Part 18 (1/2)
”Immense vacuity of intellect!
I lift a volume, but a sentence tires; Even a flimsy magazine requires From me more concentration and direct Volition than my vagrant wits elect To give the pages. All my soul desires Is to gaze without purpose on the fire's Crackle of glowing cinders, and detect Weird shapes of beasts and palaces and men In the red ma.s.s of photographic coal; Perchance my lazy mind may, now and then, Without exertion, read as on a scroll (While the glede sinks to ashes in the grate) The dust and nothingness of mortal state.”
”Well,” I said, ”your case is a queer one, and I am at a loss to suggest anything further.” At this, the young man burst into a loud peal of laughter. He was supremely delighted at finding himself so unique, so singular. He took me by the hand, shook it most heartily, saying, ”I haven't enjoyed myself so much for a long time. If I were oftener in the company of men like you, I might regain hope.”
The improvement was, unfortunately, of very short duration. He continued his observations thus:
”And yet, and yet: _Sunt lacrimae rerum_. What is this world but a succession of fleeting images chasing each other across a background of joy or pain! Now we quaff the sour cup of misery, by and by we drink the intoxicating vintage of hope. Heaven alone stands firm, gemmed with the pitiless stars. The day breaks, rises to its glory in the s.h.i.+mmering height of noon, and dies away in the west: so does the utmost pride of man's career fade away to nothing, a harvest for Time's scythe. On all this growth and decay the stars gaze with their unpitying and eternal eyes. I think I'll have a little more phospherine.”
CHAPTER VII.
LEGENDS AND LITERARY NOTABILIA.
Gairloch folk-lore: Prince Olaf and his bride--A laird who had seen a fairy--Tales from Loch Broom: The dance of death--The Kildonan midwife--The magic herring--Taisch--Antiquities of Dunvegan--Miscellaneous terrors--St. Kilda--Lady Grange--Pierless Tiree--Lochbuie in Mull--Inveraray Castle--The sacred isle--Appin--Macdonald's grat.i.tude--Notes on the Trossachs--Lochfyneside: Macivors, Macvicars, and Macallisters--Red Hector--Macphail of Colonsay--Tales from Speyside: Tom Eunan!--Shaws and Grants--The wis.h.i.+ng well--Ossian and Macpherson--At the foot o' Bennachie--Harlaw--Lochaber reivers--Reay and Twickenham--Rob Donn--Rev. Mr. Mill of Dunrossness.
GAIRLOCH FOLK-LORE.
I do not think anyone interested in local history and antiquities could find a greater treat than that furnished by Mr. Dixon's _Account of the Parish of Gairloch_. That romantic and lovely district is fortunate in having found a historian of unlimited enthusiasm and untiring industry.
There is not a single dry page in his long and detailed narrative. Many of the legends he tells are known to me from other sources, but I am certain that no Scotch compiler (Mr. Dixon, let me say, is English) has written of them with such enjoyable sympathy and poetical ardour. I have been a.s.sured by local authorities that the facts adduced by Mr. Dixon are invariably reliable. That I can well believe; but what is still more rare, Mr. Dixon's facts are everywhere made to gleam and glitter in the radiance of romance. Let me narrate, in concentrated form, one of the legends which this clever writer has alluded to in more than one of his chapters.
PRINCE OLAF AND HIS BRIDE.
In the ninth century of the Christian era, one of the islands that in such picturesque fas.h.i.+on dot the surface of Loch Maree, was honoured by being the abode of a pious hermit, despatched thither from the sacred isle of Iona. His presence there, implying as it did austerity, perpetual wors.h.i.+p of Heaven, and the reading of devout treatises, inspired veneration in the minds of the obstreperous tribes around. They felt themselves better from having such a good man near them. Wherever in these old times of war and gore, a saintly pioneer established himself, the kingdom of chaos and night was pushed back for miles around his cell.
The Picts of the ninth century revered this man, and his fame was known also to the predatory seamen who came buccaneering among the islands of the West. A Viking of royal blood, Prince Olaf, in the intervals of his sea-roving, hied sometimes to the hermit's retreat, for instruction and spiritual blessing. The young man, as tradition alleges, was not beyond the need of guidance, for his temper was of the most fiery violence, and, at the slightest provocation, his hand was on the hilt of his sword. No doubt the saint of Isle Maree managed to moderate the Prince's vehemence, and draw him somewhat away from wrath which (as Homer puts it), waxeth like smoke in the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of warriors, and is far sweeter to them than trickling honey.
By and by, this youth fell in love, and in characteristic fas.h.i.+on he loved with a whole-souled and overwhelming pa.s.sion. The hot-tempered Viking became a new man, and he thus communed with himself: ”How can I ask this maid to share my life on the stormy sea? She is too tender and gentle to go under the dark clouds in a war-galley with me and my rude mates, when we sail to meet the enemy. Nor, were she my wife, could I leave her behind and unprotected. Marry her I must, but I can neither take her with me thereafter, nor defend her in my absence. Go to, I'll e'en visit the monk of Isle Maree and get counsel from _him_.”
It is pleasant to note that the holy father found a way out of the difficulty. ”Marry her, my son,” said he, ”and build a tower of strength as her abode on this isle of mine. When you are away, she will be near me. Old man as I am, the natives respect me for my devotion and my h.o.a.ry hairs.” The prince's scruples, so honourable to his love, were overcome.
The marriage was celebrated with great pomp and rejoicing. The green pathways of the isle were thronged with feasters; tents were erected beside the thickets of oak and holly, and the Loch had little rest from the plas.h.i.+ng of oars. The hermit blessed the couple and blessed the castle too in which the twain were for a time to reside.
Prince Olaf and his lady were perfectly happy, and the golden hours of their wedlock sped merrily by. But the hours that were short to them, were long and dreary to the Norse rovers, lying inactive in the s.h.i.+ps anch.o.r.ed hard by in the waters of Loch Ewe. Murmurs, growing at length in volume, were muttered by the men as they reflected, day by day, on the soft uxoriousness of their leader. They wished to be at sea on an expedition that had been planned aforetime ere the marriage had taken place. These murmurs reached the prince's ears, and, with many tears, he tore himself away from the bridal tower to take his place at the head of the squadron. It was a bitter severance, but tempered by the expectation of a speedy reunion. The prince took with him two pennons, a black and a white. ”If I am successful in my expedition,” he said, ”I will display the white pennon on my galley; if misfortune befalls me (which G.o.d avert) the black will be flying on the prow. Do you come to meet my returning fleet and let a similar indication be visible on your barge to tell of your safety or your misfortune. A lover feels his excitement growing, the nearer he comes to his home: let us abridge, by such a device, the length of our anxiety.”
Love did not make Olaf a worse fighter: rather, indeed, it improved his prowess. The thought of the fair young wife in the lonely tower, protected mainly by the sanct.i.ty of an old hermit, nerved his arm, and he speedily got through the expedition with great applause. He swept everything before him, and turned homeward in the expectation of a cordial and meet welcome. During his absence, the lady had been fretting. Finally, as the days pa.s.sed, she became downright angry. ”He is neglecting me,” she cried; ”he goes away from my arms to the society of rough seamen. I am a mere bauble, a plaything for his leisure. He is tired of me, and perhaps on some distant coast he is dallying with a newer sweetheart. But I will try his heart. When I hear of his homecoming, I will go forth on my barge and have the black flag of desolation flying from the prow. In this way I may obtain some hint of his real feelings.”
Olaf came homeward in great glee, and on entering Loch Ewe from the outer sea, the white pennon of success flapped gaily in the wind. The princess, on the other hand, let prepare her boat, and, clothed in the weeds of death, lay down on the deck, while simulated sobs of woe and lamentation were raised by all her attendants. Slowly the boat, with its ill-omened signal, moved to meet the conquering hero. Olaf, the impetuous, was chilled to the heart, when he saw what he thought the sure indication of his lady's misfortune. What a sight met his eyes when he leapt on board! The princess stretched out in apparent death, and robed in the garments of the grave! He could not endure the torment and disillusion. He drove a dirk into his bosom with such pa.s.sionate might that he fell down, bereft of life, mighty and mightily fallen, on the deck beside her.
She had not expected such a tragic conclusion to her blamable artifice.
Remorse, of course, got hold of her, and drawing the gory weapon from her dead lord's breast, she plunged it into her own. Too late was she convinced of his true love for her: she had only one duty, and that was to die with him. It is said in the legend that her life was not extinct when the barge, with its weird freight, returned to the hermit's isle.
The old man, holding in his quaking hand the cross before her dying eyes, strove to comfort her somewhat as her blood ebbed quickly away.
”The bodies of the unhappy pair,” says Mr. Dixon, ”were buried within the inclosure on the island, beneath the shade of the sacred hollies; they were laid with their feet towards each other, and smooth stones with outlines of mediaeval crosses were placed over the graves, and there they remain to this day. A few stones still indicate the site of the hermit's cell, and a considerable mound marks where the tower stood.”
The last time I stood beside the little pier on Loch Maree, I noticed many indications of the advent of southern tourists. Empty bottles were floating on the waves, and the tiny steamer that plies on the loch was getting ready for the summer traffic. Visitors from the Lowlands do not suspect that such tales as I have narrated still live on the lips of the Gairloch natives, and help to pa.s.s the hours at many an evening reunion.
How the centuries meet in such nooks of Ross! Steamers on Loch Maree, and Olaf's cross still standing on the hermit's isle! The driver of the mail-coach from Achnasheen to Gairloch will discuss creeds and schisms with you, and tell you he does not believe in modern religious developments at all; anon, as the coach pa.s.ses the Gairloch Church, he will point with extended whip to a gra.s.sy hollow on the left, and say: ”That is where the Free Church used to have its open-air Communion Service: the place is called _Leabaidh na Ba Bhaine_, because Fingal scooped it out as a bed where his white cow might calve.” ”But did Fingal lodge in this neighbourhood?” you ask. ”Oh yes, he did whatever,”
the driver will reply, ”and the best proof of it is, that if you go to the north end of Loch Maree, you will see the _sweetheart's stepping-stones_, placed there by Fingal to keep his feet dry when he went that way to court Malvina.”