The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth With Sixteen Illustrations. By Philip Gilbert Hamerton |
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 | The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth |  |
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III. INISHAIL.
There is a fair green island on Loch Awe,
With two large knolls. The twin Black Islands near
Are crowned with noble beeches, but the hills
Of Inishail are very bare and bleak;
And on the southern hill a ruin stands,
With many tombstones round it, rudely carved
With swords, and crosses, and quaint images,
Cross-hilted swords, and effigies of knights.
With two large knolls. The twin Black Islands near
Are crowned with noble beeches, but the hills
Of Inishail are very bare and bleak;
And on the southern hill a ruin stands,
With many tombstones round it, rudely carved
With swords, and crosses, and quaint images,
Cross-hilted swords, and effigies of knights.
I haunted this fair island of the dead,
Long after sunset, many summer eves;
For though Loch Awe has many solitudes,
She has not one like lonely Inishail.
And I have often thought, when sitting there
Amongst the tombs, how sad it must have been
When those poor simple women were expelled,
Who left the outer world, and made, as nuns,
A holy household on the little isle.
Good people love the spots where they have dwelt,
Because the silent stones are witnesses
Of naught unholy; and the furrowed hills
Seen from this island would be written o'er
With the sweet record of unblemished years
To those Cistertian sisters. There are some
To whom these lines will be an enigma,
For unto them the regions of the earth
Are haunted by the ghosts of former sins,
Demons which drive them out of Paradise
For ever seeking rest, yet finding none.
It was not so—it could not have been so
With those Cistertian nuns of Inishail.
Not that retirement is more safe from crime,
Or more conducive to the exercise
And free enlargement of the sympathies,
Than crowded cities, but to live for years—
For life—on such a narrow isle as this,
Argues a mind at peace. They spent their time
As piously as “women of the world.”
As to their creed, I quarrel not with that;
Perhaps the Abbot Lord of Inchaffray
Believed the new to be the better card
To heaven's high places, as to those of earth;
At least he played it well: but they, poor souls,
What should they know of creed and its reform?
They only did as pious women do,
And will, perhaps, for ever,—say their prayers
As they were told, and yield obedience
To custom, lest to doubt or disobey
Its dictates might be sinful. They were thrust
Out of their isle for Romish practices,
And must have marvelled that the sacred rites
Which all the land had reverenced so long
Had such a slackened influence. Perhaps
They thought the world gone mad, or near its end,
When people could no longer be content
With forms that served their fathers very well,
And in their own case, as a guide of life,
Were better than new teachings—for the food
Which it is used to suits the stomach best.
Long after sunset, many summer eves;
For though Loch Awe has many solitudes,
She has not one like lonely Inishail.
And I have often thought, when sitting there
Amongst the tombs, how sad it must have been
When those poor simple women were expelled,
Who left the outer world, and made, as nuns,
30
Good people love the spots where they have dwelt,
Because the silent stones are witnesses
Of naught unholy; and the furrowed hills
Seen from this island would be written o'er
With the sweet record of unblemished years
To those Cistertian sisters. There are some
To whom these lines will be an enigma,
For unto them the regions of the earth
Are haunted by the ghosts of former sins,
Demons which drive them out of Paradise
For ever seeking rest, yet finding none.
It was not so—it could not have been so
With those Cistertian nuns of Inishail.
Not that retirement is more safe from crime,
Or more conducive to the exercise
And free enlargement of the sympathies,
Than crowded cities, but to live for years—
For life—on such a narrow isle as this,
Argues a mind at peace. They spent their time
As piously as “women of the world.”
As to their creed, I quarrel not with that;
Perhaps the Abbot Lord of Inchaffray
Believed the new to be the better card
To heaven's high places, as to those of earth;
At least he played it well: but they, poor souls,
What should they know of creed and its reform?
They only did as pious women do,
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As they were told, and yield obedience
To custom, lest to doubt or disobey
Its dictates might be sinful. They were thrust
Out of their isle for Romish practices,
And must have marvelled that the sacred rites
Which all the land had reverenced so long
Had such a slackened influence. Perhaps
They thought the world gone mad, or near its end,
When people could no longer be content
With forms that served their fathers very well,
And in their own case, as a guide of life,
Were better than new teachings—for the food
Which it is used to suits the stomach best.
Poor Inishail! The hand of sacrilege
Has spoiled its sculptured tombstones, and beneath
The sword of knighthood rest the basest churls
In churchyards far away. And so, indeed,
The dead may rob the dead of their last roof,
Until the living fancy—the sad fools!—
That some old Highland cobbler's resting-place
Is the last bed of valour. Let them dream,
For sentiment lives cheaply—let them dream!
As people dream of rotting near their friends
In English graveyards, when the sexton knows
That six years hence 'twere hard to find a corpse
That lodges now beneath the monuments—
Marbles which bear false witness to the fame
Of the deceased, but shall be lying guides
As to his very grave!—Yet, after all,
Some may be undisturbed on Inishail:
It is not crowded, there is room enough.
And when I see a cluster of old stones
Deep in the grass and weeds, I would receive
Their evidence. On one beside the church
Are seven figures—Jesus on the cross,
Two women, and four knights in suits of mail;
Almost grotesque, for they have monstrous heads,
As though the sculptor had a comic turn;
Yet are they full of life and character.
The nuns are swinging censers to the cross;
The knights stand by to guard it. On the stone
Between the figures, worn by frequent rains,
There is a shield, whose charge might well be borne
By one whose very hearse had crossed the waves,—
An ancient galley, high at prow and stern,
With one stout mast between them, short and strong—
The ancient bearing of the House of Lorn.
There is a harp, too; and a battle-axe;
And what I thought a standard, which a knight
Rears proudly. There are many tombs besides,
Carved with designs, some really beautiful.
But what I like about this ancient work,
Is that, however rude, it bears the stamp
Of living hands. Its mouldings are not straight;
But men cared less for rule when those were done,
And more for brains. There is a modern tomb,
Whose shadow falls on those grey slabs of stone—
A common modern tomb, so prim and neat,
That from its square-cut mercenary work,
Done by the saw at such a price per foot,
With an inscription clear as modern type,
So much per letter, you would gladly turn
To shapeless sculpture, whose rude symbols gave
Subject for thought. The hand an author writes
Is something, but the matter something more.
Has spoiled its sculptured tombstones, and beneath
The sword of knighthood rest the basest churls
In churchyards far away. And so, indeed,
The dead may rob the dead of their last roof,
Until the living fancy—the sad fools!—
That some old Highland cobbler's resting-place
Is the last bed of valour. Let them dream,
For sentiment lives cheaply—let them dream!
As people dream of rotting near their friends
In English graveyards, when the sexton knows
That six years hence 'twere hard to find a corpse
That lodges now beneath the monuments—
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Of the deceased, but shall be lying guides
As to his very grave!—Yet, after all,
Some may be undisturbed on Inishail:
It is not crowded, there is room enough.
And when I see a cluster of old stones
Deep in the grass and weeds, I would receive
Their evidence. On one beside the church
Are seven figures—Jesus on the cross,
Two women, and four knights in suits of mail;
Almost grotesque, for they have monstrous heads,
As though the sculptor had a comic turn;
Yet are they full of life and character.
The nuns are swinging censers to the cross;
The knights stand by to guard it. On the stone
Between the figures, worn by frequent rains,
There is a shield, whose charge might well be borne
By one whose very hearse had crossed the waves,—
An ancient galley, high at prow and stern,
With one stout mast between them, short and strong—
The ancient bearing of the House of Lorn.
There is a harp, too; and a battle-axe;
And what I thought a standard, which a knight
Rears proudly. There are many tombs besides,
Carved with designs, some really beautiful.
But what I like about this ancient work,
Is that, however rude, it bears the stamp
Of living hands. Its mouldings are not straight;
33
And more for brains. There is a modern tomb,
Whose shadow falls on those grey slabs of stone—
A common modern tomb, so prim and neat,
That from its square-cut mercenary work,
Done by the saw at such a price per foot,
With an inscription clear as modern type,
So much per letter, you would gladly turn
To shapeless sculpture, whose rude symbols gave
Subject for thought. The hand an author writes
Is something, but the matter something more.
Let skill have due respect: mechanic skill
And science have done wonders for the world.
Therefore, of all the legends of Loch Awe,
None interests me more than that of him
Whose cunning hand the worms of Inishail
Have stripped of its quick sinews. Though the story
Has grown in time so rich and marvellous,
That Spenser's fictions, or the thousand tales
That soothed in Cairo's sleepless palaces
The Father of the Faithful do not task
The reader's fancy more—still it has been
Related gravely to believing ears
In Highland huts as I relate it now.
And science have done wonders for the world.
Therefore, of all the legends of Loch Awe,
None interests me more than that of him
Whose cunning hand the worms of Inishail
Have stripped of its quick sinews. Though the story
Has grown in time so rich and marvellous,
That Spenser's fictions, or the thousand tales
That soothed in Cairo's sleepless palaces
The Father of the Faithful do not task
The reader's fancy more—still it has been
Related gravely to believing ears
In Highland huts as I relate it now.
On Inish Drynich, fifty years ago,
There stood an ancient house, whose oaken roof
Was joined so neatly that it might have grown
Together like the roof-plates of the skull.
It had been morticed by a famous wright,
One Mac Intyre, of whom the peasants tell
A wild tradition. When his fame had spread
Throughout the land it crossed the northern sea,
And reached the shores of Holland. Now there were
Three Dutch mechanics, whom the homely life
Of Hamburgh did not suit; for they were young,
And wild, and discontented with their lot,
Thirsting for strange adventures, when they heard
Of Mac Intyre and all that he had done,
And much that he had not. So, being fired
With envy of his fame, they planned together
To go to Scotland to usurp his trade.
There stood an ancient house, whose oaken roof
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Together like the roof-plates of the skull.
It had been morticed by a famous wright,
One Mac Intyre, of whom the peasants tell
A wild tradition. When his fame had spread
Throughout the land it crossed the northern sea,
And reached the shores of Holland. Now there were
Three Dutch mechanics, whom the homely life
Of Hamburgh did not suit; for they were young,
And wild, and discontented with their lot,
Thirsting for strange adventures, when they heard
Of Mac Intyre and all that he had done,
And much that he had not. So, being fired
With envy of his fame, they planned together
To go to Scotland to usurp his trade.
They made three wooden horses which they rode,
And in them placed such wondrous mechanism,
That they moved swiftly, even as living steeds.
And after weeks of travel they were seen
Riding their wooden steeds towards Loch Awe;
So all the country knew of their approach.
And in them placed such wondrous mechanism,
That they moved swiftly, even as living steeds.
And after weeks of travel they were seen
Riding their wooden steeds towards Loch Awe;
So all the country knew of their approach.
Then Mac Intyre's apprentice running in,
Exclaimed, “I see the Dutchmen on the knowe.”
And Mac Intyre said, “I will take your place—
You mine; and I will say the master's out;
And you must not be seen till dinner-time.”
So when they came, the master at the door
Said, “Sirs, the master's out; but I have been
Apprenticed to him now near seven years;
And though my skill is botchwork unto his,
It may amuse you till he comes himself.”
So they dismounted, and the master led
Their wooden horses to a sheltered place:
He was not absent long, but in that time
Played a strange trick upon the foreigners.
Exclaimed, “I see the Dutchmen on the knowe.”
And Mac Intyre said, “I will take your place—
You mine; and I will say the master's out;
And you must not be seen till dinner-time.”
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Said, “Sirs, the master's out; but I have been
Apprenticed to him now near seven years;
And though my skill is botchwork unto his,
It may amuse you till he comes himself.”
So they dismounted, and the master led
Their wooden horses to a sheltered place:
He was not absent long, but in that time
Played a strange trick upon the foreigners.
Then in the workshop he began to tell
The feats of Mac Intyre; and taking up
The iron blade of a huge battle-axe,
Fixed it between the jaws of a great vice,
Edge downwards, then resumed his former seat;
And, telling wondrous stories all the time,
Worked at the wooden handle, shaping it
To fit the socket. With his practised eye
He judged the size correctly, though the axe
Was many paces distant; and at last,
Poising the handle like a javelin,
Hurled it direct with such unerring force,
That with the square-cut end fixed tight and firm,
It quivered in its place. The Dutchmen stared,
And, in amazement said to one another,
“If the apprentice can perform such feats,
We're no match for the master. Let us go:
We've seen enough.”
The feats of Mac Intyre; and taking up
The iron blade of a huge battle-axe,
Fixed it between the jaws of a great vice,
Edge downwards, then resumed his former seat;
And, telling wondrous stories all the time,
Worked at the wooden handle, shaping it
To fit the socket. With his practised eye
He judged the size correctly, though the axe
Was many paces distant; and at last,
Poising the handle like a javelin,
Hurled it direct with such unerring force,
That with the square-cut end fixed tight and firm,
It quivered in its place. The Dutchmen stared,
And, in amazement said to one another,
“If the apprentice can perform such feats,
We're no match for the master. Let us go:
We've seen enough.”
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So they departed thence,
Mounting their wooden steeds; but when they turned
Their horses southwards, one began to rear
And paw the air like some winged Pegasus;
And, taking many leaps, did bound away.
And—if the legend be incredible
To readers of this unbelieving age,
I cannot help it, 'tis no fault of mine—
At last he fairly swam in the thin air
As if in water, and was shortly lost
In a great cloud that lay on Cruachan.
The other two were not companions long:
For one was mounted on a runaway,
The other on a stupid sort of brute,
Not more alive than wooden flesh might be.
So they were parted; for the runaway
Refused all check or guidance, rushing on
Across the stony moors, until at last
He stuck in a black bog, and threw his rider,
Whose skull was fractured on a block of granite.
The other would not stir, so he who rode
Dismounted, very thankful for his fate,
And walked away, delighted to escape
The house of such a wizard.
Mounting their wooden steeds; but when they turned
Their horses southwards, one began to rear
And paw the air like some winged Pegasus;
And, taking many leaps, did bound away.
And—if the legend be incredible
To readers of this unbelieving age,
I cannot help it, 'tis no fault of mine—
At last he fairly swam in the thin air
As if in water, and was shortly lost
In a great cloud that lay on Cruachan.
The other two were not companions long:
For one was mounted on a runaway,
The other on a stupid sort of brute,
Not more alive than wooden flesh might be.
So they were parted; for the runaway
Refused all check or guidance, rushing on
Across the stony moors, until at last
He stuck in a black bog, and threw his rider,
Whose skull was fractured on a block of granite.
The other would not stir, so he who rode
Dismounted, very thankful for his fate,
And walked away, delighted to escape
The house of such a wizard.
Inishail
Seems such a happy colony of death,
That I should little fear to emigrate,
And leave that wooded shore whose harvest sheaves
Stud the rich banks of that symbolic river,
Which, torn with pain amongst the pointed rocks,
Lays out its depths in shallow weariness,
Just deep enough to bear the funeral boats,
And swift enough for their unhurried motion.
I long for that sweet indolence of death,
Which they who sleep beneath these scattered stones
Enjoy without a hope or wish for change.
They change in truth, but passively receive
Again the impress of the types of God,
Renewed without exertion of their own.
Seems such a happy colony of death,
That I should little fear to emigrate,
And leave that wooded shore whose harvest sheaves
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Which, torn with pain amongst the pointed rocks,
Lays out its depths in shallow weariness,
Just deep enough to bear the funeral boats,
And swift enough for their unhurried motion.
I long for that sweet indolence of death,
Which they who sleep beneath these scattered stones
Enjoy without a hope or wish for change.
They change in truth, but passively receive
Again the impress of the types of God,
Renewed without exertion of their own.
Death is as healthy as the healthiest life.
It is at once the consequence and cure
Of all disease. It is as natural
As quiet sleep—as kind a gift of God.
O God! I thank thee that the fear of death,—
From which arise all craven phantasies,
On which are built all tyrannies, which makes
Strong spirits bow, and heroes vacillate,—
Has been destroyed within me.
It is at once the consequence and cure
Of all disease. It is as natural
As quiet sleep—as kind a gift of God.
O God! I thank thee that the fear of death,—
From which arise all craven phantasies,
On which are built all tyrannies, which makes
Strong spirits bow, and heroes vacillate,—
Has been destroyed within me.
Watch a corpse
In its serenest beauty, and believe
That in that calm expression of deep peace
There speaks a revelation. Inishail
May be indeed an island of the blest,
With narrow dwellings sprinkled on the green,
A hamlet filled with peaceful islanders.
In its serenest beauty, and believe
That in that calm expression of deep peace
There speaks a revelation. Inishail
May be indeed an island of the blest,
With narrow dwellings sprinkled on the green,
A hamlet filled with peaceful islanders.
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