by George Milner.
Originally published in Longman's Magazine (Longmans, Green & Co.) vol.2 #12 (Oct 1883).
The bird is not the only creature in whom the migratory instinct asserts itself. No swallow wheeling round the church steeple in the late days of October could feel the impulse of change more strongly than I do. It comes with the ending of July, and overmasters the mind like a prepossession. Lying awake in the hot nights I seem to hear the sea calling in many voices—loud and shrill where the wave breaks over the rocks; low and deep where it wanders through the hollow caves; sweet and lisping where it falls rippling on the sand. As the summer advances the woodland and the garden lose their power; the freshness is gone. The birds are seldom seen, and never heard. In the twilight images of decay thrust themselves upon us. The brown moth and the dragon-fly are always fluttering about; and the flowers which are most conspicuous, the orange lily and the foxglove and the evening primrose, are almost funereal in their grandeur. It is the bare mountain side that we sigh for now, and the breath of the sea, and the freedom of the world of waters.
For these things we must go, not on the path of the swallow, but to the North. There we shall find, better than anywhere else, the strong salt breeze which will tighten the relaxed nerve and set the stream of life flowing once more at the full. Northward, and still further north. The Clyde and all its islands, beautiful as they are, cannot give what we are in search of. In Arran indeed there is marvellous variety, ever-changing effects on land and sea, and deep seclusion, if we know where to look for it; but even there we do not get that which is the great charm of the far north among the Scottish lochs—the sense of air and space, and of that large loneliness which comes upon the mind as one great reach of water opens upon another with endless windings, and the unexpected revelation of quiet bays and sea-beaten cliffs and inland glens. And so we leave the peaks of Arran behind, and sail on through the Kyles of Bute, past Tighnabruaich nestling in its warm corner, and round into great Loch Fyne.
At Ardrishaig there comes the curious diversion which is afforded by the Crinan Canal. Leaving the sea, the boat makes its way through a pastoral country, where the willows and rowans wave over your head, and the ferns rise and fall on the banks with the wash of the water. Then into the sea again at the Sound of Jura. The change is sudden and exhilarating. It is the blue Atlantic which fronts you now; and yonder, far away, is the great south headland of Mull, silver-grey with mist; while nearer are all the islands, grotesque and rocky, or soft and green as emerald, whose very names are something to charm with—Jura and Scarba, and Lunga and Colonsay. As we sit on deck we hear the cadences of Leyden's ballad mingling with the rush of waters:—
On Jura's heath how sweetly swell
The murmurs of the mountain bee,
How softly mourns the writhed shell
Of Jura's shore, its parent sea!
* * * * *
As you pass through Jura's sound,
Bend your course by Scarba's shore,
Shun, O shun, the gulf profound
Where Corrirrekin's surges roar!
At Oban there is a period of disenchanting bustle; but when the last man and his last bag have at length been got on shore, we seem, with few passengers now on board, to fall into profound quiet. The romance of the situation returns, and in the evening light we glide along the waters of the Linnhe Loch, not caring to break the silence by a word—under the shores of Lismore, past the mouth of Loch Creran, and so to Port Appin; where, in the twilight, we step on to a little pier, and then, with a few turns down a green lane, find ourselves at rest in that unpretending lodging which by courtesy is known as the inn.
The next morning we discover why this district of the Highlands is spoken of with a kind of affectionate familiarity as 'Green' Appin. There is verdure on every side; greenness is the note of the country; and yet it is a land where the mountain and the loch display their finest features. If Appin were sterile, it would still satisfy us by its grandeur; as it is, we get the charm of foliage and constant glimpses of rustic scenery without injury being done to sublimity. Our inn is itself a nest. A great willow grows on the road in front, and its huge arms stretch around and over us, so that, sitting at the open window of our upstairs room, we seem to be among the branches. Through this screen of leaves we see, across the blue Linnhe Loch, the steep hills of Morven. Being immediately opposite, we may watch them all day under ever-changing lights. In the early morning they are sometimes so blue that we mistake them for sky. As the sun gets hotter they are woven over with delicate veils of mist, which rise and fall as if moved by an unseen hand. Just beneath us the tide rises and fills the little bay of Appin. The water comes slowly up to the edge of the fields, where the stacks of hay stand and the cows feed and the children are playing; and gradually the weedy bottom, grey and pebbly, is converted into a blue mirror. In the afternoon the hills are clear, and though they are eight or ten miles away across the loch, the furrows and ridges of the deep glens are marked with microscopic definiteness. As the sun falls the blue shadows steal over them, and a soft white cloud settles on the highest peak. Still we sit and watch, and when the long and marvellous twilight is over, which is not till near midnight, and the darkness has come down at last, even then a strange light breaks through the clouds and falls on the loch like moonlight. It is then that we hear the voice of Ossian: 'Selma, thy halls are silent. There is no sound in the woods of Morven. The wave tumbles alone on the coast. The daughters of Morven come forth like the bow of the shower; they look towards green Erin for the white sails of the king. He had promised to return, but the winds of the north arose.'
If we turn inland the greenness still prevails everywhere. The trees in the lanes are of enormous size—not stunted, as is so often the case among the mountains or near the sea; the walls are covered with ferns and mosses, and the shores are green to the water's edge. McCulloch, writing to Sir Walter Scott about the district of Appin, says: 'I do not know a place where all the elements—often incongruous ones—of mountains, lakes, wood, rocks, castles, sea, shipping, and cultivation, are so strangely intermixed.' This was written in 1824, but it is still an accurate description of the country. It is this strange intermixture which gives the place its charm. Arms and inlets of water are round you in all directions; the forest overhangs the sea; the mountain is washed by the wave.
The stream of human life at Port Appin is very narrow, and usually it moves along in a noiseless manner. The figures are generally the same, and they have that curious subordination to the landscape, and at the same time that connection with it which is always noticeable where the population is sparse and the external features of nature large and grand. The most striking person is probably our landlord, the Captain. He is captain of the great man's yacht, the 'Viking,' and is gone to-day with his master on a cruise through the Sound of Mull and as far as Coll and Tiree. He is a tall and capable fellow with a handsome face. His manner is genial but firm, and there is some strain of gentle breeding about him. His wife is handsome too, and their large family of boys and girls do no discredit to their stock. There is something Arcadian about their mode of life; and it is pleasant to see how each one contributes a share towards the maintenance of the house—in the kitchen, in -the field or farm, and on the sea with boats and lines. In his own estimation the policeman—of course there is but one—would come before the Captain; but then his importance is to a large extent a reflected quality. The possession of continuous leisure has enabled him to cultivate a great dignity of bearing. In the sunny mornings he spreads his uniform on the fence of his garden, and spends a good hour in brushing it and in contemplatively polishing his buttons. Then when the big steamer comes round he makes a public demonstration on the pier, and devotes himself to representing the majesty of the law. For the rest, there is only the keeper of the wonderful shop where all things are sold, and the schoolmaster, and the smith—we do not often see him, but we hear the clink of his hammer—and a few farm labourers, men and women, who are cutting hay all day long, or milking the cows morning and evening. In the house with ourselves there is an ancient lady, whose reminiscences are all of Florence and other Italian towns; and a London doctor, who tells capital stories, has a fine memory for English and German poetry, and whose profession has made him a philosopher of the kindliest sort.
Besides the little nest at Port Appin, the Captain has a house on the Island of Lismore—a house which is large enough to be spoken of as a mansion. Our arrangement gives us access to both these houses. In this way we get a delightful privilege of change, and are able to alternate between the mainland and the island—between comparative seclusion, that is, and solitude which is almost absolute. Lismore is a long, narrow island, eight miles in length by not much more than one in breadth, lying in the mouth of the Linnhe Loch, and between the Bay of Oban and the Sound of Mull. Its north-eastern extremity is nearly opposite the pier of Appin, and from that place there is a ferry across to the island. In McCulloch's time it was fertile and populous, and a great centre of illicit distillation. The fertility remains; but the population, as in so many other places in the Highlands, has been driven away.
The 'Mountaineer' steamer, coming down from Ballachulish on its way to Oban, calls at Port Appin about eleven in the forenoon, and then runs along the shore of Lismore to Achnacroish, where a pier has been recently erected. Here we land, and start for Kilicheran, which is about three miles to the south-west. Some of our party are driven over in a light cart; others prefer to walk, under the guidance of one of the Captain's girls, a fair, bright creature, lithe and healthy, and graceful in every movement as a mountain roe.
Readers of Mr. Black's novel have always found it difficult to believe in his Princess of Thule. How much of his delightful Shiela he found on that wild coast at Loch Roag, who knows? But of this I am sure, with permission to use only the slenderest modicum of fancy, I could match his creation with my Princess of Morven. Wordsworth's sketches of female character have often been compared, to his disparagement, with those of other and more erotic poets. He has, however, one little province of his own in which he is unapproachable. In half-a-dozen of his poems the same subject—the pure and unsophisticated virgin of the hills—is touched again and again, and always with a true and loving hand. In 'The Triad' we find it:—
Lo! from pastimes virginal
She hastens to the tents
Of nature, and the lonely elements.
Air sparkles round her with a dazzling sheen;
But mark her glowing cheek, her vesture green!
In 'The Phantom of Delight':—
Steps of virgin-liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet.
And in one of the poems on 'Lucy' the same idea is elaborated:—
The floating clouds their state shall lend
To her; for her the willow bend;
Nor shall she fail to see
Even in the motions of the Storm
Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form
By silent sympathy.
The Stars of midnight shall be dear
To her; and she shall lean her ear
In many a secret place
Where Rivulets dance their wayward round,
And beauty born of murmuring sound
Shall pass into her face.
And vital feelings of delight
Shall rear her form to stately height,
Her virgin bosom swell.
But it is in 'The Highland Girl' especially that the picture is completed; and it is in this poem that I find our Princess of Morven accurately sketched through almost every line:—
Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower
Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
Twice seven consenting years have shed
Their utmost bounty on thy head.
* * * * *
Benignity and home-bred sense
Ripening in perfect innocence.
Here scattered like a random seed,
Remote from men, thou dost not need
The embarrassed look of shy distress,
And maidenly shamefacedness:
Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear
The freedom of a Mountaineer.
With such a guide the walk was all too short. Turning her large dark eyes upon us with a sweet confidence and a high-bred self-possession, she led us along the lonely and undulating road. Although speaking Gaelic with fluency, her English was pure and of an educated tone. She told us the names of the hills, and gave us the Gaelic for the wild flowers which were so plentiful on every hand—the asphodel, the hyacinth, the meadow-sweet, the sea-pink, and the large ox-eye daisy. How was it, we said, that the flowers were so crowded in Lismore? Oh, Lismore was the great garden—Lios more; no wonder there should be flowers in a garden; and the land was very rich—so rich, that it was a shame indeed to have it all under grass, and not sown with grain as it was once. Long before the grain came, the island, she had been told, was covered with wood, though now you might not see a tree for miles. There was a saying in Gaelic—the English of it was, 'You could drive a white horse into the dark forest at one end of Lismore, and you would not ever see it again until it came out on the sea-shore at the other end;' but now a white horse would never be out of sight.
Soon after passing a little blue-eyed loch lying among grassy hollows, and thickly surrounded with tall reeds, we came to Kilicheran. The house stands in a grove of trees—the only one in the island. In front a lawn, which shows some signs of an ancient terrace, slopes down, broken by knolls, to the edge of the sea. On one side is a little stream. There are flowers and great dock-leaves upon its banks, and it might be far in the heart of the green country; but a few yards further on it will make a broad fall over the rocks and tumble right into the sea. On the shore is a romantic creek, where a small yacht and a boat or two are lying. Beyond, and not far from the shore, are two islands, where hosts of sea-birds build, and where seals may be caught. Their outlines are picturesque and rugged, and they are called in Gaelic the Island of the Peat and the Island of the Stone. Down on the shore there is only one small cottage, where Donald Black, the old boatman, lives. Donald is a broad, short-statured Highlander, with a large nose and a shrewd face. He tells us about the Catholics, who had a college in the beginning of the century in the house; and of their bishop—Bishop John Chisholm —who sleeps in the little graveyard on the top of the hill. He remembers the Catholics well. That limekiln on the shore was theirs; and it was they who cut down that great piece of the cliff—they made a thousand pounds out of that. They were very good to the poor. He was not a Catholic himself, but he remembered hearing one of them preach in the small chapel one New Year's Day, and he could still tell the text. It was a bad shore for boats. The former proprietor of the island lost all his boats; they were driven on the rocks one after the other. Ay, indeed, it was a terrible wind the night of the Tay Bridge disaster. There had been nothing like it since the last year of the last 'hunner' (last century). He was in the house with his daughter and her children. He did not want to leave, but they pulled him through the window at the back and dragged him up the brae. The water was then sweeping clean over the house, and if they had opened the door it would have come in and washed the walls down. How old was he? Well, he was 'eichty;' but he didn't know how much more. He supposed he must die soon, but he couldn't just tell why. His bones were as strong as ever. He thought it must be something in his inside which would get worn out. He did feel short of breath sometimes when he was going up the brae, but he had never had the rheumatism. He was free from that, no doubt, because of his having been from a lad ever in the salt water; and in the salt water, please God, he would remain till the end.
Beside Kilicheran House the little chapel still stands with its belfry. It is but a few yards square. We went into it, and into the tiny graveyard where John Chisholm sleeps in his tomb overgrown with nettles and the wild carrot; and then into the high-walled garden, where the bishop and his priests were wont to walk in the evening until the vesper-bell called them in to prayers. After that we climbed the high land behind the house—the highest point is only about four hundred feet—and then we saw that although Lismore has in itself neither glens nor mountains, but only rolling pasture and two small lochs and a rocky coast, it is a place rarely to be matched as a vantage-ground for splendid prospect. The full-faced view which you get of Ben Cruachan, with its beautiful triple summit, is itself worth coming to Lismore to see; but, besides that, there is such a sweep of loch and mountain as cannot probably be equalled elsewhere in the Highlands, and which includes the Bay of Oban, Loch Etive, Loch Creran, Loch Leven, Ben Nevis, the hills of Morven and Mull, and the far-off Atlantic islands.
In returning we drove along the whole length of the island and crossed by the ferry to Appin. Through the long drive in the clear twilight we were very silent, but in my mind Wordsworth's lines were ever recurring:—
Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace
Hath led me to this lonely place.
Joy have I had; and going hence
I bear away my recompence.
Tn spots like these.it is we prize
Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes:
Then, why should I be loth to stir?
I feel this place was made for her;
To give new pleasure like the past,
Continued long as life shall last.
Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,
Sweet Highland girl! from thee to part.