The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth With Sixteen Illustrations. By Philip Gilbert Hamerton |
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| VII. | VII. CONCLUSION. |
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 | The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth |  |
82
VII. CONCLUSION.
Last night I saw the gloom upon the loch
Long after sunset. I had pulled across
To see a waterfall on Cruachan,
And, looking westward down the Pass of Awe,
The fringe of rainy cloud was lifted up,
And from a golden distance full of light
The waves received its splendour, brightening
As the veiled sun approached the edge of cloud,
Then glittering with a restless, dazzling sheen,
When he appeared. The mist on the green side
Of Cruachan, before invisible,
Received a sunbeam slanting on the copse.
Long after sunset. I had pulled across
To see a waterfall on Cruachan,
And, looking westward down the Pass of Awe,
The fringe of rainy cloud was lifted up,
And from a golden distance full of light
The waves received its splendour, brightening
As the veiled sun approached the edge of cloud,
Then glittering with a restless, dazzling sheen,
When he appeared. The mist on the green side
Of Cruachan, before invisible,
Received a sunbeam slanting on the copse.
Beyond Glen Strae the open sky appears
Of delicate pearly green, with distant clouds
Gleaming afar like hills of yellow gold.
But nearer masses from the stormy west
Come brooding low and dark above the loch,
Which grows as black as ink at their approach—
Great lurid masses moving inwardly,
Changing like mighty spirits which assume
New forms at their own pleasure. Like a roof
One spreads above me, and descending low
Beneath it hang great pendants. In the East
The clouds wear awful shapes of dusky gold,—
Vast tawny giants moving heavily
To meet approaching night.
Of delicate pearly green, with distant clouds
Gleaming afar like hills of yellow gold.
But nearer masses from the stormy west
83
Which grows as black as ink at their approach—
Great lurid masses moving inwardly,
Changing like mighty spirits which assume
New forms at their own pleasure. Like a roof
One spreads above me, and descending low
Beneath it hang great pendants. In the East
The clouds wear awful shapes of dusky gold,—
Vast tawny giants moving heavily
To meet approaching night.
The sun is down:
There is one crimson stain on the cold cloud,
Whose ashy mounds are heaped on Cruachan;
And in the west the low, long, purple hills,
Are parted by a line of orange sky
From the dull clouds above them.
There is one crimson stain on the cold cloud,
Whose ashy mounds are heaped on Cruachan;
And in the west the low, long, purple hills,
Are parted by a line of orange sky
From the dull clouds above them.
Then I saw
A lonely beach before me, canopied
With the deep fringe of foliage that descends
Down to the mountain's foot, and thereupon
I landed, walking on the quiet lane,
A mile or two, until I crossed a bridge
That spans a torrent. There I turned aside
Into the tangled copsewood, clambering
Through the wet fern and up the slippery rock
Until I reached the point I wished to gain.
Then it was twilight, and I heard below
The water tumbling in a dark ravine,
And, standing on the cliff's extremest verge,
Beheld a white, unchanging waterfall
In the black depth.
A lonely beach before me, canopied
With the deep fringe of foliage that descends
Down to the mountain's foot, and thereupon
I landed, walking on the quiet lane,
A mile or two, until I crossed a bridge
That spans a torrent. There I turned aside
Into the tangled copsewood, clambering
Through the wet fern and up the slippery rock
Until I reached the point I wished to gain.
Then it was twilight, and I heard below
The water tumbling in a dark ravine,
84
Beheld a white, unchanging waterfall
In the black depth.
The road was very dark
As I returned, and the fantastic rocks,
Shrouded in ghastly lichen, from the gloom
Of the impenetrable underwood,
Heaved up and scowled upon me as I passed,
Where Wallace chased Mac Fadyen, and the Bruce
With his small force defeated John of Lorn,
And drove him to his galleys on the lake.
Far off, the opposite shore of the broad loch
Lay like a mighty cloudland in the south,
And nearer the dark isles. Towards Inishail
I rowed, and then the rain began to fall
And the grey twilight deepened on the hills.
As I approached the shallows that divide
The Black Isles from the shore of Inishail,
Ben Vorich grew more cloudy and more vast;
And as I skimmed the smooth and sheltered strait
The ruin of the church amongst the tombs
Reared its dark broken masses on the mound
Against the mountain. On my right and left
There was no land in sight, but barren water,
Wrinkled with rain, met the low-hanging clouds
Like a great ocean in the dreary night,
When at the stern I left the lonely isles.
As I returned, and the fantastic rocks,
Shrouded in ghastly lichen, from the gloom
Of the impenetrable underwood,
Heaved up and scowled upon me as I passed,
Where Wallace chased Mac Fadyen, and the Bruce
With his small force defeated John of Lorn,
And drove him to his galleys on the lake.
Far off, the opposite shore of the broad loch
Lay like a mighty cloudland in the south,
And nearer the dark isles. Towards Inishail
I rowed, and then the rain began to fall
And the grey twilight deepened on the hills.
As I approached the shallows that divide
The Black Isles from the shore of Inishail,
Ben Vorich grew more cloudy and more vast;
And as I skimmed the smooth and sheltered strait
The ruin of the church amongst the tombs
Reared its dark broken masses on the mound
Against the mountain. On my right and left
There was no land in sight, but barren water,
Wrinkled with rain, met the low-hanging clouds
Like a great ocean in the dreary night,
When at the stern I left the lonely isles.
85
To simple minds who in the golden age
Of ignorance—the Paradise of fools—
Dwell childlike, the material universe
Is easy of solution. Unperplexed
By questions such as only can occur
To knowledge seeking knowledge, they explain
Existing facts by legends plausibly.
This is the use of myth—to set at rest
Whatever thoughts might otherwise disturb
The sweet repose of men half infantine,
Who in the earlier ages of the world
Lived amongst dreams, the children of the race.
So to the Celtic lakesmen long ago
The myth of Bera was a nurse's tale
To children over-curious. It sufficed
For them, but not for us; who having grown
To riper age, are scarcely satisfied
With what our kind old nurses used to say.
And when I told you of the Cailliach Bhe'ir
I felt that I was telling a child's tale
To older ears; and though one is amused
With stories such as Christian Andersen's,
Composed at first for children—still, you know,
We do not now believe them any more.
Well, let them perish, they have served their turn;
But, if I thought the Good and Beautiful
Had died with them, my grief would never end:
Oh! I should weep their loss most bitterly.
I do not think so, and I do not grieve:
My friends, the True is also beautiful;
The True is also beautiful and good!
Of ignorance—the Paradise of fools—
Dwell childlike, the material universe
Is easy of solution. Unperplexed
By questions such as only can occur
To knowledge seeking knowledge, they explain
Existing facts by legends plausibly.
This is the use of myth—to set at rest
Whatever thoughts might otherwise disturb
The sweet repose of men half infantine,
Who in the earlier ages of the world
Lived amongst dreams, the children of the race.
So to the Celtic lakesmen long ago
The myth of Bera was a nurse's tale
To children over-curious. It sufficed
For them, but not for us; who having grown
To riper age, are scarcely satisfied
With what our kind old nurses used to say.
And when I told you of the Cailliach Bhe'ir
I felt that I was telling a child's tale
To older ears; and though one is amused
With stories such as Christian Andersen's,
Composed at first for children—still, you know,
We do not now believe them any more.
Well, let them perish, they have served their turn;
But, if I thought the Good and Beautiful
Had died with them, my grief would never end:
Oh! I should weep their loss most bitterly.
86
My friends, the True is also beautiful;
The True is also beautiful and good!
The Loch is scarcely younger than the hills,
And they grew slowly. Twenty thousand years
Might be to them the years of infancy.
Slowly the mighty subterranean fire
Thrust up the porphyry peak of Cruachan!
Ere then the tribute of a hundred streams
Filled the great valley, and the waters found
One outlet only, which their force enlarged;
And those fair Isles which I do consecrate
To be for ever sacred unto song,
Emerged as they subsided—barren rocks,
Glittering with white quartz crystals here and there,
Scattered like spots of snow upon the hills.
But soon upon them spread a covering
Of velvet fibres; then white spots of lichen
Dotted the dark mould of the former growths;
And so progressed the vegetable forms,
And the Black Isles, whose noble groves of beech
Cast on the silver surface of the lake
Their green reflections, whose luxuriant plants,
Bright purple heather, sky-blue hyacinth,
And long fine grasses, with a hundred flowers
Scattered amongst them, make the ground so rich
Under the boughs—those sister isles were once
Barren and naked, and the interval
Between the starry lichen and the beech
Was so immense that years and centuries
Fail me. There is an infinite of time,
Before—behind—as infinite as space;
And we may now anticipate an age,
Distant in days as Sirius in miles,
When all the winding valley of Loch Awe
Shall be a level and alluvial tract,
And my beloved Isles unislanded;
For all the streams bring heavy loads of sand,
Which either they deposit at their mouths,
(As at Kilchurn, which has been formerly
An island standing at the Orchay's mouth,
Which by a delta joined it to the land,
As Pharos unto Egypt long ago);
Or cast into the waters of the lake,
Through which the fine grains slowly settling down
Make it grow shallow.
And they grew slowly. Twenty thousand years
Might be to them the years of infancy.
Slowly the mighty subterranean fire
Thrust up the porphyry peak of Cruachan!
Ere then the tribute of a hundred streams
Filled the great valley, and the waters found
One outlet only, which their force enlarged;
And those fair Isles which I do consecrate
To be for ever sacred unto song,
Emerged as they subsided—barren rocks,
Glittering with white quartz crystals here and there,
Scattered like spots of snow upon the hills.
But soon upon them spread a covering
Of velvet fibres; then white spots of lichen
Dotted the dark mould of the former growths;
And so progressed the vegetable forms,
And the Black Isles, whose noble groves of beech
Cast on the silver surface of the lake
Their green reflections, whose luxuriant plants,
Bright purple heather, sky-blue hyacinth,
And long fine grasses, with a hundred flowers
Scattered amongst them, make the ground so rich
Under the boughs—those sister isles were once
87
Between the starry lichen and the beech
Was so immense that years and centuries
Fail me. There is an infinite of time,
Before—behind—as infinite as space;
And we may now anticipate an age,
Distant in days as Sirius in miles,
When all the winding valley of Loch Awe
Shall be a level and alluvial tract,
And my beloved Isles unislanded;
For all the streams bring heavy loads of sand,
Which either they deposit at their mouths,
(As at Kilchurn, which has been formerly
An island standing at the Orchay's mouth,
Which by a delta joined it to the land,
As Pharos unto Egypt long ago);
Or cast into the waters of the lake,
Through which the fine grains slowly settling down
Make it grow shallow.
So in course of time
The Cailliach's fault may be at last retrieved,
When there shall be a dry and fertile plain
Level unto the bases of the hills.
The Cailliach's fault may be at last retrieved,
When there shall be a dry and fertile plain
Level unto the bases of the hills.
91
This book may possibly fall into the hands of tourists in the Highlands; and if it should induce any one to visit the Isles of Loch Awe, a few words on my part may save him a good deal of trouble. The inns are so badly situated that no visitors but sportsmen and painters ever think of staying long at Loch Awe. The hotel at Dalmally is an old inconvenient house, three miles from the loch, and wants rebuilding. The inn at Cladich is a mile from the loch, and the footpath in wet weather is almost impassable. The inn at Port Sonachan and that at Inish Erreth are both close to the water, but so far from Kilchurn that Cladich is perhaps the more eligible as head-quarters. From thence Kilchurn is about five miles; the river Awe, six; Inishail, two; Fraoch Elan, three; and Ardhonnel, fifteen. Loch Avich is worth seeing, but the boats there are of the tub
92
Though I have only mentioned a few of the islands, there are many more of great beauty scattered here and there—about thirty, I believe, in all. I had included Inish Drynich amongst those in the poem, and allowably so; for although it is connected with the mainland by an isthmus, the isthmus is often submerged by floods, and, even in the height of summer, so marshy that the inhabitants reach the shore by boating across the exquisite little bay. I had enjoyed the hospitality of the gentleman who then occupied the fishing-lodge on the peninsula, and could not resist the temptation to describe a pleasant evening I spent there when the loch roared on the beach, and the storm-wind,
Howling among the oaks upon the isle,
rivalled our own music in power if not in melody. I have
withheld this from publication, for reasons which the
reader will readily imagine and appreciate; he may,
however, be permitted to see the lyric and the opening
lines:—
The night comes stormily from the west,
Low-brooding clouds, and wind and rain;
Black as ink is the loch's rough breast:
In the west a crimson stain;
And I labour all in vain.
Low-brooding clouds, and wind and rain;
Black as ink is the loch's rough breast:
In the west a crimson stain;
And I labour all in vain.
93
For the storm-waves weary me,
They are many—I alone.
'Tis a dreary sight to see
The toppling breakers, one by one,
Coming from the sunken sun.
They are many—I alone.
'Tis a dreary sight to see
The toppling breakers, one by one,
Coming from the sunken sun.
Near me is the Druid's isle,
Where three Ladies of the Lake
Dwell serenely, and beguile
The night with music—they will take
A stranger in for mercy's sake.
Where three Ladies of the Lake
Dwell serenely, and beguile
The night with music—they will take
A stranger in for mercy's sake.
That was the lyric, and here are the first few lines of the suppressed chapter:—
The isle of Druids in the prosperous days
Of their extinct religion—never since
Has it been left without inhabitants,
Although the neck of low and marshy land
Gives no communication with the shore.
And often when the lake is full of water
'Tis overflowed. A square-built fishing-lodge,
With a verandah and a gallery
Round three of its four sides, now occupies
The holy ground; and there are noble oaks
Clustering about it, the posterity
Of those from which the Druids used to cull
In robes of white, with golden instruments,
Their parasite—the sacred misletoe;
Since then held sacred to a sweeter use.
Of their extinct religion—never since
Has it been left without inhabitants,
Although the neck of low and marshy land
Gives no communication with the shore.
And often when the lake is full of water
'Tis overflowed. A square-built fishing-lodge,
With a verandah and a gallery
Round three of its four sides, now occupies
The holy ground; and there are noble oaks
Clustering about it, the posterity
Of those from which the Druids used to cull
In robes of white, with golden instruments,
Their parasite—the sacred misletoe;
Since then held sacred to a sweeter use.
How I was first attracted to this isle
My journal tells me. From its private page
I make this extract for the public good.
My journal tells me. From its private page
I make this extract for the public good.
And then follows a description of a very interesting family of—Scotch terriers. The head of this family was
A noble little dog, on whom I called
Merely to feast my eyes upon his beauty.
His owner had a lodge upon Loch Awe,
Built on a green peninsula; and there
I found him walking in the pleasant sun,
His dogs around him. “I have come,” I said,
“To make your dog's acquaintance, for his fame
Has reached the inn at Cladich where I lodge.”
So having briefly introduced myself,
His owner introduced me to the dog,
And we were friends at once. He was indeed
The prince of terriers, of the purest blood,
With lithe and sinewy frame, and long, round body:
A mane, too, like a lion's; and long hair
Of flaxen texture, reaching to the feet,
A mingled grey of red, and black, and white,
Of tints all varied. Then his lustrous eyes,
And bright, black nose turned upwards to the light,
Were full of kind expression; and, in truth,
I think he understood the compliment
I paid him, for he welcomed me as though
He knew quite well my call was on himself.
We sat and talked an hour away. At last,
When in his master's boat I left the isle,
The dog stood gazing from the little pier,
Wagging a kind farewell.
Merely to feast my eyes upon his beauty.
His owner had a lodge upon Loch Awe,
Built on a green peninsula; and there
I found him walking in the pleasant sun,
94
“To make your dog's acquaintance, for his fame
Has reached the inn at Cladich where I lodge.”
So having briefly introduced myself,
His owner introduced me to the dog,
And we were friends at once. He was indeed
The prince of terriers, of the purest blood,
With lithe and sinewy frame, and long, round body:
A mane, too, like a lion's; and long hair
Of flaxen texture, reaching to the feet,
A mingled grey of red, and black, and white,
Of tints all varied. Then his lustrous eyes,
And bright, black nose turned upwards to the light,
Were full of kind expression; and, in truth,
I think he understood the compliment
I paid him, for he welcomed me as though
He knew quite well my call was on himself.
We sat and talked an hour away. At last,
When in his master's boat I left the isle,
The dog stood gazing from the little pier,
Wagging a kind farewell.
He had a spouse
Fairer in colour, but as pure in blood;
And three small puppies gambolled round them both,
The sweetest family group you ever saw.—
And now, dear reader, one of them is mine.
Fairer in colour, but as pure in blood;
And three small puppies gambolled round them both,
The sweetest family group you ever saw.—
And now, dear reader, one of them is mine.
I am sorry to have to add that the little souvenir of the Isles of Loch Awe mentioned in the last line, after growing exceedingly interesting, died in the distemper.
| The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth | |