The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth ::

Now, as I write, it is a time of war;
And wives of soldier-peasants, soldier-peers,
Grow pale and weary with anxiety.
Some sitting in sad luxury alone,
With feet half buried in the velvet pile
Of noiseless carpets; and a newspaper,
Or the last letter from the one beloved,
Laid on the sofa—every syllable
Already grown familiar as the words
Of hollow social use.

The nights are long,
And very cold—the butler stirs the fire.
She draws her silken scarf about her neck,
And shudders—shivers—though the room is warm;
For on the heights before Sebastopol
Two armies lie like cattle on the ground,
Freezing beside low watchfires in the night.

She will not have a guest to watch her grief.
She sits alone and reads of battle-wounds,
Until their frightful details seem to her
Prophetic of his fate—and to a brain
So wrought upon by one perpetual fear,
The fear itself becomes reality.
She sees him wounded—dying—dead as those
Who lie in heaps together in the trench,
A ready grave filled up with its own earth
On the cold heights of Alma.

What to her
Is all this wretched luxury, unshared
With him she loves? The comforts of her home
Seem to reproach her, and she scarcely eats
A richer meal than the coarse ration doled
To the poor tattered private. All alone
She walks along her silent corridors,
Stately in grief, and seeks her sleepless bed,
There to lie brooding till the waxen lights
Die in their silver sockets, and the fire
Sheds an unsteady twilight on the wall.

Happy the soldier's wife who toils for bread,
And ekes her living out on charity,
Compared to her; for labour brings sweet sleep,
And in itself supplies another care,
And so relieves the mind: but on the rich
More heavily fall afflictions of the heart,

For grief becomes the business of their life,
As pleasure was before. A common truth!
The law of compensation working out
The just decree of our equality.

Pause with this picture. Let it do its work.
You see such sufferers in your daily life:
Perhaps the fearful pain of their suspense
Excites in you—it ought—true sympathy.
If so, you are prepared to follow me
Into the past. These sorrows are not new.
Alas! all grief is ancient in the earth—
War, absence, fear, anxiety, suspense—
Old as the story of the siege of Troy,
Old as the legend of Penelope.

A Highland dame, four hundred years ago,
Bore the same trial—harder in degree;
For she had not our steam and telegraph
To bear more swiftly than a carrier-dove
Tidings of soldiers serving in the wars.

Sir Colin Campbell was a knight of Rhodes.

The reader will find an account of Sir Colin in the Peerages, art. Breadalbane. How much of the legend is positive fact I will not pretend to say. It has probably been shaped into its present very dramatic form by a process (well known to historical critics), by which the mind insensibly rounds the hardest fact into perfect proportions. The current of human thought glides for centuries over the rough events of the past, and when the builder of verse seeks his materials there he will usually find them formed to his hand.

For seven years he risked continually
His life in foreign warfare. Seven years
Waited the lady Margaret his wife,
Like a poor widow, living sparingly,
And saving all the produce of his lands

To build an island fortress on Loch Awe,
There to receive Sir Colin, and so prove
Her thrift and duty. Little more we know
Of what she did to occupy her time:
Perhaps a narrow but perpetual round
Of mean and servile duties, too obscure
To be recorded, kept her nerves in health.
And truly it is well to handle life
Not daintily. The best resource in grief
Is downright labour. This at least we know,
That the good spouse of that brave Highland chief
Looked to her husband's interest and hers,
When from her quarries silently—before
Loud blasting tore the layers of the rock—
The clansmen ferried loads of idle stones
Across the water; and on what was then
An island, and is yet in winter floods,
Made them most useful servants—trusty guards
Of all the treasure of a Highland chief—
His wife, his tail, his cattle, and his goods.

But he was absent. After many years
He rose, afflicted by a painful dream
In Rome, whereto his wanderings had led;
And, seeking counsel of a Roman monk,
By his advice set out at once for home.

I will not dwell on dangers by the way,

Which may be well imagined in an age
When men were rooted like the very trees,
Each to the spot of earth where he was dropped
Out of the womb—transplanted, if at all,
With risk to life and limb, and slowly moved
By rude conveyance over land and sea,
The prey of countless obstacles and storms.
I will not dwell on these, but come at once
To the last hovel where he passed the night
Ere he arrived at home—a dreary hut,
Yet welcome to a hardy mountaineer
Like that Sir Colin—and his namesake now
Sleeps, it may be, more roughly with his men
On the cold frosty earth, while in his ear
Boom the near cannon of the Muscovite.

A widow's cottage—not with jessamine
And trellised roses on a whitewashed front,
And a nice inmate with a tidy cap
Smiling kind welcomes—no! that widow's hut
In the far Highlands was a wretched den
Of lonely squalor; and its occupant
A weak and withered creature, in whose brain
Old superstitions found a kindly soil,
As wailing plovers haunt the poorest land.
The widow's hut was built against a mound,
Which served it for a wall; and since the roof
Was lower than the mound that sheltered it,

I believe the huts in Skye are the least desirable habitations in our British Archipelago. Those in Glen Orchay are wretched enough. In some instances a natural mound provides one wall—the rest are built of loose stones without mortar. An average house—such as a Highlander would be content with—may be erected for about 5l.

The winds flew over, singing harmlessly.
The stones were smooth from friction in the stream,
Where they had rolled in centuries of floods,
Not chiselled into shape. The walls were dry,
Built without mortar, and the roof was thatched;
And in the thatch a little orifice
Served for a chimney. Thence a wreath of smoke,
Pure bluish-white, sweet vapour from the peat,
Ascended to the level of the mound,
Where the wind caught and carried it away.

Within, the scene was very picturesque.
The widow and a haggard mendicant
Sat on two little stools. A cheerful fire
Burned on the floor of clay, from which arose
A cloud of smoke that filled the little room.
The walls, the rafters, and the floor were black:
And through the smoke the widow's wrinkled face
Appeared as mournful as the wrinkled moon
Through mist. The visage also of her guest
Had such a strange expression, that she stared
At him—and he on her—but neither spoke.

At last he rose, and on the dusty floor
Spread out his plaid, and stretched himself to sleep.
His hostess kept her place until he breathed
With strong, deep inspirations—then approached;
And, lifting very gently from his breast

The corner of his tartan, pulled away
The under-garment till the skin was bare;
And by the cheerful blaze upon the hearth
Beheld a scar that was not lately healed.
Then with her trembling hands she covered it,
And stole away as softly as she came.
But—for the struggle was beyond her strength—
Turned quickly, dropping down upon her knees
Beside him. But her guest was not asleep.
So he arose at once, and raised her up,
And calmly said, “I knew thee, my good nurse;
But in these rags I hoped to see my home;
And, if my presence were an evil there,
To leave it unobserved. But tell me all.”
Then with suppressed emotion both resumed
Their seats, and thus the widow did relate
Briefly the slow events of many years.

“Thy dame, Sir Colin, has been true to thee,
Through trials that few women could have borne.
It's a sore thing, Sir Colin, for a wife
Thus to be left alone, year after year.
I bore it once myself for eighteen months,
And thought it long enough; but she, poor soul,
She has not known these last five weary years
If she were wife or widow—has not heard,
Save idle rumours, anything of you.
But that is past; and I have always said

Sir Colin was a faithful-hearted man,
If he were living------”

“Where is Dugald Dhu,
The same that first went with me to the wars?
And where is Duncan, and young Roderick?
And ------”

“Nay, ask a seer, for how can I describe
The deaths of those who perished far away?
If Duncan ever should return again
His ghost would be more welcome, for his wife
Is wedded to the man he hated most,
And there are bairns to prove it: you yourself,
If a day later, would have found your own
Laid in the arms of Lord Mac Corquadale.”

At this Sir Colin grew as pale as death,
And in a hollow, low, unnatural voice,
Asked calmly, “Is it better I were dead?”
And the nurse answered,—“Never came a ghost
So little welcome to a marriage feast
As thou wilt be to-morrow—save to one,
Thy wife, who, from the love she bore to thee,
Put off the suit of Lord Mac Corquadale
From year to year, and only gave consent
A month ago; and even now they say
That she repents it, and would still defer.
Go to the wedding, thou unwelcome guest,
And watch her unobserved; and, in thy rags,

Sit down amongst the clansmen in the hall
Of the new castle which thy dame hath built
Out of her savings in these seven years.”

So, in the morning when the clouds were bright
Behind Ben Loy, before the sun was up,
Sir Colin left the hut in beggar's rags,
And the poor widow watched him from the door.

His guide made gentle music all the way,
Playing before him as a piper plays
Before a chieftain coming from the wars
To his own castle, flushed with late success.
His guide, the river Orchay, led him on
Down a most lovely valley. From the hills
White bridal veils of mist were lifted up
By the gay sun, who kissed them till they blushed
With light and joy. The golden river flowed
Deep on one side along the steepest bank;
But, on the other, shallowed till its bed
Lay in long shapely mounds, contrasting well
Millions of pebbles, smooth, and white, and dry
With the dark, quiet waters. Joyously
Nine miles the river led him, reach by reach,
Until before him rose that hollowed hill
Which with five peaks a hollow half surrounds,
Wherein the rain-clouds hang on stormy days,
And the low sunbeams slant at eventide.

The chief looked on the hills and recognised
Their old familiar outlines. Three miles more
He held along the Orchay's southern bank,
Then saw Kilchurn, his castle, founded on
A rocky isle, so low upon the lake,
That, as its outlines changed on his approach,
It almost seemed to float insensibly,
Like a great ship at anchor. There it stood;
And in it—but Sir Colin crushed the thought—
A wife whose faith, however patient once,
Was now exhausted, waited as a bride
For a new bridegroom on her marriage morn.
Yes, there it stood, the castle that she built
Out of her savings in the seven years
Of his long absence: gaily bright it was;
The higher courses of the finished keep
Were white and new; but darker weather-stains
About the lowest story did record
The patience of that good dame Margaret.
Sir Colin saw the thoughtfulness of love;
And if he ever blamed her in his heart
For giving credence to the false report
Of his decease, on any trivial ground,
He then forgave her, saying to himself,—
“This she intended as a pleasant gift
To me on my return—a kind surprise;
She thought to show me all her thriftiness

In this fair castle, and to welcome me
Lord of the strongest keep upon Loch Awe.”

Then hastened he, for from the castled isle
Came bursts of highland music, wild and free,
That echoed in the gorges of the hills.
And as Sir Colin crossed the natural moat
By a great drawbridge, on its wooden planks
A charger's foot fell heavily behind,
And, looking back, he saw Mac Corquadale
Clad as a bridegroom coming for his bride.

Sir Colin entered, as a mendicant
In humble garb, his castle of Kilchurn;
Looked on the feast awhile, then, in his rags,
Sat down amongst the clansmen in the hall
Of the new castle, which his dame had built
Out of her savings in those seven years.
Cup after cup they drank. Then to the dais
Came a young Chief, who waved his hand for silence,
And said, “Brave Campbells, and you friendly guests,
Who here enjoy our hospitality,
Before you drink the bride, it is her wish
That in deep silence you should testify
The love you bore the chieftain we have lost.”
Sadly he spoke. The clansmen in the hall
Rose gravely, all the uproar of the feast
Hushed to a solemn silence, and they raised

Their cups on high, and to the memory
Of their lost chieftain drained a mournful draught—
All but the beggar. In his rags apart
He still sat playing with his empty cup.
And when the clansmen saw it, one by one
They looked at him and frowned; and one old man,
Whose master knew his faithful face again,
Though he knew not his master, said to him,—
“Knowst thou whose pious wish thou hast refused?
That was our chieftain's son:” but all the rest
Frowned on the beggar. Then Sir Colin said,—
And as he spoke he cleared his husky voice
With frequent hems, for he was deeply moved,—
“I knew Sir Colin in a foreign land,
But will not drink unto his memory
Until his widow fills this empty cup.”
Then through the hall passed his own Margaret,
And the retainer, whom Sir Colin told
That he had known Sir Colin, asked of her
A favour for a guest who would not drink
Unless the bride would fill his empty cup;
For so he hoped to loose his neighbour's tongue,
And hear some news of his beloved chief.
And she in kindness pardoned the request,
Acceding, and the beggar drained the cup,
And fixed his eyes upon her. Still the same
She stood before him. In her seven years
Of watching, her young beauty had matured

Into sad ripeness, pale and worn, perhaps,
But sweetly pious, full of patient love.
Then to her hand the guest returned the cup,
And in the bottom, in the lees of wine,
There lay a signet-ring of massive gold,
Like a great waif of shipwreck which is seen
Above a shallow pool upon the sands
Of the deep ocean when the tide is low.

Then from the ring—a waif from the wrecked ship
Of her lost hope—a wild, bewildered glance
She turned upon the beggar, and he rose
Unto his lordly stature, and his rags
Were scant to hide the chieftain's noble frame.
And in an instant, with a cry of joy,
The bride, escaping from the bridegroom's arm,
Fell sobbing wildly on the beggar's breast.
Then the grey clansman, who reproved his chief,
Cried out,—“Sir Colin has returned again!”
And round the board it passed, from mouth to mouth,
“Sir Colin has come home!” A deafening shout
Rose in the hall, and in the crowded court
The people answered when they knew the cause;
And then, above the din, the pipers played
The Gathering of the Campbells.

But meanwhile
Sir Colin and his dame had left the hall,—
She almost senseless, pale, and stupified,

Laughing and sobbing incoherently,
Excited by the violence of joy
And strong revulsions of a sensitive heart.
But ere the false Mac Corquadale could go
Young Duncan rushed towards him, and the crowd
Made a clear way—he was the chieftain's heir,
And they were hot for vengeance; but he said,—
“You must have slain my father's messengers,
And spread abroad false rumours of his fate;
But, seeing you have eaten of our salt,
Farewell, my lord,—we will not quarrel now,
That wedding garb must not be soiled with blood;
Keep it for some occasion, when I hope
Your love will be more prosperous.”

He laughed:
Too happy in the sweetness of that hour
To think of vengeance, and his generous heart
Felt for the would-be bridegroom, standing there
The fool of fortune that defeated him;
And all the clansmen caught this pleasant mood,
And peals of laughter followed the retreat
Of the derided, disappointed lord,
And all night long the castle rang with glee.
But in a little chamber, far apart,
Sir Colin folded his rewarded wife
Unto his breast. She died in after years,
When her brave son avenged her cruel wrong,
And slew in battle Lord Mac Corquadale,

And took his land, his castle, and his goods;
And ever since have his descendants been
A broken clan without inheritance.

An antiquarian friend, with whom I crossed
The sandy delta which has made the isle
Peninsular, drew out upon the sand
A ground-plan of the castle. “There's the keep,
Into whose lowest story, arched for strength,
The herds were driven when marauders came.
This is the curtain, these the angle towers,
And this the court. They lived in homely style,
For they were poorer than our Southern lords,
Whose princely households all these barren hills
Would not maintain. They lived in homely style—
Great cattle-stealers—none the worse for that;
For cattle-stealing was a noble game
In these wild highlands then, and would draw out
Heroic virtues. We must measure men
According to the notions of their time.”

There is a level plain of yellow sand,
With many a straggling bush and tuft of grass
About the castled rock. The sand is streaked
With lines of red and ribbed by stormy waves,
And in this desert stand the lonely towers
Of old Kilchurn. To see the ruin well,
Row down the Orchay to the Goose's Rock;

And as the river winds the outlines change,
The background shifting also, till at last,
When you ascend the rock on the north shore,
The castle rests beneath you, and behind it
An inlet of the loch, and sweetly green
Beyond the glittering inlet, swelling knowes
With fir plantations stretching far away;
And up Glen Orchay, past a village tower,
That gleams amongst dark trees as white as marble,
The view extends, until across the foot
Of a great mountain winds the highland road;
And, towering to the clouds, the shapely heap
Of rough Ben Loy grows pale with passing showers,
And spots of sunshine wander here and there,
Warm on the blue of its cold solitudes.

This is Sir Walter's pile of Ardenvohr,

Wordsworth has apostrophised Kilchurn, but his poem has nothing characteristic of the place. In the Legend of Montrose Sir Walter appears to have observed its defects as a modern military position with great accuracy.

Changed since Dalgetty criticised its strength.
Within the keep the floors are all removed,
And in the corkscrew staircase you may stand
And look above, and see a disc of blue,
And fragments of the steps still sticking out,
Wilfully broken. The court is overgrown
With trees that wave in full maturity.
Masses of wall lie as they fell at first,
Unshattered, for the mortar binds the stones.
At one of the four angles of the pile
There towers a bush of greenery. Through the holes

Pierced in the wall, to light the garrison
Which kept the stronghold in the civil war,
The sun shines brightly—shines—but from within.
Frost widens all the fissures every year;
Yet still the people say a voice is heard
Above the wailing of the winter storms,
Saying, that never shall the castle fall
Which love and patience built in seven years,
Until the sea submerges Cruachan!

University of Virginia Library

IV. KILCHURN.