or of reviv'd Adonis, or renown'd Alcinous, host of old Laertes' son, Or that, not mystic, where the sapient king Held dalliance with his fair Egyptian spouse. ***** So spake the enemy of mankind, enclos'd In serpent, inmate bad, and toward Eve Address'd his way, not with indented wave, Prone on the ground, as since, but on his rear. Circular base of rising folds, that tower* d Fold above fold, a surging maize, his head Crested aloft, and curbuncle his eyes ; With burnished neck of verdant gold, erect Amidst his circling spires, that on the grass Floated redundant pleasing was his shape And lovely ; never since of serpent kind Lovelier, not those that in Illyria chang'd Hermione and Cadmus, or the God In Epidaurus ; nor to which transform'd Ammonian Jove, or Capitoline was seen He with Olympias, this with her who bore 28 THE POET, OR SEER. Scipio the height of Rome. With tract oblique At first, as one who sought access, but fear'd To interrupt, side-long he works his way : As when a ship, by skilful steersman wrought Nigh river's mouth, or foreland, where the wind Veers oft, as oft so steers and shifts her sail : So varied he, and of his tortuous train Curl'd many a wanton wreath in sight of Eve, To lure her eye ; she, busied, heard the sound Of rustling leaves, but minded not, as us'd To such disport before her through the field, From every beast, more duteous at her call Than at Circean call the herd disguis'd. He bolder now, uncall'd before her stood, But as in gaze admiring : oft he bow'd His turret crest, and sleek enamel'd neck, Fawning, and lick'd the ground whereon she trod. In these exquisite passages of pure description, the music perfectly represents the subdued emotion of the artist ; there is no excitement, but vivid presentment ; and we hear the very movement of the snake in the involution and picturesqueness of the lines. I cannot do better than place by the side of the above a passage from the same great poet, which seems to me especially false and inharmonious. It is very brief : The Most High Eternal Father, from his secret cloud, Amidst in thunder utter'd thus his voice : Assembled angels, and ye powers return'd From unsuccessful charge, be not dismay'd, Nor troubled at these tidings from the earth, Which your sincerest care could not prevent, Foretold so lately what would come to pass, THE POET, OR SEER. 29 When first this Tempter cross'd the gulf from Hell. I told ye then he should prevail and speed On his bad errand, man should be seduc'd And flatter'd out of all, believing lies Against his Maker ; no decree of mine Concurring to necessitate his fall, Or touch with lightest moment of impulse His free will, to her own inclining left In even scale. But fall'n he is, and now What rests but that the mortal sentence pass On his transgression, death denounc'd that day ? Which he presumes already vain and void, Because not yet inflicted, as he fear'd, By some immediate stroke ; but soon shall find Forbearance no acquittance ere day end, Justice shall not return as bounty scorn'd. But whom send I to judge them ? whom but thee Vicegerent Son ? to thee I have transferr'd All judgment, whether in Heaven, or Earth, or Hell. Easy it may be seen that I intend Mercy colleague with justice, sending thee Man's friend, his mediator, his design'd Both ransome and redeemer voluntary, And destin'd man himself to judge men fall'n. Where is the thunder here ? Where is the solemn music? Instead of awe-inspiring sound, we have bald and turgid prose, pieced out clumsily into ten-syllable lines, every one of which limps like Vulcan. And why ? Precisely because Milton had no spiritual glamour of the Highest, such as he had of Satan, for example, felt no real emo- tion in recording His utterances, not even the cold meditative emotion which just redeems many other parts of " Paradise Lost " from sheer prose. He was forcing his mind to hear a voice, attempting to represent the 30 THE POET, OR SEER. u iterance of a personality ungrasped by his imagina- tion. Mere rhetorical music is the least poetic of all, although sometimes it has an exceeding charm, as in Virgil's famous lines on Marcellus, and much of the poetry of rhetorical periods in England. Akin to such rhetorical music is the melody of the French school of writers, singers who mar expression by too elaborate effort, by habitual verbosity, and by fatal fluency of sound. Melody, indeed, as represented in our true singers, may be divided into three kinds, just as the singers themselves may be divided into three classes, the simple, the ornate, and the grotesque. The first kind is the sweetest and best ; we find it in the great lyrists, from Sappho to Burns. Wherever Shelley sings perfectly, as in the "Ode to the Skylark, "his music loses all its insincerities and affectations. Ornate and grotesque music have common faults, the first sacrifices the emo- tion and meaning by thinning and straining them too carefully ; the second loses in portent what it gains in mannerism ; and both, therefore, betray that dangerous intellectual self-consciousness which is a barrier to the production of true poetry. A thing cannot be uttered too briefly and simply if it is to reach the soul. Music that conceals, instead of expressing, thought, music that is nothing but sweet sounds and luscious alliterations, is not poetry. We have the sweet sounds everywhere, in fact : in the wash of the sea, in the rustle of leaves, in the song of birds, in the murmur of happy living things. The THE POET, OR SEER. 31 world is full of them, its heart aches with them ; they are mystical and they are homeless. It is the offices of poetry not barely to imitate them, but to link them with the Soul, and by so doing to use them as symbols of definite form and meaning. They issue from the soul's voice with a new wonder in their tones, and are then ready to be used as man's perfect language and speech to God. I need delay little more on this branch of poetic power, which, indeed, contains matter for a whole volume. It is clear that there is no poetry without music, but that music varies extremely, according to the quality and in- tensity of the emotion. It may safely be affirmed that no subject is unfit for poetic treatment which can be spiritu- alised to this uttermost form of harmonious and natural numbers. So closely is melody woven in with and repre- sentative of emotion and of sight, that it has been called the characteristique of the true Seer. But let us never lose sight of the fact that music is representative, and valuable, not for the sole sake of its own sweetness, not for the sole sake of the emotion it represents, but mainly and clearly valuable for the sake of the poetic thought and vision which it brings to completion. There may be melodious sound without meaning, fine versification without thought ; but the most exquisite melody and versification are those which convey the most exquisite forms of poetic vision. DAVID GRAY A MEMOIR DA VI D GRA Y: A MEMOIR. ,ITUATED in a by-road, about a mile from the small town of Kirkintilloch, and eight miles from the city of Glasgow, stands a cottage one storey high, roofed with slate, and surrounded by a little kitchen-garden. A white- washed lobby, leading from the front to the back-door, divides this cottage into two sections ; to the right, is an office fitted up as a hand-loom weaver's workshop ; to the left is a kitchen paved with stone, and opening into a tiny carpeted bedroom. In the workshop, a father, daughter, and sons worked all day at the loom. In the kitchen, a handsome cheery Scottish matron busied herself like a thrifty housewife, and brought the rest of the family about her at meals. All day long the soft hum of the loom was heard in the workshop ; but when night came, mysterious doors were thrown open, and the family retired to sleep in extra- ordinary mural recesses. 36 DAVID GRAY. In this humble home, David Gray, a hand-loom weaver, resided for upwards of twenty years, and managed to rear a family of eight children five boys and three girls. His eldest son, David, author of " The Luggie and other Poems," is the hero of the present true history. David was born on the 29th of January, 1838. He alone, of all the little household, was destined to receive a decent education. From early childhood, the dark- eyed little fellow was noted for his wit and cleverness ; and it was the dream of his father's life that he should become a scholar. At the parish-school of Kirkintilloch he learned to read, write, and cast up accounts, and was, moreover, instructed in the Latin rudiments. Partly through the hard struggles of his parents, and partly through his own severe labours as a pupil-teacher and private tutor, he was afterwards enabled to attend the classes at the Glasgow University. In common with other rough country lads, who live up dark alleys, subsist chiefly on oatmeal and butter forwarded from home, and eventually distinguish themselves in the class-room, he had to fight his way onward amid poverty and privation ; but in his brave pursuit of knowledge nothing daunted him. It had been settled at home that he should be- come a minister of the Free Church of Scotland. Un- fortunately, however, he had no love for the pulpit. Early in life he had begun to hanker after the delights of poetical composition. He had devoured the poets from Chaucer to Wordsworth. The yearnings thus awakened in him had begun to express themselves in many wild DAVID GRAY 37 fragments contributions, for the most part, to the poet's corner of a local newspaper "The Glasgow Citizen." Up to this point there was nothing extraordinary in the career or character of David Gray. Taken at his best, he was an average specimen of the persevering young Scottish student. But his soul contained wells of emotion which had not yet been stirred to their depths. When, at fourteen years of age, he began to study in Glasgow, it was his custom to go home every Saturday night in order to pass the Sunday with his parents. These Sundays at home were chiefly occupied with rambles in the neighbourhood of Kirkintilloch ; wander- ings on the sylvan banks of the Luggie, the beloved little river which flowed close to his father's door. On Luggieside awakened one day the dream which developed all the hidden beauty of his character, and eventually kindled all the faculties of his intellect. Had he been asked to explain the nature of this dream, David would have answered vaguely enough, but he would have said something to the following effect: "I'm thinking none of us are quite contented ; there's a climbing impulse to heaven in us all that won't let us rest for a moment. Just now I would be happy if I knew a little more. I'd give ten years of life to see Rome, and Florence, and Venice, and the grand places of old ; and to feel that I wasn't a burden on the old folks. I'll be a great man yet ! and the old home, the Luggie and Gartshore wood, shall be famous for my sake." He could only measure his ambition by the love he bore his home. "I was born, 38 DAVID GRAY, bred, and cared for here, and my folk are buried here. I know every nook and dell for miles around, and they are all dear to me. My own mother and father dwell here, and in my own wee room " (the tiny carpeted bedroom above alluded to) " I first learned to read poetry. I love my home, and it is for my home's sake that I love fame." Nor is that home and its surroundings unworthy of such love. Tiny and unpretending as is Luggie stream, upon its banks lie many nooks of beauty, bowery glimpses of woodland, shady solitudes, places of nestling green here and there. Not far off stretch the Campsie fells, with dusky nooks between, where the waterfall and the cascade make a silver pleasure in the heart of shadow ; and beyond, there are dreamy glimpses of the misty blue mountains themselves. Away to the south-west, lies Glas- gow in a smoke, most hideous of cities^ wherein the very clangour of church-bells is associated with abominations. Into the heart of that city David was to be slowly drawn, a subject of fascination only death could dispel, the desire to make deathless music, and the dream of moving therewith the mysterious heart of man. At twenty-one years of age, when this dream was strong within him, David was a tall young man, slightly but firmly built, and with a stoop at the shoulders. His head was small, fringed with black curly hair. Want of can- dour was not his fault, though he seldom looked one in the face ; his eyes, however, were large and dark, full of intelligence and humour, harmonising well with the long thin nose and nervous lips. The great black eyes and DAVID GRAY. 39 woman's mouth betrayed the creature of impulse ; one whose reasoning faculties were small, but whose tempera- ment was like red-hot coal. He sympathised with much that was lofty, noble, and true in poetry, and with much that was absurd and suicidal in the poet. He carried sympathy to the highest pitch of enthusiasm ; he shed tears over the memories of Keats and Burns, and he was corybantic in his execution of a Scotch "reel." A fine phrase filled him with the rapture of a lover. He admired extremes from Rabelais to Tom Sayers. Thirsting for human sympathy, which lured him in the semblance of notoriety, he perpetrated all sorts of extravagancies, innocent enough in themselves, but calculated to blind him to the very first principles of art. Yet this enthusi- asm, as I have suggested, was his safeguard in at least one respect. Though he believed himself to be a genius, he loved the parental roof of the hand-loom weaver. And what thought the weaver and his wife of this wonderful son of theirs? They were proud of him, proud in a silent undemonstrative fashion ; for among the Scottish poor concealment of the emotions is held a vir- tue. During his weekly visits home, David was not over- whelmed with caresses ; but he was the subject of con- versation night after night, when the old couple talked in bed. Between him and his father there had arisen a strange barrier of reserve. They seldom exchanged with each other more than a passing word ; but to one friend's bosom David would often confide the love and tender- ness he bore for his over-worked, upright parent. When 40 DAVID GRAY. the boy first began to write verses the old man affected perfect contempt and indifference, but his eyes gloated in secret over the poet's-corners of the Glasgow newspapers. The poor weaver, though an uneducated man, had a pro- found respect for education and cultivation in others. He felt his heart bound with hope and joy when strangers praised the boy, but he hid the tenderness of his pride under a cold indifference. Although proud of David's talent for writing verses, he was afraid to encourage a pursuit which practical common sense assured him was mere trifling. At a later date he might have spoken out, had not his tongue been frozen by the belie; that advice from him would be held in no esteem by his better edu- cated and more gifted son. Thus, the more David's indications of cleverness and scholarship increased, the more afraid was the old man to express his gratification and give his advice. Equally touching was the point of view taken by David's mother, whose cry was, u The kirk, the free kirk, and nothing but the kirk ! " She neither appreciated nor underrated the abilities of her boy, but her proudest wish was that he should become a real live minister, with home and " haudin' " of his own. To see David, " our David," in a pulpit, preaching the Gos- pel out of a big book, and dwelling in a good house to the end of his days ! But meantime the boy was swiftly undermining all such cherished plans. He had saturated his heart and mind with the intoxicating wines of poesy, drunken deep of such syrups as only very strong heads indeed can carry DAVID GRAY. 41 calmly. He differed from older and harder poets in this only, that he had not the trick of disguising his vanity, knew not how to ape humanity. The poor lad was moved, maddened by the strange divine light in his eyes, and he cried aloud : " The beauty of the cloudland I have visited ! the ideal love of my soul ! " Thus he expressed himself, much to the amusement of his hearers. " Soli- tude," he exclaimed on another occasion, " and an utter want of all physical exercise, are working deplorable ravages in my nervous system ; the crows'-feet are blackening about my eyes, and I cannot think to face the sunlight. When I ponder over my own inability to move the world, to move one heart in it, no wonder that my face gathers blackness. Tennyson beautifully and (so far) truly says, that the face is ' the form and colour of the mind and life.' If you saw me/" His verses written at that period, although abounding with echoes of his two pet poets, show great intensity and the sweetness of per- fect feeling. Some of the lyrics in his volume, printed among the Poems Named and without Names, belong to this period. His productions, however, were for the most part close reproductions of the manner of Keats ; and so conscious was he of this fact, that in one of these pieces he expressly styled himself, " a foster son of Keats, the dreamily divine." Wordsworth he did not not reproduce so much until a later and a purer period. One of these unpublished pieces T shall quote here, to show that David, even at the crude assimilate period, showed 'brains" and vision noticeable in a youth of twenty. DAVID GRAY. EMPEDOCLES. " He who to be deemM A god, leap'd fondly into /Etna flames, Empedocles." MILTON. IIo\v, in the crystal smooth and azure sky, Droop the clear, living sapphires, tremulous And inextinguishably beautiful ! How the calm irridescence of their soft Ethereal fire contrasts with the wild flame Rising from this doomed mountain like the noise Of ocean whirlwinds through the murky air ! Alone, alone ! yearning, ambitious ever ! Hope's agony ! 0, ye immortal gods ! Regally sphered in your keen-silvered orbs, Eternal, where fled that authentic fire, Stolen by Prometheus ere the pregnant clouds Rose from the sea, full of the deluge ! Where Art thou, white lady of the morning ; white Aurora, charioted by the fair Hours Through amethystine mists weeping soft dews Upon the meadow, as Apollo heaves His constellation through the liquid dawn? Give me Tithonus* gift, thou orient Undying Beauty ! and my love shall be Cherubic worship, and my star shall walk The plains of heaven, thy punctual harbinger ! with thy ancient power prolong my days For ever ; tear this flesh-thick cursed life Enlinking me to this foul earth, the home Of cold mortality, this nether hell ! Rise, mighty conflagrations ! and scarce wild These crowding shadows ! Far on the dim sea 1'ale mariners behold tkee, and the sails Shim purpled by thy glare, and the slcnv cars Drop ruby, and the trembling human wills. DAVID GRAY. 43 Wonder affrighted as their pitchy barks, Guided by Syrian pilots > ripple by Hailing for craggy Calpe ; O, ye frail Weak human souls, I, lone Empedoclcs, Stand here unshivered as a steadfast god, Scorning thy puny destinies. I float To cloud-enrobed Olympus on the wings Of a rich dream, swift as the light of stars, Swifter than Zophiel or Mercury Upon his throne of adamantine gold. Jove sits superior, while the deities Tread delicate the smooth cerulean floors. Hebe (with twin breasts, like twin roes that feed Among the lilies), in her taper hand Bears the bright goblet, rough with gems and gold, Filled with ambrosia to the lipping brim. O, love and beauty and immortal life ! O, light divine, ethereal effluence Of purity ! O, fragrancy of air, Spikenard and calamus, cassia and balm, With all the frankincense that ever fumed From temple censers swung from pictured roofs, Float warmly through the corridors of heaven. Hiss ! moan ! shriek ! wreath thy livid serpentine Volutions, O ye earth-born flames ! and flout The silent skies with strange fire, like a dawn Rubific, terrible, a lurid glare ! Olympus shrinks beside thee ! I, alone, Like deity ignipotent, behold Thy playful whirls and thy weird melody Here undismayed. O gods ! shall I go near And in the molten horror headlong plunge Death ward, and that serene immortal life Discover? Shriek your hellish discord out Into the smoky firmament ! Down roll 44 DAVID GRAY. Your fat bituminous torrents to the sea, Hot hissing ! Far away in element Untroubled rise the crystal battlements Of the celestial mansion, where to be Is my ambition ; and O far away From this dull earth in azure atmospheres My star shall pant its silvery lustre, bright With sempiternal radiance, voyaging On blissful errands the pure marble air. O, dominations and life-yielding powers, Listen my yearning prayer : To be of ye Of thy grand hierarchy and old race Plenipotent, I do a deed that dares The draff of men to equal. You have given Immortal life to common human men Who common deeds achieved ; nay, even for love Some goddesses voluptuous have raised Weak whiners from this curst sublunar world, Pillowed them on snow bosoms in the bowers Of Paradise ! And shall Empedocles, Who from the perilous grim edge of life Leaps sheer into the liquid fire and meets Death like a lover, not be sphered and made A virtue ministrant ? All you soft orbs By pure intelligences piloted, Incomprehensibly their glories show Approving. ye sparkle-moving fires Of heaven, now silently above the flare Of tliis red mountain shining , which of yon Shall be my home ? Into whose stellar glow Shall I arrive, bringing delight and life And spiritual motion and dim fame ? Hiss, fiery serpents ! Your sweet breathings warm My face as I approach ye. Flap wild wings, Ye dragons ! flaming round this mouth of hell, To me the mouth of heaven. DAVID GRAY. 45 The influence of Keats soon decayed, and calmer in- fluences supervened. He began a play on the Shakes- perian model. This ambitious effort, however, was soon relinquished for a dearer, sweeter task, the composition of a pastoral poem descriptive of the scenery surrounding his home. This subject, first suggested to him by a friend who guessed his real power, grew upon him with won- drous force, till the lines welled into perfect speech through very deepness of passion. His whole soul was occupied. The pictures that had troubled his childhood, the running river, the thy my Campsie fells, were now to be again before his spirit ; and all the human sweetness and trouble, the beloved faces, the familiar human figures, added to the soft music of a flowing river and the distant hum of looms from cottage doors. The result was the poem entitled "The Luggie," which gives its name to the posthumous volume, and which, though it lacked the last humanising touches of the poet, remains unique in con- temporary literature. But even while his heart was full of this exquisite utterance, this babble of green fields and silver waters, the influence of cities was growing more and more upcn him, and poesy was no more the quite perfect joy thit had made his boyhood happy. It was not enough to sing now ; the thirst for applause was deepening ; and it is not therefore extraordinary that even his fresh and truth- ful pastoral shows here and there the hectic flush of self- consciousness, the dissatisfied glance in the direction of the public. The natural result of this was occasional 46 DAVID GRAY. merry-making, and grog-drinking, and beating the big city during the dark hours. There was high poetic plea- sure in singing songs among artizans in familiar public- houses, flirting with an occasional milliner, and singing her charms in broad Scotch, even occasionally coming to fisticuffs in obscure places, possibly owing to a hot dis- cussion on the character of that demon of religious Scotch artizans, the poet Shelley. I do not hesitate the least in mentioning these matters, because Gray has been too frequently represented as a morbid, unwholesome young gentleman, without natural weaknesses a kind of aqueous Henry Kirke White, branded faintly with ambi- tion. He was nothing of the kind. He was a young man, as other young men are foolish and wild in his season, though never gross or disreputable. The very excess of his sensitiveness led him into outbreaks against convention. While pouring out the sweetness of his nature in " The Luggie," he could turn aside again and again, and relieve his excitement by such doggerel as this, addressed to a companion, Let olden Homer, hoary, Sing of wondrous deeds of glory, In that ever-burning story, Bold and bright, friend Bob ! Our theme be Pleasure, careless, In all stirring frolics fearless, In the vineyard, reckless, peerless, Heroes dight, friend Bob ! Be it noted, however, that there was in Gray's nature a DAVID GRAY. 47 strange and exquisite femininity, a perfect feminine purity and sweetness. Indeed, till the mysterj of sex be medically explained, I shall ever believe that nature originally meant David Gray for a female ; for besides the strangely sensitive lips and eyes, he had a woman's shape, narrow shoulders, lissome limbs, arid extraordinary breadth across the hips. Early in his teens David had made the acquaintance of a young man of Glasgow, with whom his fortunes were destined to be intimately woven. That young man was myself. We spent year after year in intimate com- munion, varying the monotony of our existence by read- ing books together, plotting great works, writing extra- vagant letters to men of eminence, and wandering about the country on vagrant freaks. Whole nights and days were often passed in seclusion, in reading the great thinkers, and pondering on their lives. Full of thoughts too deep for utterance, dreaming, David would walk at a swift pace through the crowded streets, with face bent down, and eyes fixed on the ground, taking no heed of the human beings passing to and fro. Then he would come to me crying, " I have had a dream," and would forthwith tell of visionary pictures which had haunted him in his solitary walk. This " dreaming," as he called it, consumed the greater portion of his hours of leisure. Towards the end of the year 1859, David became convinced that he could no longer idle away the hours of his youth. His work as student and as pupil teacher was ended, and he must seek some means of subsis 48 DAVID GRAY. tence. He imagined, too, that his poor parents threw dull looks on the beggar of their bounty. Having abandoned all thoughts of entering into the Church, for which neither his taste nor his opinions fitted him, what should he do in order to earn his daily bread ? His first thought was to turn schoolmaster ; but no ! the notion was an odious one. He next endeavoured, without success, to procure himself a situation on one of the Glasgow newspapers. Meantime, while drifting from project to project he maintained a voluminous corres- pondence, in the hope of persuading some eminent man to read his poem of " The Luggie." Unfortunately, the persons to whom he wrote were too busy to pay much attention to the solicitations of an entire stranger. Repeated disappointments only in- creased his self-assertion ; the less chance there seemed of an improvement in his position, and the less strangers seemed to recognise his genius, the more dogged grew his conviction that he was destined to be a great poet. His letters were full of this conviction. To one entire stranger he wrote : "I am a poet ; let that be under- stood distinctly." Again : " I tell you that, if I live, my name and fame shall be second to few of any age, and to none of my own. I speak this because I feel power." Again: "I am so accustomed to compare my own mental progress with that of such men as Shakespeare, Goethe, and Wordsworth, that the dream of my life will not be fulfilled, if my fame equal not, at least, that of the latter of these three !" This was extraordinary language, DAVID GRAY. 49 and it is not surprising that little heed was paid to it. Let some explanation be given here. No man could be more humble, reverent-minded, self-doubting, than David was in reality. Indeed, he was constitutionally timid of his own abilities, and he was personally diffident. In his letters only he absolutely endeavoured to wrest from his correspondents some recognition of his claim to help and sympathy. The moment sympathy came, no matter how coldly it might be expressed, he was all humility and gratitude. In this spirit, after one of his wildest flights of self-assertion, he wrote : " When I read Thomson, I despair." Again: " Being bare of all recommendations, I lied with my own conscience, deeming that if I called myself a great man you were bound to believe me." Again : " If you saw me you would wonder if the quiet, bashful, boyish-looking fellow before you was the author of all yon blood and thunder." In a lengthy corres- pondence with Mr. Sydney Dobell, who is also known as a writer of verse, David wrote wildly and boldly enough ; but he was quite ready to plead guilty to silliness when the fits were over. But the grip of cities was on him, and he was far too conscious of outsiders. How sad and pitiable sounds the following ! " Mark !" he cried, " it is not what I have done, or can now do, but what I feel myself able and born to do, that makes me so selfishly stupid. Your sentence, thrown back to me for recon- sideration, would certainly seem strange to any one but myself; t?ut the thought that I had so written to you only made me the more resolute in my actions, and the WLS. 23 7 prowl by night. These latter birds are not numerous in the Hebrides, the short-eared Owl being the most common, but we have here and there seen the tawny Owl hovering on the skirts of the plantations, oftentimes enough put up awkwardly by the dogs when beating cover, and likely to share a sudden fate at the hands of some bungler, unless protected by the sympathetic " It's only an Old Wife poor thing ! " of some friendly keeper. The last Owl we saw was last night, beating the margin of Loch Bee for mice, with that curious limp flap of its downy wing, and occasionally resting as still as stone on the overhanging cone of a damp boulder, in just the same attitude in which we had not long before seen one of his kinsmen resting on Robert Browning's shoulder, in the very heart of London. As to the White Owl, the true Cailleach, or Old Woman, she seems to have taken some deathly offence at our islands, for though there is a ruin on every headland, sorry a one of them all will she inhabit Her ghastly presence would indeed become the gloaming hour, when the moon is shining on the ruined belfry of Icolmkill ; but not even there, where the Spirit of the sea-loving Saint still walks o' nights, is her weird cry heard, or her ghostly flight beheld. Not a whit of her tuvvhoo ! Her to woo to her tuvvhit ! We have sought her in vain in lona, in Dunstaffnage, in Rodel, and in many kindred places, chiefly desolate graveyards ; finding in her stead, amor^ the tombs, only 238 HAWKS AND OWLS. the little Clacharan, 1 in his white necktie, cluck-clucking as monotously as a death-watch, and conducting eternally, on his own account, a kind of lonely spirit-rapping^ in the most appropriate place. Among the same desolate homes of the dead, we have also found (as Dr. Gray seems to have found) the Sea-gulls coming to rest for the night, stealing through the twilight with a slow flight, which might be mistaken, at the first glance, for that of the Cailleach herself. 1 Celtic name of the Stone-chat (Saxicola Rubicola). THE WATER-OUZEL. 'HAT the Stone-chat is to graveyards, the Dipper is to lonely burns. He has many names in the Isles, Lon tiisge, Gobha dubh nan Allt, &c. but none so sweet as the name familiar to every Saxon ear, that of Water-Ouzel. Who has not encountered the little fellow, with his light eye and white breast, dipping backwards and forwards as he sits on a stone amid the tiny pools and freshets, and rising swiftly to follow with swift but exact flight the wind- ings and twistings of the stream ? and who that has ever so met him, has failed to see in his company his faithful and inseparable little mate ? He likes the waterfall and the brawling linn, as well as the dark pools amid the green and mossy heath ; and he is to be found building from head to foot of every mountain that can boast a burn, however tiny and unpretending. The young are born with the cry of water in their ears ; often the nest where they lie and cheep is within a few feet of a torrent, the 240 THE WATER-OUZEL. voice of which is a roaring thunder ; and close at hand, amid the spray, the little father-ouzeb sit on a mossy stone, and sing aloud. What pleasures have great princes? &c., they seem to be crying, in the very words of the old song. To search for water-shells and eat the toothsome larvae of the water-beetle, and to have the whole of a mountain brook for kingdom, what royal lot can com- pare with this ? Whiles thro' a linn the burnie plays, Whiles thro' a glen it wimples, Whiles bickering thro' the golden haze With flickering dauncing dazzle, Whiles cookin' underneath the braes Beneath the flowing hazel ! x To the eye of the little feathered king and queen, the bubbling waters are a world miraculously tinted and sweet with summer sound. The life of the twain is full of calm joy. So at least thinks the angler, as he crouches under the bank from the shower, and sees the cool drops splash- ing like countless pearls round the Ouzel's mossy throne in the midst of the pool. We hear for the first time, on the authority of Dr. Gray, that the Ouzel has been pro- scribed and decimated in many Highland parishes, be- cause, forsooth, he is supposed to interfere with the rights of human fishermen ! In former times, whoever slew one 1 The lover of Bums must forgive blunders, as I quote from memory. THE WATER OUZEL. 241 of these lovely birds received as his reward the privilege of fishing in the close season ; and a reward of sixpence a head is this day given for the " Water Craw " in some parts of Sutherlandshire. To such a pass come mortal ignorance and greed ! ignorance, here quite unaware that the Ouzel never touches the spawn of fish at all ; and greed, unwilling to grant to a bird so gentle and so beauti- ful even a share of the prodigal gifts of nature. THE KINGFISHER. AR more persecuted than the Bird of the Burn is that other frequenter of inland waters, the Kingfisher: so lovely that every cruel hand is raised against his life ; so rare, through such slaughter, that one may now search long and far without ever perceiving the azure gleam of its wing. Its head is not unlike that of a Heron, on a diminutive scale ; and its attitude, as it sits motionless for hours together, on some bough overhanging the stream, is heron-like in its steadfastness and patience. Unsocial and solitary, it deposits its pink-white eggs and rears its young in a hole in the green bank. Flashing past, it seems like a winged emerald; in repose, its colour is ruddy brown. Seen in any light, k is a thing of perfect beauty, not to be spared from the precious things of the student of nature. To these Outer Heb- rides, it never comes ; but it has been found in the island of Skye. The dark, shrubless banks of these streams do THE KINGFISHER. 243 not attract it ; and, moreover, for so sportsmanlike and indefatigable a bird, the fishing is bad. It loves a stream shaded with alders and dwarf willows, and affects, too, spots well-warmed by the sun. When the buds of the water-lilies blow, and the well-oiled leaves float around them, when the dragon-fly poises in the leaves and gleams brilliantly, when the sun shines golden overhead and, be- low in the pool, you see the shadows of the motionless trout on the bright stones then, creeping near, warily, look for the Kingfisher. There he sits, on a green branch near the mouth of his dwelling, arrayed as Solomon never was in all his glory, and shadowed by the willow tree, That grows aslant the brook, And shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream. The sun creeps behind a cloud for a moment ; a tiny trout splashes, leaving a circle that widens and fades. What was that, the flash of an emerald or the gleam of some passing insect ? 'Twas the King of Fishers darting down to seize his tiny prey ; but so swiftly is he back again to his point of vantage, that he scarcely seems to have stirred at all. HEBRIDEAN BIRDS. ^ HAT picture next appears? In a lonely lochan, glossy black, and with never reed or flower to relieve its sadness, under a dark sky seamed with silvern streaks, there rises a rocky isle, and close to the isle swims the Learga, or Black-throated Diver, troubling the brooding silence with his weird cry DeocU! deoch! thdn loch a traogbadh f 1 Sunset on Loch Scavaig, the ocean glassy-still, and the Coolins rising lurid in the red light streaming over the western ocean, while the Solan drops like a bullet to his prey, and The cormorant flaps o'er a sleek ocean-floor Of tremulous mother-of-pearl, Twilight on the slopes of the mountains of Mull, and the evening star glimmering over the dark edge of the fir- wood, while the ghost-moths begin to issue from their green hiding-places, and the Night gar, looming on the 1 ' Drink ! drink ! the lake is nearly dried up." HEBRIDEAN BIRDS. 245 summit of a tree, utters his monotonous call. A spring morning, with broken clouds and a rainbow, gleaming on the isles of Loch Awe, and cuckoos multitudinous as leaves in Vallambrosa telling their name to all the hills. The prospects are endless, the cries confusing as the chorus of birds in Aristophanes : Toro, toro, toro, toro, toro, toro, toro, toro, toro, Kickabau, kickabau, Toro, toro, toro, toro, tobrix ! With these for guides, one may wander further and see stranger scenes than ever came under the eyes of the Nephelococcygians ; but, indeed, modern culture scarcely knows even their names, and the spots where they dwell scarcely attract even the passing tourist. Wonderful indeed is modern ignorance, only to be paralleled by modern fatuity. Few men know the difference between the Birch and the Hornbeam, the Curlew and the Whimbrel. Modern authors, poets particularly, write as if they had been brought up in a dungeon or a hothouse, never breathing the fresh air or beholding plants and birds in a state of nature. " It is a fool's life, as they will find when they get to the end of it, if not before." The pursuit of false comforts, the desire of vain ac- complishments, the sucking of social lollipops, these are modern vanities. We were speaking the other day with one of the best educated men in England, a party finished to the finger-tips, great in philosophy, and " in Pindar and poets unrivalled." He had never seen an eagle or a red deer ; he could neither shoot, fish, nor swim ; he 246 HEBRIDEAN BIRDS. was sea-sick whenever he left dry land ; he believed the "sheets" of a boat to be her "sails;" he knew (as Browning expresses it) the "Latin word for Parsley," but he had never even heard of "white" heather. For this being, his University had done all it could, and had turned him out in the world about as ignorant as a parrot and as helpless, for all manly intents and purposes, as a new-born baby. NIGHT IN THE SEA. ARLY in the afternoon we passed Dunvegan, Head, and then Vaternish Point ; but by this time the breeze had grown very faint indeed, and when we were in the middle of the great mouth of Loch Snizort, the wind ceased altogether. For hours we rolled about on a most uncomfortable sea, till the sun sank far away across the Minch, touching with red light the hazy outline of the Long Island. Then, all in a moment as it were, the eyes of heaven opened, very dim and feeble, and the night if night it could be called came down with a chilly sprinkle of invisible dew. All round the yacht the sea burnt, flashed, and murmured, lit up by innumerable lights. Wherever a wave broke, there was a phosphorescent gleam. The punt astern floated in a patch as bright as moonlight ; and every time the counter of the yacht struck the water the latter emitted a flash like sheet-lightning. The whole sea was alive with millions of miraculous creatures, each with a 248 NIGHT IN THE SEA. tiny light to pilot him about the abysses. Here and there the Medusa moved luminous, devouring the minute creatures that swarmed around it, terrible in its way as the Poulp that Victor Hugo has caricatured so immortally ; J and other creatures of volition, to us nameless, passed, mysteriously ; while ever and anon a shoal of tiny sethe would dart to the surface and hover in millions around the yacht. Though there was no moon, the waters and the sky seemed full of moonlight. The silence was profound, only broken by a dull heavy sound at intervals whales blowing off the headland of Dunvegan. Midnight ; and no breeze came. The sky to the north unfolded like a flower blossoming, and the northern lights flitted up from the horizon, flashing like quicksilver, and filling the sight with a peculiar thrill of mesmeric sensa- tion. Lights gleaming on the ocean, the eyes of heaven glittering, the aurora flashing and fading with all these the sense seemed overburthened. Now and then, as if the pageant were incomplete, a star shot from its sphere, gleamed, and disappeared. 1 " Les Travailleurs de la Mer." MORNING GLIMPSES: OFF SKYE. HEN day broke, red and sombre, we were off Hunish Point, and saw on every side of us the basaltic columns of the coast flaming in the morning light, and behind us, in a dark hollow of a bay, the ruins of Duntulm Castle, gray and forlorn. The coast views here were beyond ex- pression magnificent. Tinted red with dawn, the fan- tastic cliffs formed themselves into shapes of the wildest beauty, rain-stained and purpled with shadow, and re- lieved at intervals by slopes of emerald, where the sheep crawled. The sea through which we ran was a vivid green, broken into thin lines of foam, and full of in- numerable Medusae drifting southward with the tide. Leaving the green sheep-covered island of Trody on our left, we slipt past Aird Point, and sped swift as a fish along the coast, until we reached the two small islands off the northern point of Loch Staffin so named, like the island of Staffa, on account of its columnar ridges of 250 MORNING GLIMPSES: OFF SKY E. coast. Here we beheld a sight which seemed the glorious fabric of a vision : a range of small heights sloping from the deep green sea, every height crowned with a columnar cliff of basalt, and each rising over each, higher and higher, till they ended in a cluster of towering columns, minarets, and spires, over which hovered wreaths of deli- cate mist, suffused with the pink light from the east. We were looking on the spiral pillars of the Quirang. In a few minutes the vision had faded; for the yacht was flying faster and faster, assisted a little too much by a savage puff from off the Quirang's great cliffs ; but other forms of beauty arose before us as we went. The whole coast from Aird point to Portree forms a panorama of cliff-scenery quite unmatched in Scotland. Layers of limestone dip into the sea, which washes them into horizontal forms, resembling gigantic slabs of white and gray masonry, rising sometimes stair above stair, water-stained, and hung with many-coloured weed ; and on these slabs stand the dark cliffs and spiral columns : towering into the air like the fretwork of some Gothic, temple, roofless to the sky ; clustered sometimes together in black masses of eternal shadow ; torn open here and there to show glimpses of shining lawns sown in the heart of the stone, or flashes of torrents rushing in silver veins through the darkness ; crowned in some places by a green patch, on which the goat feed small as mice ; and twisting frequently into towers of most fantastical device, that lie dark and spectral against the gray background of the air. To our left we could now behold the island of MORNJA'G GLIMPSES: OFF SKYE. 251 Rona, and the northern end of Raasay. All our faculties, however, were soon engaged in contemplating the Storr, the highest part of the northern ridge of Skye, terminating in a mighty insulated rock or monolith which points solitary to heaven, two thousand three hundred feet above the sea, while at its base rock and crag have been torn into the wildest forms by the teeth of earthquake, and a great torrent leaps foaming into the sound. As we shot past, a dense white vapour enveloped the lower part of the Storr, and towers, pyramids, turrets, monoliths were shooting out above it like a supernatural city in the cloud?. A SUNSE7. | HAT with the slight wind, and the weary beating down the Sound, we did not sight Sconser Lodge, which lies just at the mouth of Loch Sligachan, until the sunset. By this time the clouds had somewhat cleared away about Glamaig, and glorious shafts of luminous silver were working wondrous chemistry among the dark mists. We put about close to Raasay House, a fine dwelling in the midst of well cultivated land, and feasted our eyes with the fantastic forms and colours of the Skye cliffs to the westward, grouped together in the strange wild illumination of a cloudy sunset : domes, pinnacles, spires, rising with dark outlines against the west, and flitting from shade to light, from light to shade, as the mist cleared away or darkened against the sinking sun ; with vivid patches between of dark brown rocks and of green grass washed to glistening emerald by recent rain. It was a scene of strange beauty Nature mimicking with A SUNSET. 253 unnatural perfection the mighty works of men, colouring all with the wildest hues of the imagination, and revealing beyond at intervals, glimpses of other domes, pinnacles, and spires, flaming duskly in the sunset, and crumbling down, like the ruins of a burning city, one by one. What came into the mind just then was not Wordsworth's sonnet on a similar cloudy pageant, but those wonderful stanzas of a wonderful poem by the same great poet on the eclipse of the sun in 1820 : " Awe-stricken she beholds the array That guards the temple night and day ; Angels she sees, that might from heaven have flown, And virgin saints, who not in vain Have striven by purity to gain The beatific crown " Sees long-drawn files, concentric rings, Each narrowing above each ; the wings, The uplifted palms, the silent marble lips, The starry zone of sovereign height All steeped in the portentous light ! All suffering dim eclipse ! " It is difficult to tell why these lines should have arisen in our mind at that moment; for no stronger reason, perhaps, than that which caused the figures themselves to rise before Wordsworth by the side of Lugano. He had once seen the Cathedral at Milan, and when the eclipse came, he could not help following it thither in imagination. These faint associations are the strangest things in life, and the sweetest things in song. Por- tentous light ! dim eclipse ! These were the only words 254 A SUNSET. truly applicable to the scene we were gazing upon at that moment ; and those few words were the chain of the association the magical charm linking sense and soul bringing Milan to Skye, filling the sunset picture with the wings, uplifted palms, and silent lips of angels and virgin saints " All steeped in the portentous light ; All suffering dim eclipse !" THE BIRTH OF THE CUCHULLINS: A RETROSPECT. E have no patience with those imaginative people who are so far fascinated by trans- cendental meteors as to class Geology in the prose sisterhood of Algebra and Mathe- matics. The typical geologist, indeed, whom we meet prowling, hammer in hand, in the darknesss of Glen Sannox, or rock-tapping on the sea-shore in the society of elderly virgins, or examining Agassiz' atlas through blue spectacles on board the Highland steamboat this typical being, we repeat, is frequently duller company than the Free Church minister or the dominie ; but he is a mere fumbler about the footprints of the fair science, with never the courage to look straight into those beautiful blind eyes of hers and discover that she has a soul. By what name shall we call her, if not by the divine name of Mnemosyne the sphinx-like spirit that broods and remembers : a soul, a divinity, brooding blind in the solitude, and feeling 256 THE BIRTH OF THE CUCHULLINS. with her fingers the raised letters of the stone book, which she holds in her lap, and wherein God has written the veritable " Legend of the World ? " A prose science ? say rather a sublime Muse ! Why, her throne is made of the mountains of the earth, and her speech is the earth- slip and the volcano, and her taper is the lightning, and her forehead touches a coronal of stars. Only the fool misapprehends her and blasphemes. Whoso looks into her face with reverend eyes is appalled by the light of God there, and sinks to his knees, crying, " I would seek unto God, and unto God would I commit my cause, who doeth great things and unsearchable, marvellous things without number." In sober words, without fine writing or rapture, it must be said that the Cuchullins cannot long be contemplated apart from their geology. Turn your eyes again for a moment on Scuir-na-Gillean ! Note those sombre hues, those terrific shadows, that jagged outline traced as with a frenzied finger along the sky. It is a gentle autumn morn- ing, and the film of white cloud resting on yonder top- most peak, is moveless as the ghost of the moon in an April heaven. There is no sound save the melancholy murmur of water. A strange awe steals over you as you gaze ; the soul broods in its own twilight. Then, as the first feeling of almost animal perception fails, the mind awakens from its torpor, and with it comes a sudden illumination, Along these serrated peaks runs a fiery tongue of flame, the abysses blacken, the air is filled with a deep groan, and a thunder-cloud, driving past in a great THE BIRTH OF THE CUCHULL2NS. 257 wind, clutches at the mountain, and clinging there, belches flame, and beats the darkness into fire with wings of iron. From a rent above, the drifting stars gaze, like affrighted ; yes, dim as corpse-lights. In a moment, this wonder passes : the sudden tension of the mind fails, and with it the phantasm, and you are again in the torpid conditio^ gazing dreamily at the jagged outline of the Titan, dark and silent in the brightness of the autumn morning. Again Mnemosyne waves her hand, and again the mind flashes into picture. You have now a glimpse of the ninth circle of the Inferno. Surrounded by the region of the Cold Clime, girt round on every side by unearthly forms of ice and rock, you see below you vales of frozen water, and un- fathomable deeps blue as the overhanging heaven. Where fire once raved snow now broods. Dome, pyramid, and pinnacle tower around with walls and crags of glittering ice. Winds contend silently, and heap the snow with rapid breath. Here and there gleams the vaporous light- ning, innocent as the aurora. The glaciers slip, and ever change. And down through the heart of all this desola- tion, past the very spot where you stand, filling the gigantic hollow of Glen Sligachan, welling onward with one deep murmur, carrying with it mighty rocks and blasted pine trees, rolls a majestic river, here burnished black as ebony in the rush of its own speed, there foamins over broken boulders and tottering crags, and everywhere gathering into its troubled bosom the drifting glacier and the melting snow. 258 THE BIRTH OF 7 HE CUCHULLINS. The Wanderer at least saw all this plain enough as he passed along the weary glen in the rear of his party; and the fanciful retrospect, instead of dulling the scene, lends it a solemn consecration. Poor indeed would be the songs of all the Muses, compared with the tale of Mnemosyne, if she could only be brought to utter half she knows. HART-a -CORRY. k AUSE here, where your path is the dry bed of a torrent, and look yonder to the north-east. Between two hills opens the great gorge of Hart-o'-Corry, which is closed in again far away by a wall of livid stone. 'Tis broad day here, but gray twilight yonder. In the hollow of the corry broods a dense vapour, and above it, down the deep green fissures of the hypersthene, trickle streams like threads of hoary silver, frozen motionless by distance ; while higher, far above the rayless abyss, the sky is serene and hyacinthine blue. That black speck over the topmost peak, that little mark scarce bigger than the dot of an / is an eagle ; it hovers for many minutes motionless, and then melts imperceptibly away. From the side of Hart-o-Corry, Scuir-na-Gillean shoots up its rugged columns ; and close to the mouth of the corry, the sharply-defined sweep of the deep green hypersthene, overlying the pale yellow felspar, has an effect of rare 260 HART & CORRY. beauty. Turning now, and looking up the Glen towards Camasunary, you behold Ben Blaven closing in the view, and towering into the sky from precipice to precipice, its ashen gray flanks corroding everywhere into veins of mineral green, until it cuts the ether with a sharp hooked forehead of solid stone. LOCH CORRUISK. ORRUISK, or the Corry of the Water, is a wild gorge, oval in shape, about three miles long and a mile broad, in the centre of which a sheet of water stretches for about two miles, surrounded on every side by rocky precipices totally without vegetation, and towering in one sheer plane of livid rock, until they mingle with the wildly picturesque and jagged outlines of the topmost peak of the Cuchullins. Directly on entering its sombre darkness, the student is inevitably reminded of the awful region of Malebolge : "Luogo e in Inferno detto Malebolge Tutto di pietra e di color ferrigno, Come la cerchia, die d'intorno '1 volge." The Mere is black as jet, its waters only broken and brightened by four small grassy islands, on the edges of the largest of which that summer day the black-backed gulls were sitting, with the feathery gleam of their sha- dows faintly breaking the glassy blackness below them. 262 LOCH CORRUISK. These islands form the only bit of vegetable green in all the lonely prospect. Close to the shores of the loch, and at the foot of the crags, there are dark-brown stretches of heath ; but the heights above them are leafless as the columns of a cathedral. Coming abruptly on the shores of this loneliest of lakes, the Wanderer had passed instantaneously from sunlight to twilight, from brightness to mystery, from the gladsome stir of the day to a silence unbroken by the movement of any created thing. Every feature of the scene was familiar to him he had seen it in all weathers, under all aspects yet his spirit was possessed as completely, as awe-stricken, as solemnised, as when he came thither out of the world's stir for the first time. The brooding desolation is there for ever. There was no sign to show that it had ever been broken by a human foot since his last visit. He left it in twilight, and in twilight he found it. Since he had de- parted, scarce a sunbeam had broken the darkness of the dead Mere ; so close do the mountain pinnacles tower on all sides, that only when the sun is sheer above can the twilight be broken ; and when it is borne in mind that the Cuchullins are the chosen lairs of all the winds, that the hollows are the dark breeding-places of all the monsters of storm, that scarce a day passes over them without mist and tears, one ceases to wonder at the unbroken darkness. A great cathedral is solemn, solemner still is such an island fis Haskeir when it sleeps silent amid the rainy grief of a dead still sea, but Corruisk is beyond all expression solemnest of all. Perpetual twilight, perfect silence, LOCH CORRUISK. 263 terribly brooding desolation. Though there are a thou- sand voices on all sides the voices of winds, of wild waters, of shifting crags they die away here into a heart- beat. See ! down the torn cheeks of all those precipices tear head-long torrents white in foam, and each is crying, though you cannot hear it. Only one low murmur, deeper than silence, fills the dead air. The black water laps silently on the dark claystone shingle of the shore. The cloud passes silently, far away over the melancholy peaks. Streams innumerable come from all directions to pour themselves into the abyss ; and enormous fragments of stone lie everywhere, as if freshly fallen from the precipices, while many of these gigantic boulders, as MacCulloch observes, are " poised in such a manner on the very edges of the precipitous rocks on which they have fallen, as to render it difficult to imagine how they could have rested in such places, though the presence of snow at the time of their fall may perhaps explain this difficulty." These indeed, are the true blocs perches, marking the course of the glacier which once invaded these wilds. " The interval between the borders of the lake and the side of Garsven is strewed with them ; the whole, of whatever size, lying on the surface in a state of uniform freshness and integrity, unattended by a single plant or atom of soil, as if they had all but recently fallen in a single shower." The mode in which they lie is no less remarkable. The bottom of the valley is covered with rocky eminences, of which the summits are not only bare, but often very narrow, while their declivities are always steep, and often perpendicular. 264 LOCH CORRUISK. Upon these rocks the fragments lie just as on the more level ground. One, weighing about one hundred tons, has become a rocking-stone ; another, of not less than fifty, stands on the narrow edge of a rock a hundred feet higher than that ground which must have first met it in the descent " Mighty rocks, Which have from unimaginable years Sustained themselves with terror and with toil Over a gulf, and with the agony "With which they cling seem slowly coming down ; Even as a wretched soul hour after hour Clings to the mass of life : yet, clinging, lean j And leaning, make more dark the dread abyss In which they fear to fall." 1 Strangely beautiful as is the scene, it is a ruin. The vast fragments are the remains of a magnificent temple rising into pinnacles and minarets of ice, glittering with all the colours of the prism. Here the silent-footed glacier slipped, and the snow shifted under the footsteps of the wind, and there perhaps, where the lonely lake lies, glittered a cold sheet of hyacinthine blue ; and' no gray rain-cloud brooded on the temple's dome only delicate spirits of the vapour, drinking soft radiance from the light of sun and star. Around this temple crawled the elk and bear, and swift-footed mountain deer. Summer after summer it abode in beauty, not stable like temples built by hands, but ever changing, full of the low murmur of its change, the melancholy sound of its 'Shelley's "Cenci." LOCH CORRUISK. 265 own shifting walls and domes. Then more than once Fire swept out of the abyss, and clung like a snake about the temple, while Earthquake, like a chained monster, groaned below ; wild elements came from all the winds to overthrow it ; wall after wall fell, fragment after frag- ment was dashed down. The fairy fretwork of snow melted, the fair carvings of ice were obliterated, pinnacle and minaret dissolved in the sun, like the baseless frag- ment of a vision. Dark twilight settled on the ruin, and Melancholy marked it for her own. The walls of livid rock remain, gray from the volcano, and torn into rugged rents, casting perpetual darkness downward, where the water bubbling up from unseen abysses has spread itself into a mirror. All ruins are sad, but this is sad utterly. All ruins are beautiful, but this is beautiful beyond expression. The solemn Spirit of Death comes more or less to all ruins, whenever the meditative mind conjures and wishes ; but here it abides, at once overshadowing whosoever approaches by the still sense of doom. " Thus saith the Lord God, Behold, O Mount Seir, I am against thee, and I will make thee most desolate. When the whole earth rejoiceth, I will make thee desolate." The fiat has also been spoken here. The place has been solemnised to desolation. In deep unutterable awe does the human visitant ex- plore with timid eye the mighty crags above him, the layers of volcanic stone, until he finds himself fascinated by the strange outlines of the peaks where they touch the sky, and detecting fancied resemblances to -things 266 LOCH CORRUISK. that live. Yonder crouches, black and distinct against the light, a maned beast, like a lion, watching; its eyes invisible, but fixed doubtless on yours. Higher still is a dimmer outline, as of some huge bird, winged like the griffin. These two resemblances infect the whole scene instantaneously. There are shapes everywhere in the peaks, in the gorges, by the torrents living shapes, or phantoms, frozen still to listen, or to watch ; and horrify- ing you with their deathly silence. Your heart leaps as if something were going to happen ; and you feel if the stillness were suddenly broken, and these shapes were to spring into motion, you would shriek and faint. How dark and fathomless look the abysses yonder, at the head of the loch ! A wild scarf of mist is folding itself round the peaks (betokening surely that the clear still weather will not remain much longer unbroken), and faint gray light travels along the wildly indented wall beneath. It is not two miles to the base of the crags, yet the distance seems interminable ; and shadows, shift- ing and deepening, weary the eye with mysterious and dimly-reflected vistas. CANNA AND ITS PEOPLE. i ANNA is the child of the great waters, and such children, lonely and terrible as is their portion, seldom lack loveliness often their only dower. From the edge of the lapping water to the peak of the highest crag, it is clothed with ocean gifts and signs of power. Its strange under-caves and rocks are coloured with rainbow hues, drawn from glorious-featured weeds j overhead its cliffs of basalt rise shadowy, ledge after ledge darkened by innumerable little wings ; and high over all grow soft greenswards, knolls of thyme and heather, where sheep bleat and whence the herd boy crawls over to look into the raven's nest. On a still summer day, when the long Atlantic swell is costal smooth, Canna looks supremely gentle on her image in the tide, and out of her hollow under-caves comes the low weird whisper of a voice ; the sunlight glimmers on peaks and sea, the beautiful shadow quivers below, broken here and there by drifting weeds, and the bleating sheep on the 268 CANNA AND ITS PEOPLE. high swards soften the stillness. But when the winds come in over the deep, the beauty changes it darkens, it flashes from softness into power. The huge waters boil at the foot of the crags, and the peaks are caught in mist ; and the air, full of a great roar, gathers around Canna's troubled face. Climb the crags, and the horrid rocks to westward, jutting out here and there like shark's teeth, spit the lurid white foam back in the glistening eyes of the sea. Slip down to the water's edge, and amid the deafen- ing roar the spray rises far above you in a hissing shower. The whole island seems quivering through and through. The waters gather on all sides, with only one long glassy gleam to leeward. No place in the world could seem fuller of supernatural voices, more powerful, or more utterly alone. It is our fortune to see the island in all its moods ; for we are in no haste to depart. Days of deep calm alternate with days of the wildest storm there is constant change. Everywhere in the interior of the island there are sweet pastoral glimpses. On a summer afternoon, while we are wandering in the road near the shore, we see the cattle beginning to flock from the pastures, headed by two gentle bulls, and gathering round the dairy house, where, in " short gowns," white as snow, the two head dairymaids sit on their stools. The kine low softly, as the milk is drawn from the swelling udder, and now and then a calf, desperate with thirst, makes a plunge at his mother and drinks eagerly with closed eyes till he is driven away. Men and children gather around, looking on idly. As we pass by, the dairy- CANNA AND ITS PEOPLE. 269 maid offers us a royal drink of fresh warm milk, and with that taste in our lips we loiter away. Now we are among fields, and we might be in England so sweet is the scent of hay. Yonder the calm sea glimmers, and one by one the stars are opening like forget-me-nots, with dewdrops of light for reflections in the water below. Can this be Canna? Can this be the solitary child of the ocean? Hark ! That is the corn-crake crying in the corn the sound we have heard so often in the southern fields ! When there is little or no sea, it is delightful to pull in the punt round the precipitous shores, and come upon the lonely haunts of the ocean birds. There is one great cliff, with a hugh rock rising out of the water before it, which is the favourite breeding haunt of the puffins, and while swarms of these little creatures, with their bright parrot- like bills and plump white breasts, flit thick as locusts in the air, legions darken the waters underneath, and rows on rows sit brooding over their young on the dizziest edges of the cliff itself. The noise of wings is ceaseless, there is constant coming and going, and so tame are the birds that one might almost seize them, either on the water or in the air, with the outstretched hand. Discharge a gun into the air, and, as the hollow echoes roar upward and inward to the very hearts of the caves, it will suddenly seem as if the tremendous crags were loosening to fall, but the dull dangerous sound you hear is only the rush of wings. A rock farther northward is possessed entirely by gulls, chiefly the smaller species ; thousands sit still and fearless, whitening the summit like snow, but many hover 270 CANNA AND ITS PEOPLE. with discordant scream over the passing boat, and seem trying with the wild beat of their wings to scare the intruders away. Close in shore, at the mouth of a deep dark cave, cormorants are to be found, great black "scarts," their mates and the young, preening their glistening plumage leisurely, or stretching out their snake- like necks to peer with fishy eyes this way and that. They are not very tame here, and should you present a gun, will soon flounder into the sea and disappear ; but at times, when they have gorged themselves with fish, so awkward are they with their wings, and so muddled are their wits, that one might run right abreast of them, and knock them over with an oar. Everywhere below, above, on all sides, there is nothing but life birds innumerable, brooding over their eggs or fishing for the young. Here and there, a little fluff of down just launched out into the great world paddles about bewildered, and dives away from the boat's bow with a faint troubled cry. On the outer rocks gulls and guillemots, puffins on the crags, and cormorants on the ledges of the caves. The poor reflective human being brought into the sound of such a life, gets quite scared and dazed. The air, the rocks, the waters are all astir. The face turns for relief upward, where the blue sky meets the summit of the crags. Even yonder, on the very ledge, a black speck sits and croaks; and still farther upward, dwarfed by distance to the size of a sparrow-hawk, hovers a black eagle, fronting the sun. There is something awe-inspiring, on a dead calm day, CANNA AND ITS PEOPLE 271 in the low hushed wash of the great swell that for ever sets in from the ocean ; slow, slow, it comes, with the regular beat of a pulse, rising its height, without break- ing, against the cliff it mirrors in its polished breast, and then dying down beneath with a murmuring moan. What power is there ! what dreadful, fatal ebbing and flowing ! No finger can stop that under-swell, no breath can come between that and its course; it has rolled since time began, the same, neither more nor less, whether the weather be still or wild, and it will keep on when we are all dead. Bah ! that is hypochondria. But look ! what is that floating yonder, on the glassy water ? " O is it fish, or weed, or floating hair, O' drowned maiden's hair ? " No ; but it tells us clear a tale. Those planks formed lately the sides of a ship, and on that old mattress with the straw washing out of the rents, some weary sailor pillowed his head not many hours ago. Where is the ship now? Where is the sailor? Oh, if a magician's wand could strike these waters, and open them up to our view, what a sight should we see ! the slimy hulls of ships long submerged ; the just sunken fish-boat, with ghastly faces twisted among the nets ; the skeleton sus- pended in the huge under-grass and monstrous weeds, the black shapes, the fleshless faces looming green in the dripping foam and watery dew ! Yet how gently the swell comes rolling, and how pleasant look the depths, 272 CANNA AND ITS PEOPLE. this summer day, as if death were not, as if there could be neither storm nor wreck at sea. More hypochondria, perhaps. Why the calm sea should invariably make us melancholy we cannot tell, but it does so, in spite of all our efforts to be gay. Walt Whitman used to sport in the great waters as happily as a porpoise or a seal, without any dread, with vigorous animal delight ; and we, too, can enjoy a glorious swim in the sun, if there is just a little wind, and the sea sparkles and freshens full of life. But to swim in a dead calm is dreadful to a sensitive man. Something mes- meric grips and weakens him. If the water be deep, he feels dizzy, as if he were suspended far up in the air. We are harping on delicate mental chords, and forget- ting Canna ; yet we have been musing in such a mood as Canna must inevitably awaken in all who feel the world. She is so lonely, so beautiful ; and the seas around her are so full of sounds and sights that seize the soul. There is nothing mean, or squalid, or miserable about Canna; but she is melancholy and subdued, she seems, like a Scandinavian Havfru, to sit her with hand to her ear earnestly listening to the sea. That, too, is what first strikes one in the Canna people, . their melancholy look, not grief-worn, not sorrowful, not passionate, but simply melancholy and subdued. We cannot believe they are unhappy beyond the lot of other people who live by labour, and it is quite certain that, in worldly circumstances, they are much more comfortable than the Highland poor are generally. Nature, however, CANA'A AND ITS PEOPLE. 273 with her wondrous secret influences, has subdued their lives, toned their thoughts, to the spirit of the island where they dwell. This is more particularly the case with the women. Poor human souls, with that dark, searching look in the eyes, those feeble flutterings of the lips ! They speak sad and low, as if somebody were sleeping close by. When they step forward and ask you to walk into the dwelling, you think (being new to their ways) that some one has just died. All at once, and inevitably, you hear the leaden wash of the sea, and you seem to be walking on a grave. " A ghostly people !" exclaims the reader ; " keep me from Canna !" That is an error. The people do seem ghostly at first, their looks do sadden and depress ; but the feeling soon wears away, when you find how much quiet happiness, how much warmth of heart, may under- lie the melancholy air. When they know you a little, ever so little, they brighten, not into anything demon- strative, not into sunniness, but into a silvern kind of beauty, which we can only compare to moonlight. A veil is quietly lifted, and you see the soul's face ; and then you know that these folk are melancholy, not for sorrow's sake, but just as moonlight is melancholy, just as the wash of water is melancholy, because that is the natural expression of their lives. They are capable of a still, heart-suffering tenderness, very touching to behold. We visit many of their houses, and hold many of their hands. Kindly, gentle, open-handed as melting charity, we find them all ; the poorest of them as hospitable as 274 CANNA AND ITS PEOPLE. the proudest chieftain of their race. There is a gift everywhere for the stranger, and a blessing to follow, for they know that after all he is bound for the same bourne. Theirs is a quiet life, a still passage from birth to the grave ; still, untroubled, save for the never-silent voices of the waves. The women work very hard, both indoors and afield. Some of the men go away herring-fishing in the season, but the majority find employment either on the island or the circurnjacent waters. We cannot credit the men with great energy of character; they do not seem industrious. An active man could not lounge as they lounge, with that total abandonment of every nerve and muscle. They will lie in little groups for hours looking at the sea, and biting stalks of grass not seem- ing to talk, save when one makes a kind of grunting observation, and stretches out his limbs a little farther. Some one comes and says, " There are plenty of herring over in Loch Scavaig a Skye boat got a great haul last night." Perhaps the loungers go off to try their luck, but very likely they say, " Wait till to-morrow it may be all untrue ;" and in all probability, before they get over to the fishing ground, the herrings have disappeared. Yet they can work, too, and with a will, when they are fairly set on to work. They can't speculate, they can't search for profit ; the shrewd man outwits them at every turn. They keep poor but keeping poor, they keep good. Their worst fault is their dreaminess ; but surely as there is light in heaven, if there be blame here, God is CANNA AND ITS PEOPLE. 275 to blame here, who gave them dreamy souls ! For our part, keep us from the man who could be born in Canna, live on and on with that ocean murmur around him, and elude dreaminess and a melancholy like theirs ! " Bah !" cries a good soul from a city ; " they are lazy, like the Irish, like Jamaica niggers ; they are behind the age ; let them die !" You are quite right, my good soul ; and if it will be any comfort to you to hear it, they, and such as they, are dying fast. They can't keep up with you ; you are too clever, too great. You, we have no doubt, could live at Canna, and establish a manufactory there for getting the sea turned into salt for export. You wouldn't dream not you ! Ere long these poor High- landers will die out, and with them may die out gentle- ness, hospitality, charity, and a few other lazy habits of the race. In a pensive mood, with a prayer on our lips for the future of a noble race destined to perish locally, we wander across the island till we come to the little grave- yard where the" people of Canna go to sleep. It is a desolate spot, commanding a distant view of the Western Ocean. A rude stone wall, with a clumsy gate, surrounds a small square, so wild, so like the stone-covered hill- side all round, that we should not guess its use without being guided by the fine stone-mausoleum in the midst. That is the last home of the Lairds of Canna and their kin; it is quite modern and respectable. Around, covered knee-deep with grass, are the graves of the islanders, with no other memorial stones than simple 276 CANNA AND ITS PEOPLE. pieces of rock, large and small, brought from the sea- shore and placed as foot- stones and headstones. Rugged as water tossing in the wind is the old kirk-yard, and the graves of the dead therein are as the waves of the sea. In a place apart lies the wooden bier, with handspokes on which they carry the cold men and women hither; and by its side a sight indeed to dim the eyes is another smaller bier, smaller and lighter, used for little children. Well, there is not such a long way between parents and offspring ; the old here are children too, silly in worldly matters, loving, sensitive, credulous of strange tales. They are coming hither, faster and faster ; bier after bier, shadow after shadow. It is the tradesman's day now, the day of progress, the day of civilisation, the day of shops ; but high as may be your respect for the commercial glory of the nation, stand for a moment in imagination among these graves, listen to one tale out of many that might be told of those who sleep below, and join me in a prayer for the poor islanders whom they are carrying, here and in a thousand other kirkyards, to the rest that is without knowledge and the sleep that is without dream. EIRADH OF CANNA. EIRADH OF CANNA> A TALE. " She was a woman of a steadfast mind, Tender and deep in her excess of love ; Not speaking much, pleased rather with the joy Of her own thoughts. WORDSWORTH'S "Excursion." .HERE was a man named Ian Macraonail, who lived at Canna in the sea. In the days of his prosperity God sent him issue, five lads and a lass. Now Ian had great joy in his five sons, for they grew up to be fine young men, straight-limbed, clean-skinned, clever with their hands ; and in the girl he had not joy, but pain, for she was a sickly child and walked lame through a trouble in the spine. Her name was Eiradh, and she was born to many thoughts. When she was born she cried ; nor did she cease crying 1 This tale, or poem in prose, is supposed to be told by a native of the Highlands in the Highland tongue. 28o EIRADH OF CANNA. after long days ; and folk seeing that she was so sickly a child, thought that she would die soon. Yet Eiradh did not die, but cried on, so that the house was never quiet, and the neighbours, when they heard the sound in the night, said, "That is Ian Macraonail's bairn; the Lord has not yet taken her away." When she was three years old she lay in the cradle still, and could not run upon her feet : and then foul sores came out upon her head after they burst she had sound sleeps, and her trouble passed away. The mother's heart was glad to see the little one grow stiller and brighter every day, and try to prattle like other children at the hearth ; and she nursed her with care, slowly teaching her to move upon her feet. Afterwards they taught her how to use a little crutch of wood which Ian himself cut in the long winter nights when he was at home. Ian Macraonail was a just man, and his house was a well-doing house, but Eiradh saw little of her father's face. In the summer season he was far away chasing the herring on the great sea, and even on the stormy winter days he was fishing cod and ling with a mate on the shores of Skye and Mull. When he came home he was wet and sleepy, and all the children had to keep very still. Then Eiradh would sit in a corner of the hearth and see his dark face in the peat smoke. If he took her upon his knee she felt afraid and cried ; so that the father said, "The child is stupid, take her away." But when he took her. young brother upon his knee, the boy laughed and played with his beard. For all that the mother held Eiradh dear above all her EIRADH OF CANNA. 281 other children, because she was sickly, and had given ner so much care. Ian had built the house with his own hands, and it looked right out upon the sea. All the day and night the water cried at the door. Sometimes it was low and still and glistening ; and it was pleasant then to sit out on the sand and throw stones into the smooth and glassy tide. But oftenest it was wild and loud, shrieking out as if it were living, dashing in the seaweed and planks of ships, and seeming to say, " Come out here, come out here, that I may eat you up alive ! " All the long night it cried on, while the wind tore at the roof of the house, and would have carried it far away if the straw ropes and heavy stones had not been there to hold it down. Then Eiradh would hide her head under the blankets and think of her father upon the sea. The water cried at the door. When Eiradh's eldest brother grew up into a strong youth, he went away with his father upon the sea. He stayed away so long that his face grew strange. When he came home he was sleepy and tired, like his father, and said little to his sister and brothers j but one day he brought Eiradh home a little round-eyed owl, like a little old woman in a tufted wig. Eiradh was proud that day. When the calliach opened its mouth and roared for food, she laughed and clapped her hands ; and she made the bird a nest in an old basket, and fed it with her own hands. She loved her great brother very much after that, and was happy when he came home. 282 EIRADH OF CANNA. The water cried at the door. One day Eiradh's second brother joined his father and brother upon the sea, and ever after that was sleepy and tired like the others when he came home. The mother said to Eiradh, " That is always the way ; boys must work for their bread." But Eiradh thought to herself, " It is the sea calling them away. I shall soon not have a brother left in the house." The water cried at the door till all Eiradh's five brothers went away. Then it was very lonely in the dwelling, and the days and nights were long and dull. When the fishers came home, their faces were all strange to her, and they seemed great rough men, while she was only a little sickly child. But they were kind. They told her wild stories about the sea and the people they had seen, and laughed out loud and merry at the wonder in her great staring eyes. They told her of the great whales and the sea-snakes that have manes like a horse and teeth like a saw ; and how the old witch of Barra smoked her pipe over her pot and sold the fishermen winds. One night when Eiradh was twelve years of age, she sat with her mother over the fire, waiting for her father and brothers to come home in the skiff from Mull. It was a rainy night, late in the year. Now, the mother had been ailing for many days with a heaviness and pain about the heart, and she said to Eiradh : " I feel sick, and I will lie down upon the bed to rest a little." Eiradh kept very still that her mother might sleep, and the pot, with the supper in it, bubbled, the rain went splash-splash EIRADH OF CANNA. 283 at the door, till Eiradh fell to sleep herself. She woke up with a loud cry, and looking round her saw her father and brothers in the room. The steam was coming thick like smoke from their clothes, their faces were white, and they were talking to one another. She called to them not to make a noise because mother was asleep ; but her father said, in a sharp voice, "Take the girl away she is better out of the house." Then a neighbour woman stepped forward, out of the shadow of the door, and said, " she shall go with me." When the woman took her by the hand and led her to the other house through the rain, she was so frightened she could not say a word. The woman led her in, and bade her seat herself beside the fire, where a man sat smoking his pipe and mending his nets. Then Eiradh heard her whisper in his ear, as she passed him, "This is lame Eiradh with the red hair her mother has just died." It seemed to Eiradh that the ground was suddenly drawn from under her feet, and she was walking high up in the air, and all around her were voices crying : " Eiradh ! Eiradh with the red hair ! your mother has just died." When that passed away, a sharp thread was drawn through her heart, and she could scarcely cry for pain ; but when the tears came they did her good, washing the pang away. But it was like a dream. It was like a dream, too, the day when the woman took her by the hand and led her back to the house. The sea was loud that day loud and dark and it seemed to be saying, with its great voice : " Eiradh ! 284 EIRADH OF CANNA. Eiradh ! your mother has just died." The home was clean and still ; father was sitting on a bench beside the fire in his best clothes, looking very white. When she went in he drew her to him and kissed her on the forehead, and she sobbed sore. The woman said, "Come, Eiradh;" and led her aside. Something was lying on the bed all white, and there was a smell like fresh-bleached linen in the air; then the woman lifted up a kerchief, and Eiradh saw her mother's face dressed in a clean cap, and the grey hair brushed down smooth and neat. Eiradh's tears stopped, and she was afraid it looked so cold. The woman said : " Would you like to kiss her, Eiradh, before they take her away?" but Eiradh drew her breath tight, and cried to be taken out of the house. That night she slept in the neighbour's house, and the next day her mother was taken to the graveyard on the hill. Eiradh did not see them take her away ; but in the afternoon she went home and found the house empty. It was clean and bright. The peat fire was blazing on the floor, and there were bottles and glasses on the press in the corner. By-and-by her father and brothers came in, all dressed in their best clothes, and with red eyes ; and many fishermen neighbours stood at the door to take the parting glass, and went away quite merry to their homes. But the priest came and sat down by the fire with her father and brothers, and patted Eiradh on the head, telling her not to cry any more, because her mother was happy with God. She went and sat on the EIRADH OF CANNA. 285 ground in a corner, looking at them through her tears. Her father was lighting his pipe, and she heard him say, " She was a good wife to me ; " and the priest answered, " She was a good wife and a good mother ; she has gone to a better place." Eiradh wondered very much to see them so quiet and hard. With that, the days of Eiradh's loneliness began. She had no mother now to talk to her in the long nights when her father and brothers were away upon the sea ; but she used to go to the neighbour-woman's house and sleep among the children. Oftener than ever before, she loved to sit by the water and listen, playing alone ; so that her playmates used to say, " Eiradh is a stupid girl, and likes to sit by herself." One day she went to the graveyard on the hill and searched about for the place where her mother was laid. The grass was long and green, and there were great weeds everywhere ; but there was one place where the earth had been newly turned, and blades of young grass were beginning to creep through the clay. She felt sure that her mother must be sleeping there. So she sat down on the grave and began to knit. It was a clear bright day, the sheep were crying on the hills, and the sea far off was like a glass ; and it was strange to think her mother was lying down there, so near to her, with her face up to the sky. Eiradh began wondering how deep she was lying and whether she was still dressed in white. Her thoughts made her afraid, and she looked all around her. Though it was daytime, she could not bear to stay any longer, 286 EIRADH OF CANNA. for she had heard about ghosts. As she walked home on her crutch, she looked round her very often, fancying she heard some one at her back. Though Eiradh Nicraonail was a sickly girl, she was clever and quick, and she soon began to take a pleasure in the house. The neighbour-woman helped about the place and taught Eiradh many things how to cook, how to make cakes of oatmeal on the brander, and how to wash clothes. She was so quick and willing, and longed so much to please her father and brothers, that they said, " Eiradh is as good as a woman in a house, though she is so young." Then Eiradh brightened full of pride, and ever after that kept the home clean and pleasant, and forgot her griefs. There was a man in Canna, a little old man with a club foot, who got his living in many ways, for he could make shoes and knew how to mend nets, and besides, he was a learned man, having been taught at a school in the south. Some of the children used to go to him in the evenings, and he taught them how to read ; but he was so sharp and cross that sometimes he would have nothing to say to them though they came. Now and then, Eiradh went over to him, and he was gentler with her than with the rest, because she had a trouble of the body like himself. He learned her her letters, and after- wards, with a wooden trunk for a desk, made her try to write. Often, too, he came over to her in the house, and smoked his pipe while she knitted ; but if her father or any of her brothers came in, he gave them sharp an- EIRADH OF CANNA. 287 swers and soon went away, while they laughed and said, " It is a pity that his learning does not make him more free." He was a strange old man, and believed in ghosts and witches. Eiradh liked to sit and listen to his tales. He told her how the bagpipes played far off when any one was going to die. He told her of a young man in Skye, who could cause diseases by the power of the evil eye, and of a woman in Barra, who used to change into a hare every night and run up to the top of the moun- tains to meet a spirit in black by the side of a fire made out of the coffins of those who died in sin. He had seen every loophole in Skipness Castle full of cats' heads, with red eyes, and every head was the head of a witch. He believed in dreams, and thought that the dead rose every night and walked together by the side of the sea. Often in the dark evenings, when Eiradh was sitting at his knee, he would take his pipe out of his mouth and tell her to listen ; if she listened very hard in the pauses of the wind, she would hear something like a voice cry- ing, and he told her that it was the spirit of the poor lady who died in the tower, walking up and down, moan- ing and wringing its hands. As Eiradh grew older she had so much to do in the house that she thought of these things less than before. But when she sat by herself knitting, and the day's work was over, voices came about her that belonged to another land, and she grew so used to them that their presence seemed company to her, and she was not afraid. By the time that she was seventeen years of age God's strength 288 E1RADH OF CANNA. had come upon her, and she could walk about without her crutch. She had red hair, her face was white and well-favoured, and her eyes were the colour of the green sea. One night, when her father and brothers were sleeping with her in the house, Eiradh Nicraonail had a dream. She thought she was standing by the sea, and it was full of moonlight and the shadows of the stars. While she stood looking and listening there came up out of the sea a black beast like a seal, followed by five young ones, and they floated about in the light of the moon with their black heads up listening to a sound from far away like the music of a harp. All at once the wind rose and the sea grew rough and white, and the lift was quite dark. In a little time the distant music grew louder and .the wind died away. Then Eiradh saw the beast floating about alone in the white moonlight and bleating like a sheep when robbed of its lamb ; and at last it gave a great cry and stretched itself out stiff and dead, with its speckled belly shining uppermost and the herring-syle playing round it like flashes of silver light. With that she awoke, and it was dark night ; the wind was crying softly outside, and she could hear her father and brothers breathing heavy in their sleep. The next day, when her father and brothers sat mend- ing their nets at the door she told them her dream. They only laughed, and said it was folly put into her head by the old man who taught her to read. But she saw that they looked at one another, and were not well EIRADH OF CANNA. 289 pleased. All that day the dream troubled her at her work, and whenever she heard the sheep bleat from the hill-side she felt faint. The next night she said a long prayer for her father and brothers, and slept sound. The dream did not come again, and in a few days the trouble of it wore away. But when the news came that they were catching herring in Loch Scavaig, and the fisherman and his sons began preparing their boat to sail over and try their chance, all Eiradh's fears came back upon her twentyfold. It was changeful weather early in the year ; there were strong winds and a great sea. The day before the boat went away Ian had the rheu- matic trouble so sore in his bones that he could not rise out of his bed ; and he was still so sick next day that he told the young men to go away alone, for fear of missing the good fishing. They went off with a light heart four strong men and a tall lad. Ian Macraonail never saw his sons any more. Three days afterwards news was brought that the boat had laid over and filled in a squall, and that every one on board had been drowned in the sea. Then Eiradh knew that her strange dream had partly come true, but that more was to come true yet. The water cried at the door. Ian sat like a frozen man in the house, and when Eiradh looked at him her tears ceased she felt afraid. He scarcely said a word, and did not cry, but he paid no heed to his meat. He looked like the man on the hill-side when the voice of God came out of the burning bush. U 293 EIRADH OF CANNA. Again and again Eiradh cried " Father ! " and looked into his face, but he held up his hand each time to warn her away. A thread ran through her heart at this, for she had always known he loved her brothers best, and now he did not seem to remember her at all. She went outside the home, and looked at the crying water, and hated it for all it had done. Her heart was sad for her five brothers who were dead, but it was saddest of all for her father who was alive. The priest came, and prayed for the dead. Ian prayed too, with a cold heart. Afterwards the priest took him by the hand, looking into his eyes, and said, " Ian, you have suffered sore, but those the Lord loves are born to many troubles." Ian looked down, and answered in a low voice, "That is true ; I have nothing left now to live for." But the priest said, "You have Eiradh, your daughter; she is a good girl." Ian made no answer, but sat down and smoked his pipe. Eiradh went out of the house, and cried to herself. Now, that day Ian Macraonail put on his best black gear and the black hat with the broad crape band. The black clothes made him look whiter. He took his staff, and went up over the hill on to the cliffs, over the place where the black eagle builds, and stood close to the edge, looking over at Loch Scavaig, where the lads were drowned While he stood there a shepherd that knew him came by, and seeing him look so wild, fancied that he meant to take the short road to the kirkyard. So the man touched him on the shoulder, saying, " He sleeps ill EIRADH OF CANNA. 291 that rocks himself to sleep we are in God's hands, and must bide His time." Ian knew what the shepherd meant, and shook his head. " I have been a well-doing man," he said, " and mine has been a well-doing house. I have drunk a bitter cup, but the Lord forbid that I should do the sin you think of." So the shepherd made the sign of the blessed cross, and went away. After that Ian wore his black gear every day, and every day he went up on the high cliffs to walk. He ate his meat quite hearty, and he was gentle with Eiradh in the house ; but he stared all around him like a man at the helm in a thick mist, and listened as the man at the helm listens in the mist for the wind that is coming. It was plain that he took little heart in his dwelling, or in the good money he had saved. One day he said, " When I go again to the herring-fishing, I must pay wages to strangers I cannot trust, and things will not go well." The day after that, at the mouth of lateness they found him leaning against a stone, close over the place where the black eagle builds ; and his heart was turned to lead, and his blood was water, and there were no pictures in his eyes. Now Eiradh Nicraonail was alone in the whole world II. When Ian was in the narrow house where the fire is cold and the grass grows at the door, Eiradh sold the boats and the nets, and all but the house she lived in ', 292 EIRADH OF CANNA. and when she counted the good money, she found there was enough to keep her from hunger for a little time. In these days she had little heart to work in the house and in the fields, and every time she thought of those who were lying under the hill she felt a salt stone rise in her throat. In the long nights, when she was alone, voices came out of the sea, and eyes looked at her, she heard the wind calling, and the ghost of the lady crying up in the tower, and she thought of all the strange things the old man had told her when she was small. Often her heart was so troubled that she had to run away to the neighbours and sit among them for company. She often said, " I would rather be far away than here, for it is a dull place ; " and she planned to take service on some farm across the water. The women bade her wait and look out for a man, but Eiradh said, "The man is not born that would earn meat for me." She was dull and down-looking in these days, speaking little, but her bodily trouble was all gone, and she was clean-limbed and had a soft face. More than one lad looked her way, and would have come courting to her house at night, but she barred the door and would let no man in. One night, when a fisher lad got in, and came laughing to her bedside, he was sore afraid at the look of her face and the words of her mouth, though she only cried, " Go away this night, for the love of my father and mother. I am sick and heavy with sleep." These were decent and well-doing lads, shepherds EIRADH OF CANNA. 293 earning good wages, but Eiradh had a face to frighten them away. The winter after Ian Macraonail died, Calum Eachern, the tailor, came north to Canna. The folk had been waiting for him since long, and there was much work to De done so that Calum was busy morning and night in one house or another ; but though he had been busier, his tongue could never have kept still. Every night people gathered in the place where he worked, and those were merry times. He was like a full kist, never empty ; his tales were never done. He had the story of tha king of Lochlan's daughter, and how Fionn killed the great bird of the red beak, and many more beside. He loved best to tell about the men of peace, with their green houses under the hillside, and about the changeling bairns that play the fairy pipes in the time of sleep, and about the ladies with green gowns, that sit in the magic wells and tempt the herdboys with silver rings. He had that many riddles they were like the limpets on the sea- shore. He knew old songs, and he had the gift of mak- ing rhymes himself to his own tune. So the coming of Calum Eachern was like the playing of pipes at a wedding on a summer day. Calum was little, narrow in the shoulders, and short in the legs. His face was like a china cup for neatness. He had a little turned-up nose, and white teeth, and he shaved his beard clean every day. He had little twink- ling eyes like a fox's, and when he talked to you he cocked his head on one side, like a sparrow on a dyke. 294 EIRADH OF CANNA. One night, he was at work in a neighbour's house, and Eiradh went in with the rest. Calum sat on his board, and some were looking on and listening to his talk. When Eiradh went in, he put his head on one side and looked at her, and said in a rhyme "What did the fox say? Huch ! huch ! huch ! cried the fox ; Cold are my bones this day I have leant my skin to cover the head Of the girl with the red hair." All the folk laughed, and Eiradh laughed too. Then she sat down on the floor by the fire, and hearkened with her cheek on her hand. Calum Eachern was like a bee in the time of honey. He stitched, and sang, and told tales about the men of peace, and the land where jewels grew as thick as chuckie-stones, and gold is as plenty as the sand of the sea. Whenever Eiradh looked up, he nad his head on one side, and his eyes were laughing at her. By-and-by he nodded and said : "What did the sea-gull say? Kriki ! kriki ! cried the sea-gull ; Hard it is to hatch my eggs this day I have lent my white breast To the girl with the red hair." Then he nodded again and said : " What did the heron say? Kray ! kray ! said the heron ; Poor is my fishing in the loch to-day I have lent my long straight leg To the girl with the red hair. EIRADH OF CANNA. 295 With that, he flung down his shears, and laughed till the tears were in his eyes. Eiradh felt angry and ashamed, and went away. But for all that, she was not ill pleased. Listening to Calum Eachern had been like sitting out of doors on a bright sunny day. It made her heart light. All the night long she thought of his talk. She had never heard tales like those before all about brightness and a pleasant place. When she went to sleep, she dreamed she was in an enchanted castle all made of silver mines and precious stones, and that Calum Eachern was showing her a fountain full of gold fish, and the fountain seemed to fall in rhyme. All at once, Calum laughed so loud that the castle was broken into a thousand pieces, and when she woke up it was bright day. The day after that who should come into the house but Calum Eachern. " A blessing on this house ! " said he, and sat down beside the fire. Eiradh was putting the potatoes in the big pot, and Calum pointed at the pot and said : " Totoman, totoman, Little black man, Three feet under And bonnet of wood ! " Eiradh laughed at the riddle. Then Calum, seeing she was pleased, began to talk and sing, putting his held on one side and laughing. All at once he said, looking quite serious, " It's not much company you will be having here, Eiradh Nicraonail." 296 EIRAD21 OF CANNA. " That's true enough," said Eiradh. " It's a dull house that is without the cry of bairns, Frc thinking." " And that's true too," said Eiradh. " Then why don't you take a man ? " said he, looking at her very sharp. Eiradh gave her head a toss, and lifted up the lid of the pot to look in. " Your cheek is like a rose for redness," said Calum. " Are ye ashamed to answer ? " At that, Eiradh lifted up her head and looked him straight in the face. "The man is not born that I heed a straw," said she. Calum laughed out loud to hear her say that, and a little after he went away. Eiradh did not know whether she was pleased or angry, and all that night she had little sleep. She did not like to be laughed at, and yet she could not be rightly angry with such a merry fellow as Calum. It seemed strange to her that he should come to the house at all. It seemed stranger, the next night, when Calum came in again, and sat down by the fire. " How does the Lord use you this night, F/iradh Nicraonail ? " "The Lord is good," answered Eiradh. " Can you read print ? " he said, smiling. "Ay," answered Eiradh, "print and writing too." "And that's a comfort," said Calum, "Bu f . I've EIRADH OF CANNA. 297 brought you somebody to sit with ye by the fire in the long nights." " And what's he like ? " asked Eiradh, thinking that Calum meant himself. " He's not over fine to look at, but he's mighty learned. He's a little old man with a leather skin, and his name written on his face, and the marks o' thumbs all over his inside." " And where is he this night ? " "This is him, and here he is, and many a merry thing he'll teach you, if you attend to his talking," said Calum ; and he gave her a little book in the Gaelic, very old and covered with black print j and soon after that he went away. When he was gone, Eiradh sat down by the fire and turned over the leaves of the book that he had given her, and it seemed like the voice of Calum talking in her ear. There were stories about the fairies and the men of peace, and shieling songs of the south country, and riddles for the fireside in the south country on Halloween. Eiradh read till she was tired, and some of the stories made her laugh afterwards as she sat by the fireside with her cheek on her hand. She could not help thinking that it would be fine to live in the south country, where there was corn growing everywhere, and gardens full of flowers, and no sea. After that Calum Eachern came often to the house arvd Eiradh did not tell him to stay away. Some of the /oik said, "Calum Eachern has a bad name," and bade 298 EIRADH OF CANNA. Eiradli beware, because he had a false tongue. Eiyadh laughed and said, " I fear the tongue of no man." Every night she read the printed book, till she knew it from the first page to the last, and when she was alone she would sing bits of the songs to Calum Eachern's tunes. Sometimes she would stand on the sea-shore, and look out across the water, and wonder what like was the country on the other side of the Rhu. In those days she was sick of Canna, and thought to herself, " If I was living in the south country, I should not be afraid of them that are dead;" and she remembered Calum's words, " It's not much company you will be having here, Eiradh Nicraonail." One night there was a boat from Tyree in the harbour, and when Calum came in late Eiradh knew that he had been drinking with the Tyree men. His face was red, and his breath smelt strong of the drink. He tried hard to get his will of her that night, but Eiradh was a well- doing girl and pushed him out of the house. She was angry and fit to cry, thinking of the words, "Calum Eachern has a bad name." That night she had a dream. She thought she has walking by the side of the sea on a light night, and she had a bairn in her arms, and she was giving it the breast. As she walked she could hear the ghost of the lady crying in the tower. Then she felt the babe she carried as heavy as lead, and it spoke with a man's voice, and had white teeth ; and when she looked at its face, it was Calum's face laughing, all cocked on one side. With that she woke. EIRADH Of CANNA. 299 When she saw Calum next, he hung down his head, and looked so strange and sad that she could not help laughing as she passed by. Then he ran after, and she turned on him full of anger. But Calum had a smooth tongue, and she soon forgot her anger listening to one of his tales. She liked him best of all that day, for he was quiet and serious, and never laughed once. Eiradh thought to herself, "The man is no worse than other men, and drink will change a wise man into a fool." Calum never tried to wrong her again, but one night he spoke out plain and asked her to marry him, and go home with him in a Canna boat to the south. It was a long while ere Eiradh answered a word. She sat with her cheek on her hand looking at the fire, and thinking of the night her mother died, and of her father and brothers that were drowned, and of the voices that came to her out of the sea. It was a rough night, and the wind blew sharp from the east, and she could hear the water at the door. Then she looked at Calum, and he had a bright smile, and held out his hand. But she only said, " Go away this night," and he went away without a word. All night long she thought of his words, " It's a dull house without the cry of bairns," and she remembered the days when her mother used to nurse her, and her father cut her the crutch of wood with his own hands. Next morn- .flg the sea was still, and the light was the colour of gold on the land beyond the Rhu. That day the folk seemed sharp and cold, and more than one mocked her with the name of Calum ; so that she said to herself, " They shall 300 EIRADH OF CANNA. not mock me without a cause ; " and when Calum came to her the next night, she said she would be his good wife. Soon after that Calum Eachern and Eiradh Nicraonail were married by the priest from Skye ; and the day they married they went on board a Canna smack that was sailing south. An old man from Tyree was at the helm, and she sat on her kist close to him. Calum sat up by the mast with the men, who were all Canna lads, and as they all talked together Calum whispered something and laughed, and all the lads looked at her and laughed too. Calum was full of drink. He had a bottle of whisky in the breast of his coat, and as the boat sailed out of the bay he waved it to the folk on shore, and laughed like a wild man. Now Eiradh felt sadder and sadder as she saw Canna growing farther and farther away ; for she thought of her father and mother, and of the graveyard on the hill. The more she thought, the more she felt the tears in her eyes and the stone in her throat. Going round the Rhu she had the sea-sickness, and thought she was going to die. Though she had dwelt beside the sea so many years, she had never sailed on the water in a boat. III. Where Calum Eachern lived, the folk had strange ways, and many of them had both the Gaelic and the English. Their houses were whitewashed and roofed 1H RAD II Of CAXXA. 301 with slate, and there was a long street with shops full of all things that man could wish, and there was a house for the sale of drink. The roads were broad and smooth as your hand, and on the sides of the hills were fields of corn and potatoes. The sea was twenty miles away, but there was a burn, on the banks of which the women used to tread their clothes. Eiradh thought to herself, " It is not as fine a country as Calum said." Calum's house was the poorest house there, It had two rooms, and in the front room Calum worked ; the back room was a kitchen with a bed in the wall. Eiradh had brought with her some of the furniture from her father's house, and plenty of woollen woof made by her mother's own hands; and she soon made the place pleasant and clean. They had ' not been home a day when the laird came in for the back rent that was due, and Eiradh paid the money out of her own store. She had the money in a stocking inside her kist, and some of it was in copper and silver, but there were pound notes quite ragged and old with being kept so many years. Jt would take me a long winter's night to tell all that Eiradh thought in those days. She was like one in a dream. She felt it strange to see so many people coming arid going in and out of the shops and houses, and the crowds on market days, and the great heap of sheep and cattle The folk were civil and fair-spoken, but most of tK* men drank at the public house. There was a man next door who would get mad- drunk every night he had 302 EIRADH OF CANNA. the money, and it was a sad sight to see his wife's face cut and bruised and the bairns at her side crying for lack of food. Many of the men were weavers, and walked iame as Eiradh used to do, and had pale sickly faces, black under the eyes. The Gaelic they had was a differ- ent Gaelic from that the folk had in Canna, and some- times Eiradh could not understand it at all. Now, it was not long ere Eiradh found that Calum had a bad name in the place for drinking ; and besides he had beguiled a servant lass the year before under the promise of marriage. Eiradh thought of the night when he had come drunk to the house, but she said nothing to Calum. She would sit and watch him for hours, and wonder she had thought him so bright and free ; for she soon saw he was a double man, with a side for his home and another for strangers ; and the first side was as dull as the second was bright. He never raised his hand to her in those days, and was sober ; but he would sit with a silent tongue, and sometimes give her a strange look. Eiradh thought to herself "Calum is like the south country, and looks brightest to them that are farthest away." A year after they had come to the south country, Calum turned his front room into a shop, and made Eiradh look after it while he was at work. The goods were bought with her own good money, and were tea, sugar, tobacco, and meal. The first month, Eiradh got all her money back. It was pleasant to sit there and sell, and know that she made a profit on each thing she sold ; and Calum was light and merry, when he saw that his EIRADH OF CANNA. 303 idea had turned out well. Eiradh's health was not so good in those days, and she had no children. After that came days of trouble, for Calum grew worse and worse. He would take the money that Eiradh had earned, and spend it in the public-house ; and when he came home in drink, he raised his hand to her more than once. Then Eiradh thought to herself, " My father did not love me, but he never struck me a blow ; there is not a man in Canna who would lift his hand to a woman." After that she took no pleasure in trade, but would sit with a sick face and a silent tongue, thinking of Canna in the sea. Calum liked her the less because she did not complain. One day he told her that he did not marry her for herself, but for the money she had saved; and this was a sore thing to say to her ; but though the tears made her blind, she only looked at him, and did not answer a word. There was some of the money left in her kist, but she never cared to look at it after what Calum had said. After the day he married Eiradh, Calum had never left his home to work through the country as he once did. But one night late in the year he said he must go south on business, and in the morning he went away. Eiradh never saw him again <5n this side the narrow house. He went straight to the big city of Glasgow, and there he met the lass he had beguiled the year he married Eiradh, and the two sailed over the seas to Canada. The news came quick to Eiradh by the mouth of one who saw them on the quay. One would need the tongue of a witch to tell all 304 EIRADH OF CANNA. Eiradh's thoughts in those days. The first news seemed like the roar of the sea the time her brothers died, and the words stopped in her ears like the crying of the water day and night. She felt ashamed to show herself in the street, nnd she could not bear the comfort of the good wives; for they all said, " Calum had ever a bad name," and she remembered how the folk in Canna had used the same words. She would sit with her apron over her face, and greet 1 for hours with no noise. It seemed dreadful to be there in the south country, without friend or kindred, and the folk having a different Gaelic from her own. She felt sick and stupid, just like herself when she would cry night and day from the cradle, without strength to run upon her feet. She thought to herself, " I may cry till my heart breaks now, but no one heeds ;" and the thought brought up the picture of her mother lying in the bed all white, and made her cry the more. Now in those days voices came about her that belonged to another land, and the faces of her father and mother went past her like the white breaking of a wave on the beach in the night. She had dreams whenever she slept, and in every one of her dreams she heard the sough of the sea. But Eiradh Eachern was a well-doing lass, and had been bred to face trouble when it came. Her first thought was this : " I will go back to Canna in the sea, and work for my bread in the fields." But when she looked in the kist, she found that Calum had been therr and taken away all the good money out of the stocking, 1 Weep. EIRADH OF C.4MVA. 305 and a picture besides of the Virgin Mary, set round with yellow gold and precious stones the colour of blood. Now, this grieved Eiradh most. She did not heed the money so much, but the picture had belonged to her mother, and she would not have parted with it for hundreds of pounds. She felt a sharp thread run through her heart and she was sick for pain. It is a wonder how much trouble a strong man or woman in good health can bear when it comes. Eiradh thought to herself at first, " I shall die," but she did not die. The Lord was not willing that she should be taken away then. He spared her, as he had spared her in her sickness when a bairn at the breast. One day a neighbour came in and said, " Will you not keep open the shop the same as before? You have always paid for your goods, and those that sent them will not press for payment at- first." Now, Eiradh had never thought of that, and her heart lightened. That same day she got the schoolmaster to write a letter, in the English, to the big city, asking goods. The next week the goods came. Then Eiradh thought, " God has not forgotten me," and worked hard to put all in order as before. Many folk came and bought from her, out of. kindness at first, but aiterwards because they said she was a just woman, and gave full value for their money. All this gladdened her heart. She said, " God helps those that are fallen," and every penny that she earned seemed to have the blessing of God. x 306 EIRADH OF CANNA. In those times she would lock up the house when the day was done, and walk by herself along the side of the burn ; for the sound of the water seemed like old times ; and when the moon came out on the green fields, they looked for all the world like smooth water. Voices from another land came to her, and spirits passed before her eyes; so that she often thought to herself, " I wonder how Canna looks this night, and whether it is storm or calm ?" I might talk till the summer came, and not tell you half of the many thoughts Eiradh had in the south country. She loved to sit by herself, as when she was a child ; and the folk thought her a dull woman with a white face. The women said, " Calum Eachern's wife has the greed of money strong in her heart, but she is a just- dealing woman." It was true that Eiradh found pleasure in trade, and would not sell to those who did not come to buy money in hand. Every piece she saved she put in the stocking in the old kist, and every week she counted it out in her lap. So the time passed, and sometimes Eiradh could hardly call up right the memory of Calum's face. It seemed like a dream. These were the days of her prosperity, and every week she saved something, and every second Sabbath she saw the priest. Now, the folk in those parts had a religion of their own, and did not believe in the Virgin Mary or the Pope of Rome. Some of them were worse than that, and did not believe in the Lord Jesus Christ. All the children had the English as well as the Gaelic ; and the preachings were in the English, and the English EIRADH OF CANNA. 307 was taught in the school. But all the time she lived in the south Eiradh could not speak a word of that tongue. It seemed to her like the chirping of birds, with little meaning and a heap of sound. All the years Eiradh sat in the shop, the Lord drew silver threads in her hair, and made lines like pencil- marks over her face ; and when she was thirty-five years of age her sight failed her, and she had to wear glasses. She had little sickness, but she stooped in the shoulders, and had a dry cough. In those days she did not go out of the house at night, but sat over the fire reading the book Calum had given her long years before. The leaves of the book were all black and torn, and many of the pages were gone. Every time she looked at it she thought of old times. She had little pleasure in the tales and riddles of the south country all about brightness and a pleasant place ; for she thought to herself, "The tales are all lies, and the south country looks brightest far off, and the folk do not believe in the Virgin Mary or the saints." For all that she liked to look at the old book; and to let her thoughts go back of their own accord, like the flowing of water in a burn. Best of all, she loved to count the bright money into her lap, and think how the neighbours praised her as a just-dealing woman who throve well. IV The years went past Eiradh Eachern like the waves breaking on the shore, and the days were as like each other as the waves breaking, and she couM rot count 308 EIRADH OF CANNA. them at all. She was like the young man that went to sleep on the Island of Peace, and had a dream of watching the fairy people, and when he woke he was old and frail upon his feet. Eiradh was fifty years of age when she counted the money in her kist for the last time, and found that she had put by a hundred and twenty pounds in good money. That night she sat with the heap of money in her lap, and the salt tears running down her cheeks, and her bottom-lip quivering like the withered leaf on the bough of a tree. Now all these years Eiradh had one thought, and it was this : " Before I die I will go back to Canna in the sea." Every day of her life she fancied she saw the picture of the green cliffs covered with goats and sheep, and the black scarts sitting on the weedy rocks in a row, and the sea rising and falling like the soft breasts of a woman in sound sleep. Every night of her life she had a dream of her father's house by the shore, and the water crying at the door. It seemed ever calm weather to her thoughts, and the sea was kinder and sweeter than when she was a child. Eiradh often thought to herself, " The water took away my five brothers, and close to the water my father and mother closed their eyes ; " and the more she thought of them sleeping the less she was afraid. So when she had saved one hundred and twenty pounds in good money, she felt that she could abide no longer in the south country. The more she tried to stay a little longer, the more voices from another land came to her, saying, " Eiradh, Eiradh ! go back to Canna in the sea." EJRADH OF CANNA. 309 At last she had a dream ; and she thought she was lying in her sowe 1 in a dark land, waiting to be laid in the earth. All at once she felt herself rocking up and down, and heard the sound of the sea crying, and when she put out her hand at the side it was dripping wet. Then Eiradh knew that she was drifting in a boat, and the boat was a coffin with the lid off, and though there was a strong wind she floated on the waves like a cork. All night long she floated and never saw land ; only a light shining far, far off, over the dark water. When she woke up, she was sore troubled, and said to herself, c ' It is my wraith that I saw, and unless I haste I may never see my home again." After that she never rested till she had sold the trade of her shop in the south country, and all she kept to herself was the old kist full of her clothes and the money she had saved. But she made a pouch of leather with her own hands, and put the money in it, and fastened the pouch to her waist underneath her clothes, and the only thing in the pouch beside the money was the old book in the Gaelic Calum had given her when she was a young woman. I have told you that the place was twenty miles from the sea. One day she put her kist in a cart that was going that way, and the day after she took the road. It was a fine morning, early in the year. When she got to the top of the hill, and saw the place below her where she had lived so long, all asleep and still, with the smoke going straight up out of the houses, and not a soul in the Shroud. 1 310 EIRADH OF CANNA. street, it seemed like a dream. As she went on, the country was strange, but it looked finer and bonnier than any country she had ever seen. Now, her heart was so light that day that she could walk like a strong man. The sun came out and the birds sang, and the land was; green, and wherever she went the sheep cried. Eiradh thought to herself, " My dream was true after all, and the south country is a pleasant place." For all that she was wearying to see Canna in the sea, and wondering if it was the same all those years. She counted on her fingers the names of the folk she knew, and wondered how many were dead. Every one of them seemed like a friend. She was keen to hear her own Gaelic again after so many years in a foreign land. She walked twelve miles that day, and slept at a farm by the road at night. The next day she saw the sea. It was good weather, and the sea was covered with fishing-boats and ships. She could hear the sough of the water a long way off, and it seemed like old times. There was a bit village on the shore, full of fisher folk, and the houses minded her of those where she was born. There were skiffs drawn up on the shore, and nets put out to dry, and the air was full of the smell of fish. She slept in the house of a fisher-woman that night, and the next day a fishing-boat took her out to catch the big steamboat to Tobermory. It was the first time that Eiradh had seen a boat like that, and it seemed to her like a great beast panting and groaning, and swimming through the water with its fins and tail. It was full of the smell of EIRADH OF CANNA. 311 fish, and the decks were covered with herring-barrels, and where there were no herring-barrels there were cattle and sheep. In one part of the boat there was a long box like a coffin, covered over with a piece of tarpaulin to keep it dry ; and one of the sailors told Eiradh that it held the dead body of an old man from Skye, who had died on the Firth o' Clyde, and was being carried home to be with his kindred at home. Eiradh said, " It is a sad thing to be buried far away from kindred ; " and she thought to her- self, " If I had died in the south country, there would have been no kin or friend to carry me to Canna in the sea." Neither wind nor tide could keep the big steamboat back; so wonderful are the works of the hand of man, when God is willing. Late at night Eiradh landed at Tober- mory in Mull, but the moon was bright, and she saw that the bay was full of fishing-boats at anchor. Eiradh wondered to herself if any of the boats were from Canna. She got a lodging in the inn that night, and the next morning she went down to the shore. There were heaps of fishermen on the beach, and many of them passed her the sign of the day, but none of them seemed to have her own Gaelic. Then Eiradh said, " Is there a Canna boat in the bay?" and they said "Ay," and pointed out a big smack with her sails up, and a great patch on the mainsail. The skipper of the smack was on shore, and his name was Alastair. He was a big black-whiskered man, with large silly eyes like a seal's. Eiradh minded him well, though he was a laddie when she left, and went 312 EIRADH OF CANNA. up and called him by his name, but he stared at her and shook his head. Then Eiradh said, "Do you mind Eiradh Nicraonail, who dwelt in the small house by the sea?" and the man laughed, and asked after Calum Eachern, Eiradh told him her troubles, and got the promise of a passage to Canna that day. In the afternoon it blew hard from the east, but Eiradh went on board the smack with her kist. They ran out of the Sound of Mull with the wind, and kept in close to the Rhu, for the sake of smooth water. Eiradh felt a heaviness and pain about her heart, and sat on the kist with her head leaning against the side of the boat. She had a touch of the sea-sickness, but that pa-ssed away. Alastair steered the smack on the west side of Eig, and the squalls came so sharp off the Scaur that they had to take down the topsail. As they sailed in the smooth water on the leeside of Eig Eiradh asked about the Canna folk she had known, and most of them were dead and buried. Then she asked about the old man who had taught her to read and write, and he was dead too. Many of the young folk had gone away across the ocean, to work among strangers and wander in a foreign land. The heart of Eiradh sank to hear the news ; for she- thought to herself, " Every face will be as strange as the faces in the south." Then Alastair, seeing she put her hand to her heart, said " What ails ye, wife ? are yen sick ? " Eiradh nodded, and leant her head over the boat, looking at the sea. A little after that the smack rounded the north end of ZltlADH OP CANNA. 313 Rum, and Eiradh saw Canna in the sea, just as she had left it long ago. There was a shower all over the ocean, but the green side of Canna was shining with the light through a cloud. Eiradh looked and looked ; for there was not an inch of the green land but she knew by heart. The wind blew fresh and keen, and they had to lower the peak of the mainsail running for the harbour. Eiradh saw the tower, all gray and wet in the rain, and she thought she heard the lady's voice calling as in old times. Then she looked over to the mouth of Loch Scavaig, thinking to herself, " There is the place where my brothers were lost ! " and that brought up the picture of her father, sitting dead on the cliffs, and looking out to sea. Eiradh's eyes were blind with tears, and she could not see Canna any more ; but as they ran round into the bay, her eyes cleared, and she saw her home close by the water-side, with the roof all gone, and the walls broken down, and a cow looking out of the door. A little after that, when the anchor was down and the mainsail lowered, Alastair touched Eiradh on the arm, thinking she was asleep, for she was leaning back with her face in her cloak. Then he drew back the cloak, and saw her face with a strange smile on it, and the eyes wide open. Though he was a big man, he was scared, and called out to his mates, and an old man among them said, " Sure enough she is dead." So they carried her body ashore in their boat, and put it in one of the houses, and sent word to the laird 3U EIRADH OF CANNA. Eiradh Eachern had died of the same disease that killed her mother. She had o'er many thoughts to live long, and she knew the name of trouble. In her kist they found her grave-clothes all ready made and neatly worked with her own hands, and they buried her on the hill-side close to her father and mother. May the Lord God find her ready there to answer to her name at the Last Day 1 THE ENT>. Cowan 6^ Ci>., Slralhmore Printing Works ^ [August, 1883. CHATTO & WINDUS'S LIST OF BOOKS. About. The Fellah : An Egyp- tian Novel. By EDMOND ABOUT. Translated by Sir RANDAL ROBERTS. PostSvo, illustrated boards, 2s. ; cloth limp, 2s. 6cL Adams (W. Davenport), Works by: A Dictionary of the Drama. 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