 | Letters from New York |  |
LETTER V.
Since I wrote last, I have again visited Hoboken to see
a band of Scotchmen in the old Highland costume. They
belong to a Benevolent Society for the relief of indigent
countrymen; and it is their custom to meet annually in
Gaelic dress, to run, leap, hurl stones, and join in other
Highland exercises—in fond remembrance of
Of strath, and lake, and mountain,
And more—of gifted men.”
There were but thirty or forty in number, and a very
small proportion of them fine specimens of manhood. There
was one young man, however, who was no bad sample of
frank countenance, bold bearing, and the bright, eager eye
of one familiar with rugged hills and the mountain breeze.
Before I was told, my eye singled him out, as most likely
to bear away the prizes in the games. There was mettle
in him, that in another age and in another clime, would have
enabled him to stand beside brave old Torquil of the Oak,
and give the cheerful response, “Bas air son Eachin.”
(Death for Hector.)
But that age has past, blessed be God; and he was nothing
more than a handsome, vigorous Scotch emigrant,
skilful in Highland games.
The dresses in general, like the wardrobe of a theatre,
needed the effect of distance to dazzle the imagination;
though two or three of them were really elegant. Green
or black velvet, with glittering buttons, was fitted close to
the arms and waist; beneath which fell the tartan kilt in
ample folds; from the left shoulder flowed a long mantle of
bright-coloured plaid, chosen according to the varieties of
individual taste, not as distinguishing marks of ancestral
clans. Their shaggy pouches, called sporrans, were of
plush or fur. From the knee to the ancle, there was no
other covering than the Highland buskin of crimson plaid.
One or two had dirks with sheaths and hilts beautifully
embossed in silver, and ornamented with large crystals
from Cairngorm; St. Andrew and the thistle, exquisitely
wrought on the blades of polished steel.
These were exceptions; for, as I have said, the corps in
general had a theatrical appearance; nor can I say they
bore their standards, or unsheathed their claymores, with a
grace quite sufficient to excite my imagination. Two boys,
of eight or ten years old, who carried the tassels of the central
banner, in complete Highland costume, pleased me more
than all the others; for children receive gracefulness from
nature, and learn awkwardness of men.
But though there were many accompaniments to render
the scene common-place and vulgar, yet it was not without
pleasurable excitement, slightly tinged with romance,
that I followed them along the steep banks of Hoboken, and
caught glimpses of them between the tangled foliage of the
trees, or the sinuosities of rocks, almost as rugged as their
own mountain-passes. Banners and mantles, which might
not have borne too close inspection, looked graceful as they
floated so far beneath me; and the sound of the bagpipes
struck less harshly on my ear, than when the musicians
stood at my side. But even softened by distance, I thought
the shrill wailing of this instrument appropriate only to
Clan Chattan, whose Chief was called Mohr ar chat, or the
Great Cat.
As a phantom of the Past, this little pageant interested
me extremely. I thought of the hatred of those fierce old
clans, whose “blood refused to mix, even if poured into
the same vessel.” They were in the State what sects are
in the Church—narrow, selfish, and vindictive.
The State has dissolved her clans, and the Church is
fast following the good example; though there are still sectaries
casting their shadows on the sunshine of God's
earth, who, if they were to meet on the Devil's Bridge, as
did the two old feudal chieftains of Scotland, would, like
them, choose death rather than humble prostration for the
safe foot-path of an enemy.
Clans have forgotten old quarrels, and not only mingled
together, but with a hostile nation. National pride and national
glory is but a more extended clanship, destined to be
merged in universal love for the human race. Then farewell
to citadels and navies, tariffs and diplomatists; for the
prosperity of each will be the prosperity of all.
In religion, too, the spirit of extended, as well as of narrow
clanship will cease. Not only will Christianity forget its
minor subdivisions, but it will itself cease to be sectarian.
Christians, with reverent tenderness for the religious sentiment
in every form, are willing that Mohammedans or Pagans
should unite with them in every good work, without
abstaining from ceremonies which to them are sacred.
“The Turks,” says Lamartine, “always manifest respect
for what other men venerate and adore. Wherever a
Mussulman sees the image of God in the opinion of his fellow-creatures,
he bows down and he respects; persuaded
that the intention sanctifies the form.”
This sentiment of reverence, so universal among Mohammedans,
and so divine in its character, might well lead
Pierpont to ask, when standing in the burying-ground of
Constantinople,
Whose turbaned marbles o'er them nod
Were doomed, when giving up the ghost,
To die as those who have no God?
No, no, my God! They worshipped Thee;
Then let not doubts my spirit darken,
That Thou, who always hearest me,
To these, thy children too, didst hearken.”
The world, regenerated and made free, will at last bid a glad
farewell to clans and sects! Would that their graves were
dug and their requiems sung; and nothing but their standards
and costumes left, as curious historical records of the
benighted Past.
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