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

“Conjure up again the evanished shapes of the ancient ballad; people these isles, this rock; and cause, by might of spirit and power, the old times to flit by, clearly and truly.” —Hans Christian Andersen.

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This Poem comprises descriptions of the five most interesting islands on Loch Awe, introducing the traditions attached to them, and such personal details of the author's wanderings as were likely to assist the truthfulness of the descriptions.

Kilchurn is not strictly insular except when the Loch is high. It is, however, supposed to have been built originally on an island, since the isthmus is a sandy delta deposited by the river Orchay, at whose mouth the castle is situated. I have, therefore, thought it allowable to include this peninsula among “the Isles of Loch Awe.”

The Introductory Chapter is devoted to a very picturesque legend accounting popularly for the origin of the lake; the concluding one contrasts the theories of modern science with this legendary palæontology.

The Lyrics—like the ballad stanza which heads each canto of the “Faërie Queene,”—are introduced as preludes to prepare the reader for the subject of the composition which follows, giving him, as it were, the keynote to the chapter.

I passed Loch Awe as tourists do,
Catching glimpses here and there
Of the scenes we posted through,

With companions full of care
About the comforts of the inns,
And about to-morrow's fare.

Thus the soul, to try it, wins
Glimpses of its Paradise.
'Twas a judgment for my sins,

Yet a judgment making wise,
For I went another year
To work alone, and settled there.

I visited Loch Awe in 1852, making four sketches and a poem on Inishail, of which a few lines are preserved in the present volume. Afterwards, in 1854, I revisited the lake, setting out with the intention of writing 2000 lines about it, and painting a few illustrations of the scenery. The poem as it now stands consists of rather more than 2000 lines, and some of the sketches accompany it as vignettes. A good deal of it was written in my boat or on the islands. I mention these facts to substantiate the accuracy of the descriptions.

I. INTRODUCTORY.

These isles were once the crests of pastoral hills
In an Arcadian valley, long ago:
So says tradition.

The origin of the tradition is given by Mr. Stewart in his account of the parish of Strachur. Be'ir is the Gaelic for a thunderbolt. In the oblique cases it is Bhe'ir, as Bein Bhe'ir, the mountain of thunder, the name of a very high mountain in Appin. Cailliach Bhe'ir, therefore, was the personification of a thunderbolt, usually accompanied by heavy rains.

Bera owned the vale,
A coarse Diana, whose wide hunting-grounds
Were all the mountains round Ben Cruachan,
Whereon she dwelt; for near the little tarn
That lies between the shoulders of the hill
There was a spring, with which her very life
Was so connected by some sorcery,
That if she failed to roll a mighty stone,
Sculptured with mystic characters and signs,
Over the spring before the sun had set,
Mysterious woes impended. By this tenure
Her lands were held, and even life itself.

One afternoon, outwearied with the chase,
She clambered slowly up the torrent side,

Above the tangled depths of the ravine,
And, finding in the basket-work of copse
A quiet nook of short, close, verdant grass,
Lay down to rest, for still the sun was high,
And she could reach the summit in an hour
From where she lay. The turf was very soft,
And she so weary that her hardy limbs
Would have reposed upon a granite bed,
So that she slept too soundly, for the sun
Reddened and sank while she was in that bower,—
And still she slept!

The morning dawned in mist,
And she, in fear of some impending woe,
Brushed through the dripping fern and underwood,
Treading securely those vast solitudes
As if by instinct, for the cloud was thick
Upon the mountain. Through the stony heath
She held her course; and her short hunting-dress
Was wet about the skirts with myrtle shrubs
That from the cloud received a heavy dew;
And her strong, naked limbs were often bathed
In fording mountain-streams that crossed her path:
And on she waded, buried to the knees
In the bright purple heather drenched with dew.

There were new rills and streams, for the soaked earth
Gave off the flood that poured all through the night
Into the natural drains. The Cailliach

Cailliach is the Gaelic for old woman. A Highlander took great pains to make me understand the exact significance of the term: we have no precise equivalent for it in English. The descriptions of a mountain torrent which follow were written in my note-book on the moors, after three weeks' incessant rain; they were taken direct from nature; but on a reperusal of Modern Painters, I find a picture of the Falls of Schaffhausen (Sec. v. Chap. II.), which might have served for the original of mine. A precious stone occurred to each of us as the nearest approach to the broken water,—Ruskin thought of the chrysoprase on the banks of the Rhine; the red brown of the Highland torrent suggested the fire-opal.

went

Down to a torrent's bed, and on a rock,
Washed by the spent waves at long intervals,
Stood whilst she watched the eddies of the pool.
In slow pulsations, like a rising tide,
The water left its foam-line on the rock;
But in the centre of the seething pool
It rose and fell in heaps like furrowed hills,
With a deep-heaving energy! Alive,
And hurrying down the pass, the waters came
In noisy masses, elbowing their way
Like an insurgent populace who crowd
The narrow streets of some great capital.
So came they, flinging up great drops of foam
As they approached the brink—a noisy crew—
Then tumbling, formed a broad and buttressed wall
Of shapely water, many tons in weight;
And from its base rose columns of white mist,
Which down the stream were gliding one by one.
The fall itself was of a golden brown,
Flecked with white foam and fretted by the rocks;
But when the sun came out the water showed
New brilliance, and some golden breaks within,
Like those mysterious fractures flashing light
In the fire opal. On the black, wet rocks,
High on the bank, were lines of creamy foam;
And behind one of these there was a space
Past which the torrent shot—it had not time
To fill that hollow with its mountain mass,

But left a little whirlpool of white foam
Playing within it.

Bera held her way
Along the glen through which the torrent poured
In dumb amazement; for in all her life
She had not seen in that great stony glen
A torrent bigger than a little rill,
Which after rain grew white with puny rage—
A thing to leap across. She held her way
Though underwood and on the open heath;
And, for the glen was steep, another fall
Checked her excited footsteps. She could see
Nothing but white cold mist, but heavily
The water plunged; and when a gust of wind
Flung broken drops against the wall of rock,
They fell like leaden balls from musketry
Flattened against a fortress. As she came
Nearer, the fall grew slowly visible.

The water rushed between two mighty rocks,
Then fell in one white column to the pool;
And from its base shot rocket-flights of mist,
Darting in quick succession to the height
Of dizzy trees that to the precipice
Clung for their lives. The plunging of the flood
Was intermittent—an irregular sound,
And the light spray was carried by the wind
Like smoke; and on it when the sun came out

An iris hung, whose pure prismatic hues
Were of etherial loveliness. The gleam
Passed, and the iris died upon the mist,
And its fair colours whitened into death.

The Cailliach traced this torrent to its source,
And it subsided slowly as she went;
And the great stones began to raise dark heads
Above the white foam, and the Cailliach's heart
Grew weary as the torrent's force declined.

At length she reached that dreary land of stones,
That, on the highest region of the hill,
Lies, barren as the craters of the moon.
And there she found her sculptured talisman
Lying above the entrance of the cave
From which the spring gushed forth. The spring itself
Discharged a copious stream, but all around
Were marks of devastation. Then her limbs
Grew faint and weak, sensations new to her!
And as she leaned against her talisman,
The cloud began to roll beneath her feet,
And the fierce winds that roared about the peak
Carried the mist in fragments. Then she looked
Down the red furrowed sides of Cruachan,
In whose dark fissures, like the remnant snows
Of early June, the white rills seemed to rest,
Into the corrie where her dwelling was:

And lo! her little tower was swept away,
And not a stone left standing; and the heath
Was washed off like the dust of summer drouth,
And the red earth lay bare.

Then all the cloud
Was torn away by a most furious wind;
And lo! that peaceful, green, and pastoral vale
Was flooded; and the windings of Loch Awe
Followed the windings of her own rich valley
Far southwards, until lost in distant hills,
Like a great serpent, that had swallowed up
Her flocks, and, glutted, stretched itself to sleep.
And all the green tops of her fertile knolls
Were islands on the water, whereupon
Stood houseless groups—the remnant of her tribe.

Then keen remorse, that felt like bodily pain,
Wrung the strong Cailliach's heart, and with a voice
That rolled like thunder o'er the lonely hills,
Deep, sad, and awful—she bewailed her loss
And her own fatal sleep. The cloud returned,
And never more she saw her heritage.
The stream subsided quickly, and she felt
Her own life ebbing with it. Faint and sick
She lay on her cold deathbed of rough stones,
With, for her pillow, that great talisman,
The safeguard of a tribe already drowned,
Because she had relaxed her vigilance

One fatal night—it is a common case.
She groaned—'t was like the moaning of the wind
Upon the mountain. Through the heavy mist
Ben Vorich thundered; and along the peaks
That half surround the crater-like ravine
The echoes came. Across the dying limbs
Drove level rain—cold, cheerless, pelting rain.
And then the torrent ceased its fatal flow,
And in the Cailliach's veins the blood lay still.

So was the peaceful valley of the Awe
Flooded and drowned for ever. Ask no more.
It is a flimsy, ill-constructed tale,
Which, like most stories of an ignorant time,
Arose in common metaphor at first;
And afterwards, when figure was disused
In daily speech, became a thing apart,
Misunderstood, and taken for a myth.
The Cailliach was the Spirit of the Storm,
A female Jove, who, from the desolate peaks
Whereon she dwelt, hurled thunderbolts and rain
On the low valleys, causing deluges,
Until the loch broke its old boundaries,
Flooding the lower grounds. But when the streams
Subsided, and the weather cleared again,
And thunderclouds had vanished from the peak
Of Cruachan, the Cailliach was defunct.

I wrote the lines which follow after reading a chapter in Mackay's learned volumes on the Progress of the Intellect, treating of the notion of a dying god. I am happy to acknowledge my obligation.

She was a dying goddess—nothing more—

An aspect of the weather deified,
Like Thammuz or Adonis, for whose death
By the boar's tusk the Syrian damsels mourned,—
Summer made cold and dead by Winter's tooth.
Here in this northern region, where the rain
Beats down the corn, retards its ripening,
And spoils the harvest, the rain deity
Is made austere and rough—an Amazon
Dwelling apart among the barren hills.
Not so in Egypt. When Osiris died,
The priests and people mourned their saviour's loss,
The welcome God, whose wanderings from the bed
Of the low Nile did yearly fertilise
Its arid region, until Typhon came
The type of drought and black sterility,
In league with burning winds from Ethiope,
And lured the young Osiris at a feast
Into a strong and fair sarcophagus,
Then closed the lid, and drowned him in the Nile.

Once the Island of the Blest,
Then the stronghold of a chief,
Then upon its ruin-crest
Water-eagles built their nest;
Now the sea-gulls cry for grief.

There are fables full of truth;
Fraoch's tale is sadly true!
For how many in their youth,
Bitten by the serpent's tooth,
Die, or only live to rue!

Weeds are rank about the roots
Of ash-trees in the castle hall,
Where Fraoch plucked enchanted fruits
On the tangled bramble shoots,
Withered leaves in autumn fall.

II. FRAOCH ELAN.

“You cannot see the castle on the isle,
'Tis hidden in the trees,” the boatman said,
As I was pulling carelessly, my neck
Twisted, like any bird's, in eagerness
To catch my first glimpse of the ruined tower
That gives the isle such interest. At last
The trees grew more distinct as we approached,
And soon we landed in a little creek;
And I left Dugald with the shortest pipe
That man could smoke—three quarters of an inch—
Unravelling some pigtail, which he stuffed
Into the bowl, and sat contentedly—
The hot smoke in his mouth, and the red weed
Under his nose. But I was all excitement;
And, in a minute, through the wilderness
Of stinging nettles, that the poisonous corpse
Of the great guardian snake that Fraoch slew

First propagated here, I made my way,
And found at last a breach in the rough walls,
And entered. There were silly window-holes,
Made useless since the roofing had become
One great blue skylight—plaster on the walls;
Laid on, perhaps, when that true Jacobite,
Mac Naughten, secretly prepared himself
To do the honours to the wretched heir
Of empty rights, the young pretender Charles.

The island of Fraoch Elan was given by Alexander III. in 1296, to Gilbert Mac Naughten, the chief of his clan, on condition that he should entertain the King of Scotland whenever he passed that way. The proprietor, in 1745, made secret preparations for entertaining the Prince in the castle, had he passed in that direction after landing in Glenfinnin.

For this, a royal gift, was formerly
Held by this tenure,—that the king himself
Should find a welcome here when passing by—
An honourable tenure. Times are changed;
And Nature takes again those chiselled stones
Into her keeping—types of man's decay.
From the hall floor, where kings have revelled, grows
A wild ash, springing freely to the light;
No floors to stunt its stature, and no roof
To slope the rain away on dripping eaves.
The wall still rears a gable, where for years
A water-eagle builded undisturbed,
By her at last deserted.

It is said
That one Mac Naughten, who had fought with Bruce,
Praised his opponent's valour with such warmth
To Lorn the little-hearted, that he earned
A cold rebuke from him, and endless fame
For that rare generosity of heart

Which could admire a foeman's qualities.
Rude chieftain, let thy great example be
Unto our modern baseness a reproach!
And though—as then—in this transition time
Men are divided into hostile ranks,
Let us retain a liberal estimate
Of those whose watchword differs from our own.

There is a myth, too, which provided me
A subject for some legendary verse.
My head was full of Spenser and his knights
When I first wrote it, and accordingly
'Tis coloured from the first line to the last
With hues reflected from the Faërie Queene.
The simple Fraoch of the Celtic myth
Became a southern knight, armed cap-à-pié,
A most substantial knight. Yet none the less
The moral of the story is preserved;
An essence giving lasting permanence
To what contains it, as Egyptian spices
Enclosed in mummy-heads instead of brains,
Defend them from the carrion tooth of Time.

Sir Fraoch loved a lady of Loch Awe,
And she returned his love; but one bright day,
When with his dogs around him he received
A cup of wine from her, and kissed the hand
That gave it, swearing to return the gift

A hundred-fold in mountain venison,
She, laughing, said,—“The meat is very coarse
You knightly huntsmen butcher on the hills;
But if you wish to recompense me well
For that delicious draught of foreign wine,
Go—if you dare—to that enchanted isle,
Whose clime is like the autumn of the south,
Fruitful in golden apples; if you dare,
Go, slay the serpent, and return this night
Laden with mellow spoils.” He said, “I go,”
In earnest—she proposed it but in jest.
And when the lady saw his haughty brow
Full of grave purpose, she repented it;
And, growing anxious, urged him not to go,
Saying, “she never should forgive herself
If he were bitten by that monstrous beast
Which she had seen afar off more than once,
Stretching his mighty coils along the shore
Of that enchanted isle.” But his reply
Was stern and brief. “You told me, if I dared,
To go and gather what the serpent guards;
And those who heard your challenge, let them hear
My answer. If I am not here to-night,
Let none attempt to bear my corse away,
Lest they should share my fate.” He turned to go.
The lady, seeing all that she had done
With her unhappy playfulness, controlled
A woman's feelings when she answered him,—

“Go then, and soon return; bring back thyself
Though empty handed—leave the fruit to rot—
Thy love is not a child to pine for apples.
This thought may make you careful of your life,
That I confess its value to myself;
Confession forced by rashness, which long years
Of faithful service only should have earned!”

Sir Fraoch soon put off his hunting dress—
Leggings of deer-skin thongs and tartan plaid—
And clothed himself, as if for common strife,
In shirt of mail with casque of polished steel.
Across his shoulder in its scabbard hung
A great two-handed sword, and by his side
A stout short claymore and a little dirk.

Thus armed he hastened downwards to the shore,
Where, high and dry upon the pebbly beach,
He found his long canoe of hollow oak,
And pushed it till it floated and the waves
Wetted his knees: the wind was strong that day.
His sword, unbuckled, soon was stowed aside;
And, grasping both the rude unbalanced oars,
He turned the prow against the waves it shunned,
And, with strong efforts, slowly left the shore;
And when he reached the middle of the loch,
The waves were cut and shattered into spray
By his keen prow. The morning had been bright,

But the horizon was no longer clear;
For wild and ragged clouds began to rise
As from the western sea; and when the wind
Veered from the north to westward those dark clouds
Came quickly, and a torn shred veiled the sun.
The waves now crossed the course of the canoe,
Striking its broadside, but the mighty oar
Pierced their strong, beating hearts. A gentle swell
Was all the motion, as Sir Fraoch pulled
Along the sheltering shore of Inishail;
But when the isle was passed, a roaring squall
Came down the corries of Ben Cruachan,
Smiting the lake, that wrinkled and shrunk down
Beneath the blow. If, reader, you despise
“Pond poets,” row alone, as I have done,
To Fraoch Elan in a gale of wind;
And when a squall comes down the Pass of Awe,

No one ever thinks of using a sail on Loch Awe, though Turner chose to hoist one or two, regardless of squalls, in his imaginary “Kilchurn Castle.” The drawing was probably done in Queen Anne Street. The Pass is the most prolific source of sudden and violent gusts of wind.

Crushing your boat with weight, or blowing it
Out of the water, scorn it if you can.
Sir Fraoch was no coward; yet he watched
The waves as they approached, and turned the prow
Out of its course to meet the fiercest ones.
They did not heave like those of troubled seas,
But pitched and tossed the boat. At last the sun
Shone through an opening in the leaden cloud,
And on the rough green base of Cruachan
His slanting rays cast shadows long and dark,
But fell direct on that enchanted isle,

Whose brilliant green shone out against the blue
Of the dark distance. Then Sir Fraoch saw
That all the boughs were weighed with golden fruit;
But when he sought the serpent guardian,
He only saw a line of leaping spray
Around the rocky beach; and as he came
Nearer, he laughed aloud unto himself,
And said,—“I thought so! 'tis an old wife's tale
To frighten children from the fruitful isle,
And fear confirms itself by evidence
Of sense, for terror sees what it believes:
But I, who fear no serpent, none behold.”
Thus did he give himself encouragement—
As men are apt to do when they desire
To pluck forbidden fruit. The serpent comes
To punish, but conceals himself at first:
The hidden spider does not show himself
Until the fly is caught—as men sometimes
Know to their cost. Sir Fraoch found a creek,
Wherein he landed. Taking his great sword
Naked, he left the scabbard in the boat.

Once on the shore he felt his spirit change
Within him, and delicious indolence
Creep through his veins. He roused himself at last;
And, choosing from the thickly-planted trees
One on whose boughs autumnal apples hung—
Such as his mistress craved—he strode along,

Through beds of flowery heath and hyacinth,
Towards it. Then his nostrils and his ears
Were soothed with sound and perfume, and the harps
Of bards were hymning in the sylvan shade
The deeds of heroes; but the noisy wind
Grew faint around the island, and the waves
Broke with a dying cadence on the rocks.
The climate was exotic, like the fruit,
Inviting to repose. Sir Fraoch plucked,
Filling the folds and corners of his plaid;
But when he turned to go, the serpent lay
In deathlike stillness, coiled in the deep grass,
Between him and the boat: so all escape
Was hopeless, save through fight and victory.
He found himself—where many find themselves—
Placed, by his own sheer folly, face to face
With death or deadly struggle. There are those
To whom the life they lead is certain death,
And yet to whom the conflict with the sin
May also end in agony at last.
Still, if to such a hard alternative
You, by your errors, have reduced yourself,
Prepare for battle as Sir Fraoch did.
Better to perish fighting to retrieve
Lost freedom, than to die in slavery;
And, if you are to suffer for you fault,
First slay the sin, that you may die reformed.

The serpent lay as if inanimate;
But Fraoch grew impatient, and marched on,
Rearing his sword on high with both his hands,
And looking unto God for victory.
Then on the dull green body of the snake,

This description is from the life.

The dappled, scaly hide began to swell
To twice its former thickness; and a head
Nestled, encircled by a hundred coils,
With two small piercing eyes, as black as jet,
Which gazed upon him steadfastly. The hide
Swelled and contracted as the snake drew breath,
And all that length of former lethargy
Grew vital with fierce anger. Then the head
Reared up—thrown back—and poised upon the trunk—
Threatened Sir Fraoch, who stood motionless,
Eyeing the monster with a doubtful air;
For serpents are not common enemies,
And skilful soldiers watch with greater caution
The movements of new foes. Sir Fraoch stood,
Bearing his sword on high, prepared to sweep
A cutting circle to protect his front.
Then from the serpent's jaws a barbèd tongue
Leaped forth three times, and was withdrawn again—
Swift as forked lightning from a thunder cloud—
A dull black tongue, like a long javelin
Whose point is poisoned. Then a fearful sound
Of inward rage, concentrated and harsh,
That serpent made in breathing; and the throat

Grew livid, and the little glittering eyes
Sparkled, and the quick tongue flew forth again,
And the choked sound grew louder than before;
And, spitting fiercely like a mountain cat,
The head was drawn more backward. Nothing more
Sir Fraoch saw; but some hard obstacle
Blunted his sweeping blade, and on his breast
He felt a painful blow. Another lounge
The serpent made, but shorter, and the sweep
Of Fraoch's blade was swifter than before;
And when the snake drew back its scaly head,
Its tongue shot out three times as if in scorn,
But it was shortened, and its barb was gone.
So Fraoch gained new confidence, and brought
His sword's point low before him, and rushed on
To charge the snake which crouched below the blade,
And quickly coiled about Sir Fraoch's feet
And threw him. Then his good sword, by the force
Flung from him, lay beyond his utmost reach;
And tighter grew the coils, and round his chest
The serpent crushed the rings of his chain shirt
Into his flesh.

He struggled silently,
And drew deep gasps into his labouring chest,
As one who needs support in mortal strife.
Meanwhile the coils grew tighter, and the snake,
Sure of its prey, began to take its ease;
And, though it almost crushed him, laid its head

In watchful rest upon the purple heath,
Waiting his death—nor would have waited long—
But when Sir Fraoch's strength was almost spent,
The snake, relaxing, left his right hand free
To draw his dirk, and instantly he ripped
The snake's defenceless belly, and in twain
Severed the living rope that bound his limbs;
Then leaping forth recovered his great sword,
And, waving it before him in the light
Of the low sun, made good his own retreat.

Then snatching up his plaid, in which the fruit
Was wrapped, Sir Fraoch leaped into his boat,
And half the serpent to the water's edge
Crawled after, and the other half in pain
Writhed in the heather: he had slain the snake.

The wind had lulled, and o'er the Pass of Awe
Two golden-coloured clouds in the clear sky
Faded together as the sun went down.
About Sir Fraoch's boat two sea-gulls flew
With anxious, sorrowful voices, and their talk
Was full of sad foreboding. As he passed
The strait of the Black Islands,

The Black Islands are close to Inishail, at its southern extremity. In natural beauty, both of shape and vegetation, they are the finest on the lake. To glide through the narrow strait on a summer's night and see the moon moving through the trees, and then, when the isles were passed, glittering on the waters, was a favourite amusement of mine.

on his oars
Resting, the current bore him swiftly through
Between the mournful shores of those two isles,
Which, being wedded for eternity,
Sleep there together on the water's breast,

Divided only by a narrow channel.
Their shores are dark, but they are rich in wood;
White, clean-limbed, muscular beech, and lofty firs,
Whose red boughs glow through tufts of sombre green
In the declining sun. Sir Fraoch's boat
Floated away till both those wedded isles
Lay dim and broad behind it, and the lake
Began to ripple to the brightening moon,
And in the clear pale sky the evening star
Became a visible point.

There was no wind,
And it was well; for Fraoch's weary arms
Were not the same that cut the waves at noon;
And all his frame was growing weak and stiff,
And very faint. A cold and creeping chill
Passed o'er his limbs like some uncertain wind;
His throat was parched, his eyelids often dropped
Over his weary eyes, and in his ears
Strange murmurs mingled with the dip of oars.
Still round his breast the serpent seemed to wrap
Tighter and tighter.

Wearily at last
He reached the little pier, and left his boat,
Taking the dear-bought fruit.

The lady stood
Beneath an oak awaiting his return;
But, when she saw him, would not seem to meet
Her lover, but returned into the house,

And there received him in the hall alone—
For all the men were out upon the hills.
Some deerskin mats were scattered on the floor,
And down Sir Fraoch sank on one of these,
Close by the blazing hearth. Then from his plaid
The shining apples rolled about the floor
Unheeded, for the lady saw no bloom
Upon the fruit, since all the bloom was gone
From Fraoch's cheek. He lay there till the heat
Quickened the feeble blood, and then his eyes
Fixed on the lady mournfully, and hers
Bent anxiously to his, and thus he spake:—

“O, love, the snake has crushed me; but the fruit—
I tasted of the fruit—for in the boat
Hunger and weakness robbed me of my strength,
And so I ate—I do not fear to die—
That poisonous fruit! Oh! kiss me ere I die:
Chaste are such kisses when the blood runs cold
And the flesh yields to death. O, gentle love,
My punishment is just! I expiate
The fault I have committed with my death.
Soon will the shades of heroes—whose abode
I rashly entered with this mortal body—
Receive my spirit and forgive my sin.
The snake is dead. Henceforth that isle will be
Even as the other islands of the lake,
For I have disenchanted it. I feel,

I feel the cold of death creep slowly up,
And gather round my heart.”

These broken words
Died out in unintelligible sounds;
And then the lady saw, with tearless eyes,
A change come o'er the features which she loved,
And, taking one of those fair poison fruits,
Ate—not as Eve, deceived by erring hopes,
But with a stern example, stretched in death,
Lying before her—and the fruit was sweet,
And death itself not bitter. So she ate,
Till she began to feel strange drowsiness,
And swift pains striking through her like sharp spears.
Then, with her lips upon her lover's cheek,
She grew like him insensibly at last;
And, when the dying peats upon the hearth
Were silvery ashes, through the window fell
White moonbeams on those lovers, lighting up
The folds of her attire, that lay as still
As sculptured draperies, and his shirt of mail.
But both their faces were in deepest shade,
Close to each other. Thus the pair were found.

The Celtic myth is like the classic one
Of Hercules and those rare golden pippins
Which, tended by the fair Hesperides,
And guarded by a hundred-headed dragon,
Bloomed in some garden far beyond the sea.

The ruined castle and the ancient myth
First drew me to the island. Afterwards
I used to row in the long evenings,
And rest an hour amongst the heath alone.
There is a little bay, and a proud cape
In miniature, that juts into the lake
Like a huge headland, which, eternally
Planting its foot deep in the furious waves,
Steps boldly out to meet the winter storms.
I landed in this bay, and moored my boat;
Then climbed the little cliff, and on the top,
Beneath the branches of its cresting firs,
Sat, deep in purple heather and wild flowers,

Fraoch Elan means the Isle of Heather.

Absorbed in contemplation, gaining wealth
Of poesy, as bees, that come from far,
Enrich themselves upon sweet island flowers,
Gathering wild honey all the summer days
For men who cannot find it for themselves.

The fairest island on the lake
Is the island of the nuns;
And I love it for the sake
Of those persecuted ones.

Lonely now, and desolate,
Rise the hills of Inishail;
And a sea-gull and his mate
Round it daily do bewail.

Flying round it to and fro,
Making some unhappy search,
Round about the tombs they go,
Round about the ruined church.

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.

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.

The nuns of Inishail have left behind them a very good reputation. Hay, abbot of Inchaffray, got the temporalities. Inchaffray was afterwards erected into a temporal lordship in his favour.

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.

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.

Some of the tombstones have been removed from Inishail. There are several in the churchyard at Dalmally.

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.

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.

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.

The story of Mac Intyre has, at the present day, more popularity amongst the lakesmen than any other tradition of the neighbourhood.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

Watch a corpse
In its serenest beauty, and believe
That in that calm expression of deep peace
There speaks a revelation.

There is an exquisite passage in Leslie's Handbook for Young Painters, “On the Beauty of Death.”

Inishail
May be indeed an island of the blest,
With narrow dwellings sprinkled on the green,
A hamlet filled with peaceful islanders.

From a beach of yellow sand,
Ribbed as if by ocean waves,
Rise the towers; and, while they stand,
Shall none forget
The worst of all the lordly knaves
That ever yet
Plotted villany in the land.

Where is Lord Mac Corquadale?
Where the pious dame who built
The castle that he did assail
And almost won
By the secret arts of guilt?
They are gone!
But they live in song and tale.

He lives ever in our hate—
She for ever in our love;
And the years that she did wait
Had their reward,—
Guided by the powers above
Came her lord;
And nearly—nearly—came too late.

IV. KILCHURN.

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!

On a turret of the keep,
On the castled isle,
Where the poet lies asleep,
Circled by the waters deep,
Happy planets smile.

Yes, he sleeps there all alone
In a little cell,
Vaulted with an arch of stone,
In a turret ivy-grown,
Where an owl doth dwell.

Yet he only sleeps by fits,
For loudly snores the owl—
“Alone, and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the” ivy sits:
He is a noisy fowl!

V. ARDHONNEL.

“These mountains grow oppressive. I will row
Southwards for sylvan beauty and the peace
Of those serene and calmly-sleeping hills,
Whose outlines on the far horizon lie
Like clouds at sunset.” So we took the boat,
I and a Highland boatman, each an oar,
And through the waters, rippling to prolong
The green reflections, swiftly pulled away.
Then first I saw the bulk of Cruachan,
When all the peaks, that guard its hollow gorge,
Came from behind Ben Vorich, one by one.
That gorge was blue and deep, for shadows fell
Into its fearful gulf from snowy clouds
That rose like alps above the highest peak.
But one great muscular shoulder, in the sun,
Shone green and lustrous, wet with recent rain,
Against the dark blue corrie. In the east,

Ben Loy and his great brethren, far away,
Lay like a herd of monstrous elephants
Scattered in every attitude of rest,
And on their bodies stood the wingèd clouds,
Folding their silver wings familiarly.
Then on our oars we rested, and the boat
Insensibly swung round, and thirty peaks
Passed in review before me, and the plain
Of silver waters stretched unto their feet.

Far northwards, where the lake is lost in hills,
The two Black Islands lie with doubled forms,
And if they were not there you would not know
That it was water.

We have lost them now:
A promontory, wooded to the foot,
Has interposed and hidden them from us.

I watch slow changes on the distant shores,—
As Science notes the parallax of stars
Through which Earth floats, more swiftly than we think.

This is a land of rain, for we have been
Wet through and dried again like water-dogs,
Three times already, and another shower
Comes northward with the wind.

Behind that cape
Lies Inish Erreth, and the four-square keep

Of Old Argyle.

Ardhonnel looms in sight;
A grey, tall fortress, on a wooded isle,
Not buried but adorned by foliage.

And now I see another reach of lake.

We landed at Ardhonnel when the sun
Shone brightly, and the air was purified,
Washed by the rain. The rock is sharp and steep;
And in the four great walls there is no breach;
And three are built of close-wrought masonry,
Without a single crevice, so compact,
That, save some loopholes in the higher courses,
Those stones would cage an Afrit. In the fourth
I found a door—the only entrance door—
And through tall nettles, over heaps of stones,
Stumbled along. Some gaunt partition-walls,
Left standing, gave an evidence of floors;
And in the great, square, corner buttresses,
Arched doorways, storied one above another,
Gave a precarious entrance to small cells,
Each with a single loophole, and a roof
Of solid stone arched over it for strength.

Standing in one of these strange bedchambers,
My Highlander looked round him and observed
How narrow and confined it was: he said

“He should not like to sleep there”—so I laughed,
Saying, “I used a garret at a push,
When at Dalmally, quite as small as this;
And if there's not a bedroom at the inn,
I would not care to sleep here by myself,
This very night.” Then that stout Highlandman,
In sheer amazement opened both his eyes,
Swearing “he would not sleep there for five pounds.”

The bedrooms in the inn were occupied:
“Dugald,” said I, “get half a sack of peat,
And, after sunset, bring it in the boat—
I'm going to sketch the castle from the shore—
And you will see me, and will take me in,
And row me to Ardhonnel. I shall sleep
In that small chamber, and shall want a fire—
The room has not been used, I think, of late,
And may want airing.” Dugald laughed aloud,
To prove how smartly he could take a joke:
I was in earnest. When convinced at last,
He grew quite grave; and in this altered mood
I left him, wondering what strange phantasy,
Or terrible distemper of the brain,
Had seized upon me, that I dared to seek
The haunts of owls and bats—and, it might be,
Of beings worse than either owls or bats—
Through the long hours of darkness, and alone.

The level light, across the rugged sides
Of Cruachan, cast airy multitudes
Of pale blue shadows, and the hollow gorge
Was one flat void of blue, from which the peaks
Rose to the light. It left them, and a cloud
Nestled in that huge corrie for the night.
Gazing on this, I sat upon the beach
Near Inish Connel, where the castle is;
And when the sun was down I heard a noise
Of rowing, and the dip of distant oars,
Coming towards me. When she hove in sight
I knew the boat, and, rising from her prow,
Saw a blue wreath of light and graceful smoke,
That seemed as much at home upon the lake
As if ascending from a cottage hearth.
Dugald had brought a pan of burning peat,
Which served us for the nucleus of a fire,
And soon my turret cell was full of smoke,
Which, after rambling over every wall,
Seeking a chimney vainly, found its way
Out by the door through which we clambered in.

I stood alone upon the parapet
When the first stars came out, and then, indeed,
I felt that keen sensation of delight,
Which is the well and fount of poesy,
Moving within me and collecting force.
Such moments have been rare with me of late,

For as I grow to manhood it becomes
More difficult to yield the spirit up
To outward influence, and reflection grows
Habitual; so I cannot be alone—
I cannot banish all the world of men,
Those whom I know, or have known, in the world,
Even if I would—they throng these solitudes.
But in that silent hour I felt once more
The thrilling sense of being quite alone
With Nature in her beauty. Interviews
With earthly sovereigns in their privacy
Honour the subject, but to one who feels
God's presence most in lovely solitudes,
Whether he be a prophet—as of old
Such men were called—or poet writing verse,
Or silent poet writing none at all,
Or honest painter—loneliness to him
May be the very time when he receives
Knowledge in most abundance.

As I stood
Leaning upon the broken battlement,
And watched the twilight deepen on the hills,
My soul became as calm as that calm lake,
Reflecting all things—for the troubled breast
Confuses all the images of things,
As stormy waves receive a colouring
From clouds and hills, but lose all trace of form.
And, as it calms, the heart grows sensitive

To all surrounding objects, and receives
True and distinct impressions.

Far away
Grey mountains lay like clouds on the horizon,
But, opposite, a range of sombre brown
Rose from the other shore—a perfect void
Of darkness, all enclosed by two rough lines,—
The one, the mountainous outline on the sky,
The other, its reflection. I could see,
As though they hung ten thousand feet below,
The images of clouds; but when I looked
Up to the clouds themselves my eye became
Aware of stars beyond, and turning round
I saw a planet burning in the south,
Eclipsed a moment by a silent wing.
It was a large white owl that came between;
It flew beneath me, passing many times,
And once it settled, for an instant only,
Upon a crumbling fragment of the wall,
And gazed upon me with its two black eyes,
Set in a white round face like the full moon.

I sought my turret chamber. Though the walls
Were built of rude unchiselled masonry,
And though there was no chimney for the fire,
Or door or glazing to keep out the cold,
It had an air of comfort, for the peat
Burnt brightly through the atmosphere of smoke;

Besides, there was some furniture,—my trunk,
A cloak spread on the pavement for a bed,
A sack of peat, and a brass candlestick
For ornament, not use, since I attached
The candle to the wall as workmen do.
So that the place looked cheerful when I laid
My weary limbs upon a harder bed
Than tourists often use, and closed my eyes,
Already sore and watery with the smoke.

I know that this is dull and commonplace,
Dear reader, but the spirits of Loch Awe
That night, perhaps, were otherwise engaged;
And I know naught of rapping; and, besides,
There was no table—not a single board—
So I was doomed to spend the night alone.
Though poets conjure phantoms from the deeps
Of their creative fancy, the sound head
Is master of its own imaginings;
And if the ghosts I summon from their graves
Grew troublesome, or caused unpleasant thoughts,
Reason, that stern exorcist, would compel
Their instant flight. So, to amuse myself,
I pictured ghosts of many feudal chiefs
Entering the little chamber one by one,
Clad as in life, with targe, and dirk, and sword;
Pale faces frowning, through the haze of smoke,
Upon the rash intruder, and contempt

On their white bloodless lips for one who sought
The comforts they despised, whose beds had been
The heather on the rock, and one of whom
Had been contemned, and thought effeminate,
Because he shaped a pillow of the snow
Of which his bed was made.

I fell asleep,
And in a dreamless and unbroken rest
These fancies died away. When I awoke
Some low, red embers scattered on the floor,
And a short candle with a knob of snuff,
Shed a dim light upon the rough old walls;
So I collected all the hottest peats
Into a heap, and their united warmth,
When nursed and coaxed, became a second fire.
Then I descended very cautiously
Into the castle hall, and walking past
Black archways towards the fireplace of the hall,
A wide, low arch, I thought how all was changed
Since round that yawning fireplace, and within
The little loopholed chamber that it made,
The jovial clansmen revelled.

Once again
I stood upon the ivied parapet.
The night was very beautiful and calm;
There was no sound upon the little isle,
Except the snoring of my friend the owl,
And the faint ripple of the drowsy water

Against the rocky beach, far down below.
Then came a noise of distant waterfalls
From both the shores, and it was strange to hear
Two housedogs bay across the breadth of lake,
Answering each other. I have never seen
More lovely starlight. Three great planets shone
North, south, and west, and on the deep, dark waters,
Their light fell softly toward the castled isle.
The water seemed quite luminous itself
Beneath those planets, and the ripple gave
Quick diamond flashes of a transient light,
Most like the phosphorescence of the sea.

Again I dozed, and near me snored the owl
In the thick ivy, with a human tone;
A sonorous snore it was, and very loud.
There was a flock of rooks upon the isle,
But, after quarrelling till they fell asleep,
They had been still as mice. A noisy bat
Came in to see me often, fluttering round
The little chamber on its skinny wings,
Then darting through the loophole or the door
Into the night. A giant spider ran
Across me—and as little did he dream
Of what he trod on, as we human insects
Think of the star we trample underfoot.
These were my only visitors. Perhaps
Some would have shrunk from their society,

But I have pleasure in all living things;
Which in their place are serving the Supreme;
And they discharge their functions in this world
More perfectly than I. The happiness
Of living in unconscious harmony
With Nature is so little known to man,
That one may almost envy bats and owls
Their simpler duties, and the perfect ease
With which they serve the universal Law.
We wretches, with a thousand hostile creeds,
Perplexed and baffled in the endless search,
What are we more than they? Have we attained
More virtue than those lilies of the field,
Which, clothed in beauty, know not that they live?
Have we more faith than spiders, bats, and owls,
Who live in trust?

These thoughts passed through my mind
As I lay thinking in that ruined tower.
But after them the answer also came.

One conscious effort to obey the right
Is worth a thousand years of sinless life—
Sinless because it knows not how to sin.
These creatures have not misery and vice,
Nor have they virtue, and what virtue brings.
A corpse obeys the law as well as they:
It decomposes, and its gases fly
Where Nature wills. In such obedience

There is no virtue, neither any praise.
A child who bears affliction patiently
Does more than ever the eternal hills
Have done in all the ages of the past—
Their million years of death! So let us learn
The glory, for we know the pain of choice;
And let us make our lives, though sorrowful
And very bitter, like heroic lives!
In effort lies our glory and our pain;
But the time comes when that will also cease,
And we shall rest, yet in our rest obey
Eternal law, as the heart beats in sleep.

I also envied thoughtlessly the power
Of bearing rude assaults of wind and weather
Without protection, which these creatures have;
But soon remembered that a creature's rank
Is chiefly marked by the necessity
Of many outward agents to its life,
And therefore to itself the power is given
To modify and change surrounding things;
And when this power has reached a certain point
In man himself, we call him civilised.

Here is another picture from the walls.
The moon had risen, and her quiet light
Fell softly on the castle and the hills;
Not with the sharp, strong shadows, which she throws

On the cold earth in winter, when the air
Is clear and sharp with frost, but all around
A sort of paler sunlight, warm and dim,
Made grey the solemn shadows of the keep,
A feeble yet most penetrative light!

Another hour of interrupted sleep.
When I awoke 'twas in a dreary place.
My candle having melted from the wall
Was flickering in the dust. The fire was black,
And straggling rays of very cheerless light
Entered the cell—the first cold rays of dawn.

Yes, it was daylight. On the grassy walls
Once more I stood, and watched the infinite change.
The lake was now all rippled, white, and cold,
With streaks of darkest water, smooth as glass;
But that cold ripple flushed with rose colour
When in the east, long fields of airy cloud
Coloured; and in the regions of the north,
The undefined pale vapours of the sky
Began to feel the sun. Then on sharp peaks
Of Alpine cloud above Ben Cruachan
Touches of light fell westward, and thick clouds,
Opaque and leaden-hued, that heavily
Hung in the yellow east, received quick strokes
Of gold and crimson on their under edge,
Defining forms indefinite before.

Then I descended to the water's edge,
And saw the boat which brought the prisoner
His order of release. We left the isle;
And in a clear, deep bay, as cold as ice,
I broke the still reflections with a plunge,
And washed away the odour of the peat.

The greater part of this chapter was written in the castle. The descriptions, as usual, are direct from nature; and whatever there is of philosophic digression I have retained as it was originally written, because it would be out of character to suppose that any imaginative person could be left alone in an old castle with his own thoughts and not ramble a little.

A ruined church, whose broken walls
Crown the isle where dead men lie,
Low and open to the sky,
When the rain of winter falls
They cannot keep its pavement dry.

Underneath tall weeds and rank,
Lie the dead in quiet sleep,
Circled by the stormy deep,
Where a mighty swimmer sank,
Leaving one alone to weep,

On this island long ago,
Ere the ancient church was built,
Victim of a traitor's guilt,
Causing innocent blood to flow—
Blood most innocently spilt!

VI. INISH ERRETH.

Near to Ardhonnel Inish Erreth lies,
Close to the shore. A little ruined church,
And a few tombstones on a barren mound,
All its attractions; but a Celtic tale,
Antique as any legend of Loch Awe,
Has for its scene that common heap of earth.

Chambers attaches the story of Erreth to this island, but I do not know on what authority.

Armar and Daura had exchanged the vows
Of lovers when the snow was on the ground;
And she was waiting in her father's house
For him she loved to come and claim his bride.
But Erreth hated Armar, who had slain
His brother in the freshness of his youth.
So Erreth came to Daura in disguise,
Dressed as a vassal of her future spouse,
And said, “My boat is ready on the beach,
For Armar sent me hither. I have come

To take you to an island on the lake,
Where he lies wounded by an antlered stag.
I slew the stag, and wrapped him in the skin;
And there he lies upon the frozen snow.”

The sun was low before they reached the isle;
And in the frosty air the distant peaks
Of Cruachan rose sharp, and white, and clear
Against a clear white sky. The sun went down,
And Inish Erreth and its neighbour isle
Lay on the water—barren solitudes,
Ages before the castle and the church
Were built by feudal power and piety.

Poor Daura sat alone in that canoe
With the stern man whose brother Armar killed—
Revengeful Erreth. She was in his power.
But love had banished all her maiden fear;
She only thought of Armar. All she asked
Was of his wound, and whether the warm skin,
Flayed from the reeking body of the stag,
Would keep him from the biting of the frost.
But when they neared the isle she raised her voice,
And called aloud for Armar; her lorn cries,
Anxious as those of some forsaken plover,
That calls in vain across the darkling moor,
Returning after every fruitless search
In dreary echoes. “He has gone to sleep,”

Said Erreth; but poor Daura shook her head:
And Erreth turned the stern towards the isle,
And ran it up, and Daura went ashore.
But Erreth did not follow. His canoe
Rounded the isle, and in a little bay
(Which now, when calm, reflects the whitewashed front
Of a neat inn, but in those early times
Was bordered by a forest of wild oaks)
The traitor landed.

Then his victim found
To what a cruel snare she was betrayed;
For though she rambled over all the isle
Like one distracted, calling for her love,
None answered—there was none to answer there.
Alone upon a bare and barren isle,
Treading the crisp turf on its highest ridge,
Or the hard frozen snow that lay in drifts
Along its southern side, she looked above
For help, but there the cold stars heeded not.
Yet Erreth's boat lay on the opposite shore,
So near that she could watch it as it rocked,
And hear the water rippling on its bows.
And still there was no help. If she could reach
That boat—that shore—her life might yet be saved.
But though the channel in the summer drought
Was but breast high, the autumn had been wet;
And the long rains that fell for many weeks
Before the frost set in had filled the loch.

Besides, there rushed a current through the strait;
And, tearing past the jagged belt of ice
That fringed the island, breakers dashed in spray.
It was a cheerless isle. The rock and turf
Were hard and bleak, the wind had blown them bare,
And on the sheltered side the frozen drifts,
With all their beautiful lines and sculptured forms,
Looked cold and cheerless as a winding sheet
Upon the perished limbs of loveliness.

Meanwhile stern Erreth wandered through the wood,
Cracking the withered boughs beneath his feet,
And pleased with his successful stratagem;
When strong Arindal in his very path
Stood like a mighty shadow in the gloom
Of the dark forest. Erreth turned aside;
But Daura's brother fronted him again,
Laden with sylvan spoil, a royal stag.
He had five hounds behind him; and the two
Were mortal foes, and there was no escape.
Then Erreth quailed, because his conscience smote
His traitor heart. Arindal bound him there
To a strong oak, with thongs of red deer's hide;
And the five dogs stood by and angrily
Growled when poor Erreth struggled with his foe.

Now Armar went to visit his betrothed,
And her old father met him at the door,

And asked him of his wound, and how he came
Without his daughter. Armar answered him:
“Good sir, I am not wounded,” and passed on
Into the hall to seek for his betrothed,
For the old man was doting, as he thought.
But there the vassals soon explained it all,
Saying, “There came a man three hours ago,
Dressed like your vassals, and he came in haste,
And said that you had charged a stag at bay,
And from its horn received a frightful wound;
And that he slew the stag and flayed it there,
And having swathed you in the reeking hide,
Left you upon an island in the loch
Safe from all harm; and that you wished to see
Our gentle lady, sir, before you died.
So hearing this, she went away with him
Distracted, and we have not seen her since.”

Then Armar answered with a hollow voice,
Full of emotion, “She has been betrayed.
Tell me the aspect of the man who came—”
“His face was small, and on his upper lip
The hair was pale and scanty; but his chin
Had a stiff beard about six inches long,
That wagged about before him as he spoke;
His eye was grey and small, but very keen;
His motions quick—” “No more, I know him now;
It was the brother of a chief I slew,—

Erreth, the brother of a chief in Lorn,
Whom I cut down in fair and open fight:
But this revenge is cowardly and base.”
He checked himself; and whilst her father raved,
Daura's betrothed took his authority,
And said, “There is an island by the shore,
Close to the land; so I will hasten thither,
And swim across the channel to the isle;
But you must bring a boat to our relief.
Quick—quick! the frost is killing even now
Your gentle mistress—'tis a frightful death!”
Then from the hall he ran along the shore,
Swiftly as any deer before the hounds,
Leaping the frozen brooks; and after him
The strong old chief ran lightly as a youth.
The north wind met them, and they saw the loch
Spotted with foam, for it was blowing hard.

At last they neared the island. When they came
Down to the shore they saw a light canoe
Crossing the channel, and the chieftain said
To Armar, “That must be the very boat
That Erreth brought; that figure must be his,
Halfway across.” And Armar strung his bow;
And ere the figure which they dimly saw
Could reach the island, to his naked breast
The arrow flew. The oars dropped instantly.
Backward the rower fell into the boat.

The prow made no resistance to the waves;
It turned, and down the current passively
Floated, and bore its burden far away,
Past the low island out into the loch;
And five great deerhounds howled along the shore.

Daura was standing on the icy beach,
For all her hope was in Arindal's boat;
And when she saw the oars drop from his grasp,
And him struck down, and the expected prow
Turn from the island suddenly, and yield
To the fierce current, she sank hopelessly
On the cold snow, for all her strength was gone.
Then swiftly past her glided that canoe
With its dead burden out into the loch;
And Armar, thinking he had slain his foe,
Called joyously to her, and she replied
With a low groan, for all her strength was gone.
Then Armar, glad to find her still alive,
Threw down his bow and leapt into the waves;
And her old father's voice came cheerfully,
Telling his daughter “not to yield to sleep,
But keep herself awake till she was saved,”
For he had often been upon the hills
And felt, but shaken off, that drowsiness
Which ends in sleep from which no sleeper wakes.

Then Armar shrieked, for though his limbs were strong,

And he a mighty swimmer, he was seized
By that fierce foe, the dreaded, cruel Cramp,
Which dwells in chilly waters down below,
And when the upper waves are icy cold,
Rises above like some ferocious shark
To seize the limbs of men, and drag them down,
And feed on their drowned bodies in the deep.

The current rushed as swiftly as before,
And bore the corse of Armar far away
After Arindal, out into the loch.

When the old chief could see his head no more
Above the waves, he felt that he was lost;
But talked to Daura incoherently
To keep her wakeful, and the current boiled
Between the dying lady and her sire.

The boat came up at last. The long delay
Was caused by ceaseless struggles with the wind—
The cold north wind that came from Cruachan,
Whose peaks were dark against the crimson glow
Of streamers in the sky. Arindal's boat
Had met them, and they stopped it on its way;
But when they found his body lying there,
Pierced with an arrow, they had taken it
Into their own, and let the other drift.
And by Arindal's side they shortly laid

His sister's body, blue and stiff with cold,
Frozen to death; and, chafing both her hands,
The poor old chief sat silently and wept.

A fortnight after, coming through the woods,
A hunter saw a figure white with snow
Leaning against the trunk of a young oak,
And clasping it behind him with his hands.
On going nearer—lo, it was a corpse!
A stiff, cold corpse; and from its naked limbs
Below the kilt the flesh was gnawn away
By foxes; and its eyes were eaten out
By a black raven, which the hunter scared.
The wrists were bound with thongs of red deer's hide
Behind the tree—the thongs had cut the flesh.
The face was small, and on the upper lip
The hair was pale and scanty; but the chin
Had a stiff beard about six inches long,
Matted and frozen. It was Erreth's beard.

I left the islands in the night,
Made dim with rain that fell between,
And now they sleep in wintry white;
I saw them in their summer green.

The isles are rooted in the earth—
Storms cannot stir them in their sleep—
But men are moving from their birth,
Like wild birds tossed upon the deep.

And yet upon the firmest land,
And in the mighty mountain range
We read, and dimly understand
The record of eternal change.

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.

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.

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.

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.

This waterfall is on the south side of Ben Cruachan, near the Oban road. The whole stream is singularly picturesque.

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.

See the notes to Scott's Highland Widow.

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.

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!

The Loch is scarcely younger than the hills,
And they grew slowly.

I have adopted Sir Charles Lyell's theory of the slow upheaval of mountain chains in preference to the older view of their sudden emergence.

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,

Loch Awe has only one outlet, the river Awe. The rivers Orchay, Cladich, Avich, and innumerable rills, flow into the loch.

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.

The reader of Humboldt will here perceive that I am indebted to his Views of Nature.

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.

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

species. The best situation for an inn would be the bay of Inish Drynich, the only point where the road comes down to the shore on that side the lake. If some enterprising capitalist would put a little steamer there, the Isles, even including Ardhonnel, might all be visited in the course of a summer afternoon, and a delightful excursion it would be; but at present, if you go down the loch, you may have to stay there till the wind changes, as there are no roads at the southern extremity.

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.

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.

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.

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.

How I was first attracted to this isle
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.

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.

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.

University of Virginia Library

THE ISLES OF LOCH AWE.