The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth With Sixteen Illustrations. By Philip Gilbert Hamerton |
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 | The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth |  |
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I. INTRODUCTORY.
These isles were once the crests of pastoral hills
In an Arcadian valley, long ago:
So says tradition.
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.
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.
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!
She clambered slowly up the torrent side,
5
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.
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
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.
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.
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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,
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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.
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.
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
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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.
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.
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:
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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.
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.
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
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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.
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.
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.
She was a dying goddess—nothing more—
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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.
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